gled reddish-brown and ochre warms up the cold grayness of that large
shadow where the blood seemed to stagnate rather than flow. Young man,
young man! what I am showing you now no other master in the world can
teach you. Mabuse alone knew the secret of giving life to form. Mabuse
had but one pupil, and I am he. I never took a pupil, and I am an old
man now. You are intelligent enough to guess at what should follow from
the little that I shall show you to-day."

While he was speaking, the extraordinary old man was giving touches here
and there to all parts of the picture. Here two strokes of the brush,
there one, but each so telling that together they brought out a new
painting,--a painting steeped, as it were, in light. He worked with
such passionate ardor that the sweat rolled in great drops from his bald
brow; and his motions seemed to be jerked out of him with such rapidity
and impatience that the young Poussin fancied a demon, encased with the
body of this singular being, was working his hands fantastically like
those of a puppet without, or even against, the will of their owner. The
unnatural brightness of his eyes, the convulsive movements which seemed
the result of some mental resistance, gave to this fancy of the youth
a semblance of truth which reacted upon his lively imagination. The old
man worked on, muttering half to himself, half to his neophyte:--

"Paf! paf! paf! that is how we butter it on, young man. Ah! my little
pats, you are right; warm up that icy tone. Come, come!--pon, pon,
pon,--" he continued, touching up the spots where he had complained of a
lack of life, hiding under layers of color the conflicting methods, and
regaining the unity of tone essential to an ardent Egyptian.

"Now see, my little friend, it is only the last touches of the brush
that count for anything. Porbus put on a hundred; I have only put on one
or two. Nobody will thank us for what is underneath, remember that!"

At last the demon paused; the old man turned to Porbus and Poussin, who
stood mute with admiration, and said to them,--

"It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nut-girl; still, one can put one's
name to such a work. Yes, I will sign it," he added, rising to fetch
a mirror in which to look at what he had done. "Now let us go and
breakfast. Come, both of you, to my house. I have some smoked ham and
good wine. Hey! hey! in spite of the degenerate times we will talk
painting; we are strong ourselves. Here is a little