"
"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 Frenhofer, 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 a 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 talent nor capacity? Am I
no better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed
produced nothing?"
He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself
proudly and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters.
"By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men
who seek to make me think she is spoiled, that you may steal her from
me.
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