"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
of luxury and in parading the insensibility of their hearts. The smile
which flickered on her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of
the garret and rivalled the effulgence of the skies; for the sun did
not always shine in the heavens, but she was always here,--calm and
collected in her passion, living in his happiness, his griefs;
sustaining the genius which overflowed in love ere it found in art its
destined expression.
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