of the young man; for though old painters
have none of such petty scruples in presence of their art, yet they
admire them in others, when they are fresh and pleasing. The young man
held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed glued to the panel of the
door. Both men, standing darkly in the shadow, looked like conspirators
waiting the hour to strike a tyrant.

"Come in! come in!" cried the old man, beaming with happiness. "My work
is perfect; I can show it now with pride. Never shall painter, brushes,
colors, canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine Lescaut, the
Beautiful Nut-girl."

Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild curiosity, rushed into the middle
of a vast atelier filled with dust, where everything lay in disorder,
and where they saw a few paintings hanging here and there upon the
walls. They stopped before the figure of a woman, life-sized and half
nude, which filled them with eager admiration.

"Do not look at that," said Frenhofer, "it is only a daub which I made
to study a pose; it is worth nothing. Those are my errors," he added,
waving his hand towards the enchanting compositions on the walls around
them.

At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the disdain which the
master showed for such marvels of art, looked about them for the secret
treasure, but could see it nowhere.

"There it is!" said the old man, whose hair fell in disorder about his
face, which was scarlet with supernatural excitement. His eyes sparkled,
and his breast heaved like that of a young man beside himself with love.

"Ah!" he cried, "did you not expect such perfection? You stand before a
woman, and you are looking for a picture! There are such depths on that
canvas, the air within it is so true, that you are unable to distinguish
it from the air you breathe. Where is art? Departed, vanished! Here is
the form itself of a young girl. Have I not caught the color, the very
life of the line which seems to terminate the body? The same phenomenon
which we notice around fishes in the water is also about objects which
float in air. See how these outlines spring forth from the background.
Do you not feel that you could pass your hand behind those shoulders?
For seven years have I studied these effects of light coupled with
form. That hair,--is it not bathed in light? Why, she breathes! That
bosom,--see! Ah! who would not worship it on bended knee? The flesh
palpitates! Wait, she is about to rise; wait!"

"Can you see anything?"