cry of that young girl. I will set fire to your house, and no one
shall escape from it. Do you understand me?"

His look was gloomy and the tones of his voice were terrible. His
attitude, and above all the gesture with which he laid his hand upon
the weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus
sacrificing her to his art and to his hopes of a glorious future.

Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier,
looking at one another in silence. At first the painter of the
Egyptian Mary uttered a few exclamations: "Ah, she unclothes herself!"
--"He tells her to stand in the light!"--"He compares them!" but he
grew silent as he watched the mournful face of the young man; for
though old painters have none of such petty scruples in presence of
their art, yet they admire them in others, when they are fresh and
pleasing. The young man held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed
glued to the panel of the door. Both men, standing darkly in the
shadow, looked like conspirators waiting the hour to strike a tyrant.

"Come in! come in!" cried the old man, beaming with happiness. "My
work is perfect; I can show it now with pride. Never shall painter,
brushes, colors, canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine
Lescaut, the Beautiful Nut-girl."

Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild curiosity, rushed into the middle
of a vast atelier filled with dust, where everything lay in disorder,
and where they saw a few paintings hanging here and there upon the
walls. They stopped before the figure of a woman, life-sized and half
nude, which filled them with eager admiration.