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    tERPIECE

    By honoré De Balzac

    tO A LORD

    1845

    I--GILLEttE

    On a cold December morning in t of t, o and fro before a gateins in Paris.  up and doreet before tion of a gallant ure into tress ime, easy of access t after a sufficiently long interval of ation,  last crossed t a large room on ter Porbus ive, t sloaircase, like a gentleman but neo court, and doubtful as to ion by to a stand once more on t tairs, and again ated before raising o tesque knocker on tudio, er  er Porbus, sometime painter in ordinary to ill Mary de Medici took Rubens into favor.

    t deeply stirred by an emotion t must ts of all great artists , to ter or stand before a masterpiece. For all iments time of early blossoming, a day of generous ent gradually fades until not of  a memory, and glory is knoe and s-lived emotions, none so resemble love as tist for , as  to enter on tyrdom of er, of vague expectations and real disappointments.

    t purses; ood in ter and felt ts,  souls a c oucy roke of terious element t ry. t t t over-soon of taken for men of talent save by fools. From t of viey is tranger on taircase migo o possess timidity t artists are bound to lose in t career, even as pretty  as ts of coquetry. Self-distrust vanisriumpo triumpy is, perrust of itself.

    te ion and insignificance, t it began to look as if o penetrate into tudio of ter, to  of  fate ious; an old man came up taircase. From t costume of t lace, and a certain serene gravity in  arrival t t t be eitron or a friend of t painter. ood aside to alloor to pass, scrutinizing  o find ture of an artist or to receive teur not unfriendly to ts; but besides an almost diabolical expression in t met  indescribable sometible attraction for artists.

    Picture t face. A bald ting bro nose turned up at traits of Socrates and Rabelais; deep lines about t ced beard; sea-green eyes t age migo  not for trast betints, so t it seemed as if under tress of anger or entic poo quell or kindle in t by tigue of years, yet it seemed aged still more by ts t o t eyes, and scarcely a trace of t t in a frame of lace astic in ts portraits migepped dos frame to e atmosp painter loved. t t y or t, wo be an invalid.

    quot;Good day, Master.quot;

    Porbus bofully, and o enter, t tter accompanied or; and e stood a -nature must feel, ting influence of t sigudio in  are revealed, Porbus troubled  this second comer.

    All t in tudio came from a rated upon an easel, ouc save for tlines in c scarcely reacer angles and corners of t room; t, but ted breastplate of a Reiters corselet, t tracted a stray gleam to its dim abiding-place among t of lig across tening surface of an antique sideboard covered e, or struck out a line of glittering dots among tains, wiff, uff o serve as a model.

    Plaster _écorcood about tables, lay fragments of classical sculpture-torsos of antique goddesses, uries t o ceiling, less sketcter and confusion of color boxes, overturned stools, flasks of oil, and essences, t room to move so as to reaced circular space  from tinted forerange visitor. But in anot t a picture t ormy days of political and religious revolution, a picture t a feen kept t alive in evil days,  to go on pilgrimage to see. tiful panel represented a Saint Mary of Egypt about to pay  erpiece destined for Mary de Medici, er years of poverty.

    quot;I like your saint,quot; t;I en golden croting a spoke in t !quot;

    quot;It is good t;

    quot;; said t;good, say you?--Yes and no. Your good  badly done, but s alive. You artists fancy t s place according to tomy, to be done. You make up tints beforetes according to your formulae, and fill in tlines  one side of time to time at a naked form before you, you fondly imagine t you ure, to be painters, believe t you ed  from God. Psax t it takes t and someto make a great poet. Look at your saint, Porbus! At a first glance s  once t so t you could not e t turns but one side of o all be out of canvas, an image o move nor cion. I feel as if t arm and tance in your canvas. tive is perfectly correct, trengtely diminisance; but, in spite of ts, I could never bring myself to believe t t beautiful body. It seems to me t if I laid my , it o touc flo ivory skin, tide of life does not fluse fibres, t trace a netransparent amber of . o beat, t is motionless, life and deat strife in every detail; atue, tion is incomplete. You o breation of your soul into your beloved  again and again in your  in your picture  been touc;

    quot;But , dear master?quot; Porbus asked respectfully, o beat tic.

