“I think you make the prerogative of ideas too exclusive,” said Ernest de La Briere, in a quiet and melodious voice, which formed a sudden contrast to the peremptory tones of the poet, whose flexible organ had abandoned its caressing notes for the strident and magisterial voice of the rostrum.  “Genius must be estimated according to its utility; and Parmentier, who brought potatoes into general use, Jacquart, the inventor of silk looms; Papin, who first discovered the elastic quality of steam, are men of genius, to whom statues will some day be erected.  They have changed, or they will change in a certain sense, the face of the State.  It is in that sense that Desplein will always be considered a man of genius by thinkers; they see him attended by a generation of sufferers whose pains are stifled by his hand.”

That Ernest should give utterance to this opinion was enough to make Modeste oppose it.

“If that be so, monsieur,” she said, “then the man who could discover a way to mow wheat without injuring the straw, by a machine that could do the work of ten men, would be a man of genius.”

“Yes, my daughter,” said Madame Mignon; “and the poor would bless him for cheaper bread,—­he that is blessed by the poor is blessed of God.”

“That is putting utility above art,” said Modeste, shaking her head.

“Without utility what would become of art?” said Charles Mignon.  “What would it rest on? what would it live on?  Where would you lodge, and how would you pay the poet?”

“Oh! my dear papa, such opinions are fearfully flat and antediluvian!  I am not surprised that Gobenheim and Monsieur de La Briere, who are interested in the solution of social problems should think so; but you, whose life has been the most useless poetry of the century, —­useless because the blood you shed all over Europe, and the horrible sufferings exacted by your colossus, did not prevent France from losing ten departments acquired under the Revolution,—­how can you give in to such excessively pig-tail notions, as the idealists say?  It is plain you’ve just come from China.”

The impertinence of Modeste’s speech was heightened by a little air of contemptuous disdain which she purposely put on, and which fairly astounded Madame Mignon, Madame Latournelle, and Dumay.  As for Madame Latournelle, she opened her eyes so wide she no longer saw anything.  Butscha, whose alert attention was comparable to that of a spy, looked at Monsieur Mignon, expecting to see him flush with sudden and violent indignation.

“A little more, young lady, and you will be wanting in respect for your father,” said the colonel, smiling, and noticing Butscha’s look.  “See what it is to spoil one’s children!”

“I am your only child,” she said saucily.

“Child, indeed,” remarked the notary, significantly.

“Monsieur,” said Modeste, turning upon him, “my father is delighted to have me for his governess; he gave me life and I give him knowledge; he will soon owe me something.”