l is the whole that mankind can directly apprehend,
and as for other things hoped for, symbolism is the true outlet for his
soul. Art is the union of this beauty and symbolism. No aspiration
exists but can be expressed in pleasing forms."

Does man desire God, he paints--O how raptly!--a saint; does he feel
after immortality, he sculptures an ever-young Apollo. Looking to them,
he has faith, as of an oracle, in their emblematic truth, and through
them instructs the world.

Art seemed to me then the Highest Thing.

CHAPTER XIII.

SOMETHING MORE OF QUINET?

One evening as we sat on the Pincian Hill, in the semi-tropical garden,
overlooking the domes and towers of the Imperial City, Quinet broke our
silence, and surprised me by saying abruptly:

"Let us go to England."

"What for?"

"Let us go; I wish to go."

"But what is your press about England. I thought you hated the English."

"I do not hate the English. Among whom are there more amiable friends,
more beautiful women. I am seized with a wish to see that great people
in their country."

"You hated them some time ago."

"In the present tense, that verb has with me the peculiarity of parsing
itself negatively."

I reflected a little on this change of opinion in Quinet, and its
possible causes, till he again broke out abruptly:

"Miss Carter gave me a message for you."

The recollection of my conduct at Picault's sent a pang through me.

"What is it?" I said. The tropical plants around us brought up vividly
those at the ball.

"I did not ask her,"--his voice was curious--"what it meant, but she
desired me to say for her; 'I beg you to write me why you left the
ball.'"

"So you do her page-work," I returned, for I thought I could now divine
the reason of his change towards the English. "Pretty work for a grown
knight! If you know her so well, you know the picturesque groves of St.
Helen's Island where she lives. Why stop at page-work? One would think
with an enchanted isle, and an enchanting maiden, the Chevalier would
find his proper occupation."

Quinet changed aspect. "Do you not then admire her?" he advanced
quickly, with uncontrollable feeling.

"Not admire Grace Carter!" said I, for I felt as if I had done her
injustice when I last left her,--"Yet no more than a friend, Quinet."

"Is that the fact?" he cried, springing up--"I thought it was she you
were in love with! I heard you were in one of Picault's alcoves
together."