    quot;A; said t;it is ted beted bettention to detail, tiff precision of ters and talian painters. You  yourself to imitate itian, Albrecure. A magnificent ambition truly, but alian _citians rico Albrecere outlines tered ten bronze bursting t is not strong enougo . In otlines , gloian color. t perfect, t perfect; traces of t unlucky indecision are to be seen everyrong enougo fuse t in your lot boldly ained ty ions of life itself. Your rue in tres; your outlines are false, t not of anytrut; said ting to t of t, quot;and again ;  on, indicating t;But t; once more returning to t, quot;everyt us go no furto detail, you ;

    t doool, and remained a h his face buried in his hands.

    quot;Yet I studied t t from ter,quot; Porbus began; quot;it imes, for our misfortune, t real effects in nature look improbable o canvas--quot;

    quot;t is not to copy nature, but to express it. You are not a servile copyist, but a poet!quot; cried tting Porbus s ure. quot;Otor miger cast of a living ry to make a cast of your mistresss  up trosity, a dead mass, bearing no resemblance to to o tor  copy,  for you its movement and its life. e must detect t, ts!  are effects but ts of life, not life itself? A aken t example, is not only a part of a body, it is tension of a t t must be grasped and rendered. Neiter nor poet nor sculptor may separate t from tably contained truggle! Many a painter acinctively, unconscious of task t is set before art. You dra you do not see  so do you succeed in ing Natures secrets from  you copied in your masters studio. You do not penetrate far enougo t secrets of tery of form; you do not seek er t baffles and eludes you. Beauty is a to be  lie in  for ake igo yield. Form is a Proteus more intangible and more manifold teus of ter long ling, to stand fort in rue aspect. Some of you are satisfied  s most by t appears. Not tle tors, ters reacill Nature at t stands bare to their gaze, and her very soul is revealed.

    quot;In t; said taking off o express . quot;ranscendent greatness came of timate sense t, in  er external form. Form in ing sensations, ideas, t imaginings of a poet. Every face is a rait appeared for  of a divine vision; it  of a whole life.

    quot;You clot of fles ? ian of yours, my good Porbus, is a colorless creature! t you set before us are painted bloodless fantoms; and you call t painting, you call t art!

    quot;Because you  you  your fingers on te proud t you need not to e _currus venustus_ or _pulcers  to do and you fancy t you ill someto learn, and you  deal of c. Yes, truly, a o   expression of meek sness, and even so t is all t it is not t is lacking? A not t nothing.

    quot;t you do not express its fulness and effluence, t indescribable sometself, t envelopes tlines of t flo titian and Rafael caugmost ac o  you to tarting-point. You migo do excellent  you grooo soon; and those who know smile.

    quot;Oer!quot; cried trange speaker, quot;t a t carried a of life ;

    quot;Nevert; ;ture of yours is ings of t rascal Rubens, ains of Flemisorrents of red  of color. You, at least ials in art.quot;

    the young man roused himself from his deep musings.

    quot; is sublime!quot; ;tlety of imagination about t Mary and t can not be found among Italian masters; I do not knoation.quot;

    quot;Did t little malapert come ; asked Porbus of the older man.

    quot;Alas! master, pardon my boldness,quot; cried te, and ted to ;I am unknoinct, and but lately come to ty--tain-;

    quot;Set to ; said Porbus,  of red c of paper.

    tc Mary line for line.

    quot;A; exclaimed t;Your name?quot; he added.

    te quot;Nicolas Poussinquot; beloch.

    quot;Not bad t for a beginning,quot; said trange speaker,  alk of art in your presence. I do not blame you for admiring Porbuss saint. In terpiece, and tiated into t mysteries of art can discover comings. But it is o give you to understand it, so I le it needs to complete ture. You must be all eyes, all attention, for it may be t sucte.quot;

    Porbus  in searcte and brustle old man turned back ient energy, seized tte, covered  Porbus o cook a ance. ed beard suddenly bristled--a menacing movement t expressed ttered bet;ts are only fit to fling out of togeting!  ;

    ip of t pigments, making t of tte several times more quickly t of a cataves on t;O Filiiquot; at Easter.

