"Yes, my friend," said the old man, rousing himself, "one must have faith, faith in art, and must live a long while with his work, to produce such a creation. Some of those shadows have cost me many hours of toil. See, on the cheek, just below the eye, there is a faint penumbra, which, if you notice it in nature, will seem to you almost beyond reproduction. Well, do you think that that effect did not cost me unheard-of trouble? But look closely at my work, my dear Porbus, and you will understand better what I said to you as to the method of treating modelling and outlines. Look at the light on the breast, and see how, by a succession of strongly emphasised touches and retouches, I have succeeded in reproducing the real light, and in combining it with the polished whiteness of the light tones; and how by the opposite means, by effacing the lumps and the roughness of the colours, I have been able, by softly retouching the outline of my figure, drowned in the half-tint, to take away even a suggestion of drawing and of artificial means, and to give it the aspect and the roundness of nature itself. Go nearer, and you will see the work better. At a distance it is imperceptible. Look, just here it is very remarkable, I think." And with the end of his brush he pointed out to the two painters a layer of light paint. Porbus laid his hand on the old man's shoulder and said, turning to Poussin: "Do you know that we have before us a very great painter?" "He is even more poet than painter," replied Poussin, gravely. "Here," rejoined Porbus, pointing to the canvas, "here ends our art on earth." "And from here it soars upwards and disappears in the skies," said Poussin. "How much pleasure is concentrated on this piece of canvas!" cried Porbus. The old man, completely distraught, did not listen to them; he was smiling at that ideal woman. "But sooner or later he will discover that there is nothing on his canvas!" exclaimed Poussin. "Nothing on my canvas!" cried Frenhofer, gazing at the two painters and at his alleged picture in turn. "What have you done?" whispered Porbus to Poussin. The old man grasped the young man's arm violently, and said to him: "You see nothing, you clown! you boor! you idiot! you villain! Then why did you come up here?--My dear Porbus," he continued, turning towards the painter; "is it possible that you too would mock at me? I am your friend; tell me, have I spoiled my picture?" Porbus hesitated, not daring to say anything; but the anxiety depicted on the old man's pale face was so heartrending that he pointed to the canvas, saying: "Look!" Frenhofer gazed at his picture for a moment, and staggered. "Nothing! nothing! and after working ten years!" He sat down and wept. "So I am an idiot, a madman! I have neither talent nor capacity! I am nothing more than a rich man, who, when I walk, do nothing but walk! So I have produced nothing!"