those sketches! I have been mistaken. My vocation is to love thee,
--thee alone! I am not a painter, I am thy lover. Perish art and all
its secrets!"

She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated by his passion. She
reigned; she felt instinctively that the arts were forgotten for her
sake, and flung at her feet like grains of incense.

"Yet he is only an old man," resumed Poussin. "In you he would see
only a woman. You are the perfect woman whom he seeks."

"Love should grant all things!" she exclaimed, ready to sacrifice
love's scruples to reward the lover who thus seemed to sacrifice his
art to her. "And yet," she added, "it would be my ruin. Ah, to suffer
for thy good! Yes, it is glorious! But thou wilt forget me. How came
this cruel thought into thy mind?"

"It came there, and yet I love thee," he said, with a sort of
contrition. "Am I, then, a wretch?"

"Let us consult Pere Hardouin."

"No, no! it must be a secret between us."

"Well, I will go; but thou must not be present," she said. "Stay at
the door, armed with thy dagger. If I cry out, enter and kill the
man."

Forgetting all but his art, Poussin clasped her in his arms.