r artists, her men of talent, and the
good taste of her products. There is no artist and no superior intellect
that does not come to Paris for a diploma. There is no school of
painting at this moment but that of France; and we shall reign far
longer and perhaps more securely by our books than by our swords. In La
Briere's system, on the other hand, all that is glorious and lovely must
be suppressed,--woman's beauty, music, painting, poetry. Society will
not be overthrown, that is true, but, I ask you, who would willingly
accept such a life? All useful things are ugly and forbidding. A kitchen
is indispensable, but you take care not to sit there; you live in the
salon, which you adorn, like this, with superfluous things. Of what
_use_, let me ask you, are these charming wall-paintings, this carved
wood-work? There is nothing beautiful but that which seems to us
useless. We called the sixteenth century the Renascence with admirable
truth of language. That century was the dawn of a new era. Men will
continue to speak of it when all remembrance of anterior centuries had
passed away,--their only merit being that they once existed, like the
million beings who count as the rubbish of a generation."

"Rubbish! yes, that may be, but my rubbish is dear to me," said the
Duc d'Herouville, laughing, during the silent pause which followed the
poet's pompous oration.

"Let me ask," said Butscha, attacking Canalis, "does art, the sphere in
which, according to you, genius is required to evolve itself, exist at
all? Is it not a splendid lie, a delusion, of the social man? Do I want
a landscape scene of Normandy in my bedroom when I can look out and see
a better one done by God himself? Our dreams make poems more glorious
than Iliads. For an insignificant sum of money I can find at Valogne, at
Carentan, in Provence, at Arles, many a Venus as beautiful as those
of Titian. The police gazette publishes tales, differing somewhat
from those of Walter Scott, but ending tragically with blood, not ink.
Happiness and virtue exist above and beyond both art and genius."

"Bravo, Butscha!" cried Madame Latournelle.

"What did he say?" asked Canalis of La Briere, failing to gather from
the eyes and attitude of Mademoiselle Mignon the usual signs of artless
admiration.

The contemptuous indifference which Modeste had exhibited toward La
Briere, and above all, her disrespectful speeches to her father, so
depressed the young man that he made no answ