“But one there is—we shall call him Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál—of him
the _señor_ has never heard?”
“No,” I said; “I have never heard of him.”
He leaned forward in his chair again; his locked fingers in his lap
writhed upon each other like little twisting snakes.
“A wonderful painter, _señor_, for he knew the secret to put life
upon his canvas.” His voice fell to a sibilant whisper.
“Vasquez y Carbajál,” I replied. “No, I never heard of him.”
“Only one picture, _señor_, to make him famous. Very old he is, this
Vasquez. One picture to make him famous. Five years it has taken
him. Five years of working—working—” His voice trailed off into
silence.
“Yes?” I prompted.
His head had sunk to his breast; he raised it with a start at my
word. The fire came back to his eyes; he sat up rigid in his chair.
“A picture of the kind none other could paint, _señor_. The secret
to put life upon canvas. Is that not droll?” His querulous, half
maniacal laughter echoed across the shadowed room. “From the mortal
living, _señor_, we take the life, and upon the canvas we make it
immortal.”