At the same time he put the finishing touch to his picture, and
when hung upon his wall, between their photographs, Suzette danced
before it, and took half the credit upon herself.
Foolish Suzette! she did not know how that old man was her most
dangerous rival. He had done what no beautiful woman in France could
do--weakened her grasp upon Ralph Flare's heart. For now Ralph's old
enthusiasm for his profession reasserted itself. It was his first and
deepest love after all.
"My baby," he said one night, "there was a great artist named
Raphael--and he had a little mistress, whom I don't think a whit
prettier than mine. She was called the _Fornarina_, just as you may be
called the _Coutouriere_, and he painted her portrait in the characters
of saints and of the Virgin. She will be remembered a thousand years,
because Raphael so loved and painted her. But he was not a great artist
only because he loved the _Fornarina_. He had something that he loved
better, and so have I."
"One more beloved than Suzette?" she cried.
"Yes! it is art. I loved you more than my art before; but I am going
back to my first love."
Suzette tossed her head and said that she could never be jealous of a
picture, and went her way with a simple faith and toiled; and as she
toiled the more, so grew her love the purer and her content the more
equal.
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