f looking at the picture with apparent
satisfaction, but without enthusiasm. "I have done better than that!" he
seemed to be saying to himself.

"There is life in it," he said aloud; "in that respect my poor
master here surpassed himself, but there is some lack of truth in the
background. The man lives indeed; he is rising, and will come toward us;
but the atmosphere, the sky, the air, the breath of the breeze--you look
and feel for them, but they are not there. And then the man himself is,
after all, only a man! Ah! but the one man in the world who came direct
from the hands of God must have had a something divine about him that
is wanting here. Mabuse himself would grind his teeth and say so when he
was not drunk."

Poussin looked from the speaker to Porbus, and from Porbus to the
speaker, with restless curiosity. He went up to the latter to ask for
the name of their host; but the painter laid a finger on his lips
with an air of mystery. The young man's interest was excited; he kept
silence, but hoped that sooner or later some word might be let fall that
would reveal the name of his entertainer. It was evident that he was a
man of talent and very wealthy, for Porbus listened to him respectfully,
and the vast room was crowded with marvels of art.

A magnificent portrait of a woman, hung against the dark oak panels of
the wall, next caught Poussin's attention.

"What a glorious Giorgione!" he cried.

"No," said his host, "it is an early daub of mine--"

"Gramercy! I am in the abode of the god of painting, it seems!" cried
Poussin ingenuously.

The old man smiled as if he had long grown familiar with such praise.

"Master Frenhofer!" said Porbus, "do you think you could spare me a
little of your capital Rhine wine?"

"A couple of pipes!" answered his host; "one to discharge a debt, for
the pleasure of seeing your pretty sinner, the other as a present from a
friend."

"Ah! if I had my health," returned Porbus, "and if you would but let
me see your 'Belle Noiseuse,' I would paint some great picture, with
breadth in it and depth; the figures should be life-size."

"Let you see my work!" cried the painter in agitation. "No, no! it is
not perfect yet; something still remains for me to do. Yesterday, in the
dusk," he said, "I thought I had reached the end. Her eyes seemed moist,
the flesh quivered, something stirred the tresses of her hair. She
breathed! But though I have succeeded in reproducing Nature's roundnes