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"Young man," said Porbus, observing that he was speechless, with his eyes fixed on a picture, "do not look at that too long, or you will fall into despair." It was the Adam of Mabuse, painted by that wayward genius to enable him to get out of the prison where his creditors had kept him so long.
Porbus bowed respectfully, and made way for his guest, allowing the youth to pass in at the same time, under the impression that he came with the old man, and taking no further notice of him; all the less perhaps because the neophyte stood still beneath the spell which holds a heaven-born painter as he sees for the first time an atelier filled with the materials and instruments of his art.
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.
Porbus smiled at the youth's enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a kindly invitation to come and visit him. Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la Harpe and passed, without observing that he did so, the modest hostelry where he was lodging.
His attitude, and above all the gesture with which he laid his hand upon the weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus sacrificing her to his art and to his hopes of a glorious future. Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier, looking at one another in silence.
"Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness," said the neophyte, blushing. "I am all unknown; only a dauber by instinct. I have just come to Paris, that fountain of art and science." "Let us see what you can do," said Porbus, giving him a red crayon and a piece of paper. The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of his hand. "Oh! oh!" exclaimed the old man, "what is your name?"
Oh! to see for a moment, a single moment, the divine completed nature, the ideal, I would give my all of fortune. Yes; I would search thee out, celestial Beauty! in thy farthest sphere. Like Orpheus, I would go down to hell to win back the life of art " "Let us go," said Porbus to Poussin; "he neither sees nor hears us any longer." "Let us go to his atelier," said the wonder-struck young man.
"See, he is talking to his own soul," said Porbus in a low voice. The words acted like a spell on Nicolas Poussin, filling him with the inexplicable curiosity of a true artist.
"Go to Asia, then," said Porbus hastily, fancying he saw some hesitation in the old man's eye. Porbus made a few steps towards the door of the room. At this moment Gillette and Nicolas Poussin reached the entrance of the house. As the young girl was about to enter, she dropped the arm of her lover and shrank back as if overcome by a presentiment.
"But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there," cried Poussin. "Nothing there! upon my canvas?" said Frenhofer, looking first at the two painters, and then at his imaginary picture. "What have you done?" cried Porbus, addressing Poussin. The old man seized the arm of the young man violently, and said to him, "You see nothing? clown, infidel, scoundrel, dolt!
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