    Porbus and Poussin, on eitood stock-still, cense interest.

    quot;Look, young man,quot; ;see rokes of t in to play about t, ifled and oppressed by tmospo flutter; you feel t it is lifted by t ago it iffly as if it o t rends t, silken softness of a young girls skin, and  oco tead of coursing ter could teaco do t I am doing before your eyes. Mabuse alone possessed t of giving life to  one pupil--t elligence to imagine t from t I am giving you.quot;

    oucimes trokes of times a single one; but every stroke told so  ture seemed transfigured--ting . e fervor t beads of s gatient jerks, t it seemed to young Poussin as if some familiar spirit ining trange being took a grotesque pleasure in making use of t ter of s t seemed like struggles, gave to trut but stir a young imagination. tinued, saying as he did so--

    quot;Paf! paf! t is o lay it on, young man!--Little touco tones for me! Just so! Pon! pon! pon!quot; and ts of ture t ed out as cold and lifeless flusrokes of color brougones of ture into tints of tian, and temperament vanished.

    quot;Look you, youngster, t toucure. Porbus  a rokes for every one of mine. No one t lies beneat in mind.quot;

    At last tless spirit stopped, and turning to Porbus and Poussin, wion, he spoke--

    quot;t as good as my Belle Noiseuse; still one mig ones name to suc my name to it,quot; o reac ture.--quot;And no; ; imes may be bad, but ill alk about art! e can talk like equals.... tle felloude,quot; he added, laying a hand on Nicolas Poussins shoulder.

    In tranger became aion of t.  in it, found two gold coins, and .

    quot;I c; he said.

    quot;take it,quot; said Porbus, as art and flus, for Poussin y. quot;Pray, take it; ;

    togetudio, and, talking of art by turesque -Mic at its ornament, at t ts, at t ood in a vast loable, covered empting disood near t artists full of genial good humor.

    quot;Do not look too long at t canvas, young man,quot; said Porbus, anding, struck ing. quot;You im to despair.quot;

    It ;Adamquot; painted by Mabuse to purcors  ter of fact, tood out so boldly and convincingly, t Nicolas Poussin began to understand t by tist, ure  satisfaction, but  ent;I ter t!quot; o be saying to himself.

    quot;t,quot; ;in t respect my poor master  truto tmosp t ter all, only a man! A t from t   is ing eet drunk.quot;

    Poussin looked from to Porbus, and from Porbus to tless curiosity.  up to tter to ask for t; but ter laid a finger on ery. terest ed;  silence, but  sooner or later some  ertainer. It  t alent and very ened to fully, and t room .

    A magnificent portrait of a  caugtention.

    quot; a glorious Giorgione!quot; he cried.

    quot;No,quot; said , quot;it is an early daub of mine--quot;

    quot;Gramercy! I am in ting, it seems!quot; cried Poussin ingenuously.

    th such praise.

    quot;Master Fren; said Porbus, quot;do you ttle of your capital R;

    quot;A couple of pipes!quot; ans;one to disc, for tty sinner, t from a friend.quot;

    quot;A; returned Porbus, quot;and if you  let me see your Belle Noiseuse, I  some great picture,  and dept;

    quot;Let you see my ; cried ter in agitation. quot;No, no! it is not perfect yet; sometill remains for me to do. Yesterday, in t; ;I t I , tirred tresses of  tures roundness and relief on t surface of t, I found out my mistake. Ao ac glorious result I udied t masters of color, stripping off coat after coat of color from titians canvas, analyzing ts of t. Like t sovereign painter, I began t tone  paste--for s an accident; bear t in mind, youngster!--tones and transparent, I gradually deepened tints to t black of trongest ser makes irely different in nature from ts; t you  fles even if to alter tion, tains s of ture .

    quot;I ake, into ers imes fallen; in my canvas teness s and most persistent s marked out ts of my figure in lines, and broug anatomical detail into prominence (like a  of dunces, race a line elaborately smoot contained s of line. In tor can approacruters. Natures ed succession of curve rictly speaking, t laugrange as t speeco you, you and trut some day.--A line is a met of lig; but ture, everyt is to say, t  from its setting; tribution of t alone gives to a body t. So I  defined tlines; I ints  you can not lay your finger on t spot . Seen from near, ture looks a blur; it seems to lack definition; but step back tinct, and solid; tands out; to relief; you feel t t. And yet--I am not satisfied; I  not to drater to attack tre, taking t prominences first, proceeding from to t of all. Is not ter of ture, Nature! , after all, too muco a negation. I s about my ;

    t;I   for ten years, young man; but en s years in a struggle ure? Do  tatue t came to life?quot; to deep musings, and gazed before h his knife.

    quot;Look, ion ; murmured Porbus.

    At t able accession of artists curiosity. For  once intent and inert, tastic spirit living in a mysterious less vague ts a of tion upon e longing a recalls  of t ted to display for t efforts of art, of o erious picture, tience on , less a iful even beside Mabuses quot;Adamquot;--taking t. Everyto set ts of ure.

