The Pompadour lived but a short while to enjoy her triumph. Worn-out by her vast activities, and assailed by debt, she fell ill of a cough that racked her shrunken body. She died, transacting the king's business and affairs of State, on the 15th of April 1764, in her forty-second year. Whatever may be said of this cold-blooded, calculating, grasping woman, who crushed down every nice instinct of womanhood to win a king's favour, who knew no scruple, who was without mercy, without pardon or forgiveness, without remorse; bitter and adamant in revenge; who turned a deaf ear to the cries from the Bastille; whose heart knew no love but for self; it must be allowed that at least for Art she did great and splendid service. She not only encouraged and brought out the best achievement of her age; she did Art an even more handsome benefit. She insisted on artists painting their age and not aping the dead past. To Fragonard personally she rendered no particular service. His real achievement began on the eve of her death, when she was a worn-out and broken woman. Nor had Fragonard ever that close touch with the royal house or its favourites during any part of his lifetime that meant so much to the fortunes of his master, Boucher. There were two patrons for whom Fragonard was about to create a series of masterpieces in the decoration of their splendid and luxurious homes--works of Art which were to have strange adventures and histories. They were both women. [Illustration: PLATE V.--FIGURE DE FANTASIE (In the Louvre) Here we have one of the rare examples of Fragonard's painting of a man's portrait. It is in strange contrast to his more delicate handling of domestic subjects.] For the prodigal and eccentric dancer, the notorious Mademoiselle Guimard, he undertook the painting of a series of panels. The Guimard was the rage of Paris--she of the orgic suppers and the naughty dances with her comrade Vestris. Frago, who is said to have been more than a friend of the reckless one of the nimble feet, undertook the decoration of her house in the Chaussée d'Antin, known to the bloods as the Temple of Terpsichore. He painted for the same room a portrait of the frail beauty as an opera-shepherdess--the simple pastoral life was the pose of this unsimple age. He was engaged upon the business, off and on, for several years; and the many delays at last fretted the light one. Fragonard, anything but energetic, liked always to take his own time at his work. The Guimard got to pestering him--she had a sharp tongue--and at last, one fine day, upbraided him roundly, taunting him with a sneer that he would never get the work finished. Fragonard lost patience and temper, goaded by her ill-manners, her abuse, and her biting tongue. "It _is_ finished," said he; and walked out of the house. The Guimard could never get him back; but one day he slipped in alone, painted the set dancer's-smile from the dancer's mouth, and placed there instead a snarl upon her lips.