The painter lifted eyes in which there gleamed the feeble remains of what had once been the noble fires of enthusiasm and ambition.
“I understand the meaning very well,” he replied; then he rose from his chair and stood looking out at the neat quiet street.
Luc was silent. Tremendous thoughts assailed him—why could he not bring comfort down from the clouds to console this man?—why could he not lend him a spark from his own fire to rekindle the desire for glory in his breast?
Presently he said—
“Monsieur, you are still so young.” The words sounded commonplace even to himself, and the artist made no answer.
“I should like to see your pictures,” said the Marquis. Now the light was strengthening, he observed a pile of canvases standing against the wall by the side of the bed.
The painter answered without turning his head—
“I painted a picture once that Watteau, or Boucher, or Fragonard might have been pleased to sign. It was a portrait of the woman I loved.”
“Where is it now?” asked Luc.
“In her house, I think. I found her in the gutters of St. Antoine—she left me in a silk dress I had starved myself to buy, I never succeeded after that, and as I went down she went up, and now you will find very high personages indeed at her little suppers. She is now, I believe, a spy among the Courts of Europe—and once she was my inspiration,” he added, in a dry tone.