    Out of tural being a complete type of tist nature, a nature mocking and kindly, barren and prolific, an erratic spirit intrusted  and manifold poen abuses, leading sober reason, tine, and sometimes even teur forto a stony e-. For Poussin, t, transfigured, and became Art incarnate, Art s mysteries, its ve passion and its dreams.

    quot;Yes, my dear Porbus,quot; Freninued, quot;o I lines of perfect beauty, tions--A; ;time, for en, only to find ttered gleams of y o be, Nature gro and divine, t last, I  I possess.... Nay, Beauty divine, I o seek to t to bring back t from among t;

    quot;e can go no; said Porbus to Poussin. quot;;

    quot;Let us go to udio,quot; said young Poussin, ly.

    quot;Oakes care t no one ser it. reasures are so carefully guarded t it is impossible for us to come at t ed for your suggestion and your fancy to attempt to lay ery by force.quot;

    quot;So tery?quot; quot;Yes,quot; ans;Old Frenake. Freners friend, deliverer, and fater part of une to enable Mabuse to indulge in riotous extravagance, and in return Mabuse bequeato  of relief, to ure, ternal despair of art, t ry of Cer in a suit of paper painted to resemble tuff struck ted tron on tists appearance, and so trick , ed profoundly on color, and te trut by to doubt tence of ts of s of despondency, t t by means of lines rical figures; but t is oversing tline and s any color at all, , like Nature, is composed of an infinite number of elements. Draon, tomical frame- s to it; but life  ton is even more incomplete ton  life. But truer still, and it is ters, practise and observation are everytical ideas begin to quarrel , as , er. A sublime painter! but unlucky for o rico follo brus;

    quot;e o udio!quot; cried Poussin confidently. o  ters ento come to see ed. Nicolas Poussin  sloo t elry icing it. A feeling of uneasiness prompted o aircase till  top, a quaint, airy recess under teep, c a young girl,  ing of love; sers toucch.

    quot; is tter ; she asked.

    quot;tter is... is... O t I am a painter! Until to-day I s, but no man in me! Never mind, Gillette, ips of t;

    face as  cs of common paper. t four canvases in tly, and ters palette  bare. Yet in t of y ible treasures of t, of a devouring genius equal to all tasks t lay before him.

    to Paris by a nobleman among ress, one of to suffer by a great mans side, rive to understand ing t of poverty and love as bravely and dauntlessly as ot to bear ty. t stole over Gillettes lips filled t , and rivaled tness of t ale , absorbed in let in love before art engrossed it.

    quot;Listen, Gillette. Come ;

    ters knee.  grace and beauty, and t fairness of outward form, lighin.

    quot;O; ;I so tell ;

    quot;A secret?quot; s;I must kno!quot;

    Poussin was absorbed in his dreams.

    quot;Do tell it me!quot;

    quot;Gillette... poor beloved !...quot;

    quot;O somet;

    quot;Yes.quot;

    quot;If you  once more for you as I did t; sinued ulance, quot;I  to do suc t all, and yet you look at me--quot;

    quot;ould you rat;

    quot;Per; she said.

    quot;ell,quot; said Poussin gravely, quot;and if, for to come, if to make me a great painter, you must sit to some one else?quot;

    quot;You may try me,quot; s;you knoe  I .quot;

    Poussins ; o be overpoolerable joy or sorrow.

    quot;Listen,quot; s t, quot;I told you, Nick, t I  I never promised you t I in my lifetime ;

    quot;Your love?quot; cried tist.

    quot;If I so anoto your fancies ural and simple t not? Even against my oo do t for anot upon it!quot;

    quot;Forgive me, my Gillette,quot; said ter, falling upon ;I cake. I  to love and not to paint. Peris and all its secrets!quot;

    Gillette looked admiringly at asy of riump; s instinctively t art was laid aside for  .

    quot;Yet ; Poussin continued; quot;for !quot;

    quot;I must love you indeed!quot; so sacrifice even loves scruples to t;but I s my oo lose everyt is a very glorious t! A you  me. O evil t is t o you?quot;

    quot;I love you, and yet I t of it,quot; ;Am I so base a c;

    quot;Let us consult Père ; she said.

    quot;No, no! Let it be a secret bet;

    quot;Very . But you must not be t; s;Stay at ter.quot;

    Poussin forgot everyt art. te tightly in his arms.

    quot;; t Gillette wed of ion already.

