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the convulsions which seemed the effect of a certain resistance, made this notion so convincing that the youth’s imagination was utterly subjugated. The old man worked on, saying: “There, look! That’s how you spread the butter, young man! Come, little brushstrokes, warm up these icy tints! Now then, there, like that!” he muttered, creating a sensuous glow in the very places where he had pointed out a certain lifelessness, abolishing discrepancies of feeling with a few patches of color, restoring the unity of tone required for the figure of an ardent Egyptian woman.
    “You see, my boy, it’s only the last stroke of the brush that counts. Porbus has laid on a hundred, I’ve made one. No one will thank us for what’s underneath. Remember that!”
    Finally this demon stopped, and turning toward Porbus and Poussin who stood speechless with admiration, addressed them: “This is still no match for my Catherine Lescault, but one could put one’s name to such a thing. Yes, I could sign it,” he added, standing up to find a mirror, in which he studied the painting for a moment. “Now, let’s have something to eat,” he said. “The two of you will come along to my place for some smoked ham and a good wine. Well, well! For all the bad times we live in, we can talk painting! We’re well matched there, and here’s a young fellow,” he added, clapping Nicolas Poussin on the shoulder, “who gives every sign of having some talent.”
    Then, noticing the youth’s wretched Normandy coat, he drew a leather purse from his belt, rummaged within it, and took out two gold pieces which he handed to Poussin: “I’ll buy your drawing.”
    “Take it,” Porbus murmured to Poussin, seeing him start and blush with shame, for the talented youth had a poor man’s pride. “Go on, take it. He has the ransom of two kings in his money bags!”
    All three descended the stairs from the studio, conversing about the arts until, near the Pont Saint-Michel, they came to a fine timbered house; its decorations, door knocker, and carved window frames amazed young Poussin. Before he knew it, the youth was in a low-ceilinged room in front of a roaring fire, sitting at a table covered with good things to eat, and, by some unheard-of stroke of luck, in the company of two great artists who were inclined to be friendly.
    “Young man,” Porbus said, seeing Poussin stare openmouthed at a picture, “don’t look at that canvas too long, it will drive you to despair.”
    It was the
Adam
Mabuse had painted to gain release from the prison his creditors had kept him in so long. And indeed the figure produced such an illusion of reality that Nicolas Poussin began to understand the true meaning of the wild claims that had been made by the old man, who now regarded the picture with a complacent expression, though without enthusiasm, as if to say: “I’ve done better!”
    “There’s life in it,” he said. “My poor master outdid himself there, but the background still lacks a certain degree of truth. The man’s alive all right, he’s standing up and about to walk toward us, but the sky, the wind, the air we see and feel and breathe aren’t there. In fact, the man’s the only thing in the picture, and all he is is a man. Now the one man who came straight from the hands of God should have something divine about him, and that’s what’s missing. Mabuse used to be quite cross with himself about it, when he wasn’t drunk.”
    Poussin glanced back and forth between the old man and Porbus with anxious curiosity. He moved closer to Porbus as if to ask the old man’s name; but the painter put a finger to his lips with a mysterious expression, and the youth, though fascinated, held his tongue, hoping that sooner or later some chance word would allow him to guess the name of their host, whose wealth and talents were sufficiently evidenced by the respect Porbus showed him and by the wonders amassed in that room.
    Catching sight of a magnificent portrait