Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he
did so, and said, "Do you know that he is one of our greatest
painters?"

"He is a poet even more than he is a painter," answered Poussin
gravely.

"There," returned Porbus, touching the canvas, "is the ultimate end of
our art on earth."

"And from thence," added Poussin, "it rises, to enter heaven."

"How much happiness is there!--upon that canvas," said Porbus.

The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at
his visionary woman.

"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! Why did you
come here? My good Porbus," he added, turning to his friend, "is it
possible that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; I am your friend.
Tell me, can it be that I have spoiled my picture?"