    But to trove to banis t arose in . It seemed to   ter  in her eyes.

    II--CAt

    ter Poussin and Porbus met, tter  to see Master Frenim to one of taneous fits of discouragement t are caused, according to medical logicians, by indigestion, flatulence, fever, or enlargement of take tualists, by tions of our mortal nature. tting touco erious picture.  cless attitude, but glanced at Porbus like a man o los.

    quot;ell, master,quot; said Porbus, quot;ramarine bad t you sent for to Bruges? Is te difficult to grind? Is trant?quot;

    quot;Alas!quot; cried t;for a moment I t t my  I am mistaken in certain details, and I can not rest until I s. I am traveling. I am going to turkey, to Greece, to Asia, in quest of a model, so as to compare my picture  living forms of Nature. Per; and a smile of contentment stole over ;perure  times I am  a breat s;

    o  as if to set out at once.

    quot;A; said Porbus, quot;I  in time to save you trouble and expense of a journey.quot;

    quot;?quot; asked Fren.

    quot;Young Poussin is loved by a y. But, dear master, if s to lend o you, at t you ougo let us see your ;

    tood motionless and completely dazed.

    quot;!quot; eously at last, quot;sion, my bride? Rend t  my  ion. For ten years I  smiled at me, at eacroke of t I  mine s on o ex o bring to dis a picture for t, you do not put your ; to courtiers you sell lay figures duly colored. My painting is no painting, it is a sentiment, a passion. Sudio, t dude, and only  veil aside for tos Angelica, Dantes Beatrice? Nay, only t ture, locked audio, is an exception in our art. It is not a canvas, it is a alk. I ss, ears, er. ould you en years of  once to be fator? S a creature, but a creation.

    quot;Bring your young painter reasures; I ian; I s in t; but make , and ter. Yes, est sigrengto burn my Belle Noiseuse; but--compel o endure tranger, a young man and a painter!--A if you did not kneel in reverence before  my idol to ticisms of fools? Aery; it can only live . You say, even to your friend, Be;

    to  and life in  fluse ve  o reply to tterance of an emotion as strange as it o some freak of tists fancy? or range ligravail of a . ould it be possible to come to terms his singular passion?

    s, Porbus spoke--quot;Is it not ; ;Does not Poussin submit ress to your gaze?quot;

    quot; is s; retorted t;A mistress o me forever.quot;

    quot;ell, ; said Porbus, quot;let us say no more about it. But you may die before you  unfinished.

    quot;O is finis; said Fren;Standing before it you  it  coucains. Perfumes are burning on a golden tripod by empted to lay your assel of t ains; it o you t you saiful courtezan  be sure--quot;

    quot;to Asia,quot; returned Porbus, noticing a certain indecision in Fren Porbus made a feeps to time Gillette and Nicolas Poussin ood on timent flashrough her mind.

    quot;O o do ; sing tones, h her eyes fixed on his.

    quot;Gillette, I  you to decide; I am ready to obey you in everyt--quot;

    quot;Am I my o? No, no; I am a c; s effort; quot;if our love dies, if I plant a long regret in my , your fame o your ? Let us go in. I sill live on as a memory on your palette; t ser;

    tered Porbus, te, , into ter.

    quot;; ;is s erpieces in t;

    Frenrembled. tood Gillette in tless and ctitude of some timid and innocent Georgian, carried off by brigands, and confronted . A srengto ears protested against trage. Poussin cursed   reasure from its ist, and countless doubts assailed Poussins  he lovers savage jealousy awoke.

    quot;Gillette!quot; ;let us go.quot;

    turned joyously at tone in tered, raised o  o his arms.

    quot;A; s;you love me!quot; and s into tears.

    S enougo suffer in silence, but srengto hide her joy.

    quot;O,quot; said ter, quot;and you s.quot;

    Freny seemed to be engaged for icipated triumpy of ion over ty of the living girl.

    quot;Do not give ime to c; cried Porbus, striking Poussin on t;t t is immortal.quot;

    quot;t; said Gillette. Sching Poussin and Porbus closely.

    S Freno gazing at trait  first for a Giorgione--

    quot;A; s;let us go up to tudio. ;

    the sound of her voice recalled Poussin from his dreams.

    quot;Old man,quot; ;do you see t into your  at t cry from t fire to your  alive. Do you understand?quot;

    Nicolas Poussin scote took comfort from ters bearing, and yet more from t gesture, and almost forgave o  and ure.

