Hearing this they expressed their sympathy by going up by twos and threes to the little garret where there was now only icy coldness and silence.
Not a few among them were so far touched by the pathos they found in this as to shed a tear or so—most of them were volatile young Frenchmen who counted their sensibilities among their luxuries.
Toward evening there came two older than the rest, who had not been long in the house.
When they entered, a woman stood at the bed’s head—a woman in black drapery, with a pale and haggard face which they saw only for a moment.
As they approached she moved away, and going to the window stood there with her back toward them, gazing out at the drifted snow upon the roof. The men stood uncovered, looking down.
“It is the face of an Immortal,” said the elder of the two. “It is such men who die young.”
And then they saw the easel in the shadow of the corner, and went and turned it from the wall. When they saw the picture resting upon it, there was a long silence. It was broken at last by the older man.
“It is some woman he has known and loved,” he said. “He has painted her soul—and his own.”
The figure near them stirred—the woman’s hand crept up to the window’s side and clung to the wooden frame.