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