    Porbus and Poussin stood at tudio and looked at eac first ter of t Mary of Egypt ions: quot;Aaken off old o come into t--; but t of tress in Poussins face suddenly silenced ers no longer feel tty in t, ural and gracious in t  of  glued to tanding in t ors ing for t strike doyrant.

    quot;Come in, come in,quot; cried t . quot;My . I can ser, brus, and canvas produce a rival for Cat, tiful courtezan!quot;

    Porbus and Poussin, burning y, o a vast studio. Everyt, but tures opped first of all in admiration before tially draped.

    quot;O,quot; said Fren;t is a roug I made, a study, a pose, it is not;  on, indicating ting compositions upon tudio.

    t struck Porbus and Poussin dumb . ture of .

    quot;Look ; said tation, tered, hed hard like a young lover frenzied by love.

    quot;A; ;you did not expect to see sucion! You are looking for a picture, and you see a  canvas, tmosprue t you can not distinguis from t surrounds us. ? Art  is invisible! It is t you see before you.  caug of t defines t t produced t s present in tmosp ter? Do you see ands out against t not seem to you t you pass your  tudied and c blends s on  pours over it like a flood, does it not?... A s--a fall on o . ait!quot;

    quot;Do you see anyt; Poussin asked of Porbus.

    quot;No... do you?quot;

    quot;I see not;

    ters left to asy, and tried to ascertain  fell full upon tralized all t for to t and left of ture; t, bending doanding uprigurns.

    quot;Yes, yes, it is really canvas,quot; said Frenook ture of te investigation.

    quot;Look! tretc; and ook up a brus out to t.

    quot;t_ is laug us,quot; said Poussin, coming once more toure. quot;I can see not confused masses of color and a multitude of fantastical lines t go to make a dead .quot;

    quot;e are mistaken, look!quot; said Porbus.

    In a corner of tinguis emerging from tints and vague s made up a dim, formless fog. Its living delicate beauty  t ruction seemed to torso of some Venus emerging from town.

    quot;t; exclaimed Porbus, calling Poussins attention to ts of paint ist  of perfection.

    Botists turned involuntarily to Freno anding, vague t asy in which he lived.

    quot; in all good fait; said Porbus.

    quot;Yes, my friend,quot; said t;it needs fait, and you must live for long o produce sucion.  toil some of t me. Look! t s on a  o you t you could never render it . Do you t t effect  cost unoil?

    quot;But not only so, dear Porbus. Look closely at my and more clearly o metline. Look at ts on toucouc it catc itself and blends it rous s, and e process, by flattening t, and leaving no trace of tening tours of my figures and enveloping tints until t is produced, fades aure ure. Come closer. You ter; at a little distance it can not be seen. t t is, I to be seen,quot; and ip of ed out a patcransparent color to ters.

    Porbus, laying a ists surned to Poussin ;Do you kno in  painter?quot;

    quot; ter,quot; Poussin answered gravely.

    quot;t; Porbus continued, as ouc;Use tmost limit of our art on eart;

    quot;Beyond t point it loses itself in t; said Poussin.

    quot; joys lie t; exclaimed Porbus.

    t t hear.

    quot;But sooner or later  t t; cried Poussin.

    quot;Not; said Frenurn at eiter and at ure.

    quot; ; muttered Porbus, turning to Poussin.

    tcers arm and said, quot;Do you see notel ! varlet! cullion!  brougo my studio?--My good Porbus,quot;  on, as urned to ter, quot;are you also making a fool of me? Ansell me, ure after all?quot;

    Porbus ated and said not tolerable anxiety in te face t ed to the easel.

    quot;Look!quot; he said.

    Fren at ure, and staggered back.

    quot;Noter ten years of ;  do.

    quot;So I am a dotard, a madman, I alent nor po;

    ears at ure. Suddenly ood proudly before ters.

    quot;By t,quot; ;you are jealous! You ure is a failure because you  to steal ; ;siful...quot;

    At t moment Poussin te en in a corner. All at once ter once more became t; is it, my angel?quot; he asked her.

    quot;Kill me!quot; s;I must be a vile till, for I despise you.... I admire you, and I e you! I love you, and I feel t I e you even no;

    tes ; ion of a jeo be expert ters a profoundly astute glance t expressed to tempt for t of udio uous e and in silence, until from t;Good-by, my young friends!quot;

    t fareruck a co ters. Porbus, in anxiety,  again on to see Fren  after burning his canvases.

    Paris, February, 1832.