virgin there. She shall not leave it unclothed. Poesy and women give
themselves bare, like truth, to lovers only. Have we the model of
Raphael, the Angelica of Ariosto, the Beatrice of Dante? No, we see
but their semblance. Well, the work which I keep hidden behind bolts
and bars is an exception to all other art. It is not a canvas; it is a
woman,--a woman with whom I weep and laugh and think and talk. Would
you have me resign the joy of ten years, as I might throw away a
worn-out doublet? Shall I, in a moment, cease to be father, lover,
creator?--this woman is not a creature; she is my creation. Bring your
young man; I will give him my treasures,--paintings of Correggio,
Michael-Angelo, Titian; I will kiss the print of his feet in the dust,
--but make him my rival? Shame upon me! Ha! I am more a lover than I am
a painter. I shall have the strength to burn my Nut-girl ere I render my
last sigh; but suffer her to endure the glance of a man, a young man,
a painter?--No, no! I would kill on the morrow the man who polluted
her with a look! I would kill you,--you, my friend,--if you did not
worship her on your knees; and think you I would submit my idol to the
cold eyes and stupid criticisms of fools? Ah, love is a mystery! its
life is in the depths of the soul; it dies when a man says, even to
his friend, Here is she whom I love."

The old man seemed to renew his youth; his eyes had the brilliancy and
fire of life, his pale cheeks blushed a vivid red, his hands trembled.
Porbus, amazed by the passionate violence with which he uttered these
words, knew not how to answer a feeling so novel and yet so profound.
Was the old man under the thraldom of an artist's fancy? Or did these
ideas flow from the unspeakable fanaticism produced at times in every
mind by the long gestation of a noble work? Was it possible to bargain
with this strange and whimsical being?