"Yes."
"If you want me to pose as I did the other day," she said, with a little pouting air, "I will not do it. Your eyes say nothing to me, then. You look at me, but you do not think of me."
"Would you like me to copy another woman?"
"Perhaps," she answered, "if she were very ugly."
"Well," continued Poussin, in a grave tone, "if to make me a great painter it were necessary to pose to some one else—"
"You are testing me," she interrupted; "you know well that I would not do it."
Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man succumbing to joy or grief too great for his spirit to bear.
"Listen," she said, pulling him by the sleeve of his worn doublet, "I told you, Nick, that I would give my life for you; but I never said—never!—that I, a living woman, would renounce my love."
"Renounce it?" cried Poussin.
"If I showed myself thus to another you would love me no longer; and I myself, I should feel unworthy of your love. To obey your caprices, ah, that is simple and natural! in spite of myself, I am proud and happy in doing thy dear will; but to another, fy!"
"Forgive me, my own Gillette," said the painter, throwing himself at her feet. "I would rather
