Later, when he went to Italy with l’Abbé Gougenot, there was a love story which in some of its details recalls the “Romeo and Juliet” legend. The lovely young daughter of the proud Duke for whom he was copying pictures fell in love with the artist, and declared her passion. The young man was equally enamoured, but realising the inequality of their situation he hesitated, and it was only after the lady pined, fell ill, and had secret meetings arranged by her old nurse, that he confessed that the love was mutual. A period of madness followed, the lady making plans to take the money her mother had left her and elope to Paris, where Greuze was to become a second Raphael; but his sense of honour triumphed, and to avoid temptation he feigned an illness which kept him away from the palace. He really did fall ill at last, but as soon as he was able to be up he fled, fearing to see the lady again. An agreeable, if unromantic sequel to the history is a letter he received from the heroine some years later, thanking him for having behaved as he had done. She was now a contented wife and the mother of some beautiful children, she said, and she owed all her happiness to him! Then there is the story of his devotion to his wife; but unfortunately that will be told later under a very different heading to that of “romance.” CHAPTER V THE VANITY OF GREUZE Mention has already been made of the overweening vanity which was Greuze’s most pronounced personal characteristic. He had, above all, the highest possible opinion of his own talent, and could not brook the slightest adverse criticism of his work. Even when he first came to Paris and had not proved his abilities, he made enemies by stupid remarks like his reply to Natoire, who had suggested some alteration in a detail of one of his pictures. “Monsieur, you would be only too happy if you were able to do anything so good yourself.” Later, when success had come and he was surrounded by admirers, the desire for praise became a mania, and he fell into a violent passion if any one made a remark that suggested anything but flattery. A great friend of his, and one of his patrons, a Madame Geoffrin, at whose house he had met many of his most influential friends and kindest critics, said laughingly, and with truth, that there was a “_véritable fricassée d’enfants_” in “La Mère Bien-aimée.” Some one repeated this to Greuze. “How dare she venture to criticise a work of art,” he cried violently. “Let her tremble with fear lest I immortalise her by painting her as a schoolmistress, with a whip in her hand and a face that will terrify all children living or to be born.”