rtezan whom men called 'La Belle
Noiseuse.' And yet--if I could but be sure--"

"Then go to Asia," returned Porbus, noticing a certain indecision in
Frenhofer's face. And with that Porbus made a few steps toward the door.
By that time Gillette and Nicolas Poussin had reached Frenhofer's
house. The girl drew away her arm from her lover's as she stood on the
threshold, and shrank back as if some presentiment flashed through her
mind.

"Oh! what have I come to do here?" she asked of her lover in low
vibrating tones, with her eyes fixed on his.

"Gillette, I have left you to decide; I am ready to obey you in
everything. You are my conscience and my glory. Go home again; I shall
be happier, perhaps, if you do not--"

"Am I my own when you speak to me like that? No, no; I am a
child.--Come," she added, seemingly with a violent effort; "if our love
dies, if I plant a long regret in my heart, your fame will be the reward
of my obedience to your wishes, will it not? Let us go in. I shall
still live on as a memory on your palette; that shall be life for me
afterward."

The door opened, and the two lovers encountered Porbus, who was
surprised by the beauty of Gillette, whose eyes were full of tears. He
hurried her, trembling from head to foot, into the presence of the old
painter.

"Here!" he cried, "is she not worth all the masterpieces in the world!"

Frenhofer trembled. There stood Gillette in the artless and childlike
attitude of some timid and innocent Georgian, carried off by brigands,
and confronted with a slave merchant. A shamefaced red flushed her face,
her eyes drooped, her hands hung by her side, her strength seemed to
have failed her, her tears protested against this outrage. Poussin
cursed himself in despair that he should have brought his fair treasure
from its hiding-place. The lover overcame the artist, and countless
doubts assailed Poussin's heart when he saw youth dawn in the old man's
eyes, as, like a painter, he discerned every line of the form hidden
beneath the young girl's vesture. Then the lover's savage jealousy
awoke.

"Gillette!" he cried, "let us go."

The girl turned joyously at the cry and the tone in which it was
uttered, raised her eyes to his, looked at him, and fled to his arms.

"Ah! then you love me," she cried; "you love me!" and she burst into
tears.

She had spirit enough to suffer in silence, but she had no strength to
hide her joy.

"Oh! leave her with me for one moment,"