up many a crayon and spoil many a canvas before you reach that height.  Undoubtedly a woman carries her head this way and her petticoats that way; her eyes soften and droop with just that look of resigned gentleness; the throbbing shadow of the eyelashes falls exactly thus upon her cheek.  That is it, and—­that is not it.  What lacks?  A mere nothing; but that mere nothing is all.  You have given the shadow of life, but you have not given its fulness, its being, its —­I know not what—­soul, perhaps, which floats vaporously about the tabernacle of flesh; in short, that flower of life which Raphael and Titian culled.  Start from the point you have now attained, and perhaps you may yet paint a worthy picture; you grew weary too soon.  Mediocrity will extol your work; but the true artist smiles.  O Mabuse!  O my master!” added this singular person, “you were a thief; you have robbed us of your life, your knowledge, your art!  But at least,” he resumed after a pause, “this picture is better than the paintings of that rascally Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh daubed with vermilion, his cascades of red hair, and his hurly-burly of color.  At any rate, you have got the elements of color, drawing, and sentiment, —­the three essential parts of art.”

“But the saint is sublime, good sir!” cried the young man in a loud voice, waking from a deep reverie.  “These figures, the saint and the boatman, have a subtile meaning which the Italian painters cannot give.  I do not know one of them who could have invented that hesitation of the boatman.”

“Does the young fellow belong to you?” asked Porbus of the old man.

“Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness,” said the neophyte, blushing.  “I am all unknown; only a dauber by instinct.  I have just come to Paris, that fountain of art and science.”

“Let us see what you can do,” said Porbus, giving him a red crayon and a piece of paper.

The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of his hand.

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed the old man, “what is your name?”

The youth signed the drawing:  Nicolas Poussin.

“Not bad for a beginner,” said the strange being who had discoursed so wildly.  “I see that it is worth while to talk art before you.  I don’t blame you for admiring Porbus’s saint.  It is a masterpiece for the world at large; only those who are behind the veil of the holy of holies can perceive its errors.  But you are worthy of a lesson, and capable of understanding it.  I will show you how little is needed to turn that picture into a true masterpiece.  Give all your eyes and all your attention; such a chance of instruction may never fall in your way again.  Your palette, Porbus.”

Porbus fetched his palette and brushes.  The little old man turned up his cuffs with convulsive haste, slipped his thumb through the palette charged with prismatic colors, and snatched, rather than took, the handful of brushes which Porbus held out to him.  As he did so his beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with the eagerness of an incontinent fancy; and while he filled his brush he muttered between his teeth:—­