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,” said the old painter, “and you shall compare her with my Catherine... yes—I consent.”
Frenhofer’s words likewise came from him like a lover’s cry. His vanity seemed to be engaged for his semblance of womanhood; he anticipated the triumph of the beauty of his own creation over the beauty of the living girl.
“Do not give him time to change his mind!” cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the shoulder. “The flower of love soon fades, but the flower of art is immortal.”
“Then am I only a woman now for him?” said Gillette. She was watching Poussin and Porbus closely.
She raised her head proudly; she glanced at Frenhofer, and her eyes flashed; then as she saw how her lover had fallen again to gazing at the portrait which he had taken at first for a Giorgione—
“Ah!” she cried; “let us go up to the studio. He never gave me such a look.”
The sound of her voice recalled Poussin from his dreams.