"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 Frenhover, 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?"
Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the white face of the old man was so cruel that he was constrained to point to the canvas and utter the word, "See!"
Frenhofer looked at his picture for the space of a moment, and staggered.
"Nothing! nothing! after toiling ten years!"
He sat down and wept.
"Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither
