thing than the skeleton without the life.  But there is a higher truth still,—­namely, that practice and observation are the essentials of a painter; and that if reason and poesy persist in wrangling with the tools, the brushes, we shall be brought to doubt, like Frenhofer, who is as much excited in brain as he is exalted in art.  A sublime painter, indeed; but he had the misfortune to be born rich, and that enables him to stray into theory and conjecture.  Do not imitate him.  Work! work! painters should theorize with their brushes in their hands.”

“We will contrive to get in,” cried Poussin, not listening to Porbus, and thinking only of the hidden masterpiece.

Porbus smiled at the youth’s enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a kindly invitation to come and visit him.

* * * * *

Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la Harpe and passed, without observing that he did so, the modest hostelry where he was lodging.  Returning presently upon his steps, he ran up the miserable stairway with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper chamber nestling between the joists of a roof “en colombage,”—­the plain, slight covering of the houses of old Paris.  Near the single and gloomy window of the room sat a young girl, who rose quickly as the door opened, with a gesture of love; she had recognized the young man’s touch upon the latch.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“It is—­it is,” he cried, choking with joy, “that I feel myself a painter!  I have doubted it till now; but to-day I believe in myself.  I can be a great man.  Ah, Gillette, we shall be rich, happy!  There is gold in these brushes!”

Suddenly he became silent.  His grave and earnest face lost its expression of joy; he was comparing the immensity of his hopes with the mediocrity of his means.  The walls of the garret were covered with bits of paper on which were crayon sketches; he possessed only four clean canvases.  Colors were at that time costly, and the poor gentleman gazed at a palette that was well-nigh bare.  In the midst of this poverty he felt within himself an indescribable wealth of heart and the superabundant force of consuming genius.  Brought to Paris by a gentleman of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition of his own talent, he had suddenly found a mistress,—­one of those generous and noble souls who are ready to suffer by the side of a great man; espousing his poverty, studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to bear deprivation and bestow love, as others are daring in the display of luxury and in parading the insensibility of their hearts.  The smile which flickered on her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of the garret and rivalled the effulgence of the skies; for the sun did not always shine in the heavens, but she was always here,—­calm and collected in her passion, living in his happiness, his griefs; sustaining the genius which overflowed in love ere it found in art its destined expression.