“A great master,” said Nicot, “but I do not love the school.”

“I do not love, but I am awed by it.  We love the beautiful and serene, but we have a feeling as deep as love for the terrible and dark.”

“True,” said Nicot, thoughtfully.  “And yet that feeling is only a superstition.  The nursery, with its tales of ghosts and goblins, is the cradle of many of our impressions in the world.  But art should not seek to pander to our ignorance; art should represent only truths.  I confess that Raphael pleases me less, because I have no sympathy with his subjects.  His saints and virgins are to me only men and women.”

“And from what source should painting, then, take its themes?”

“From history, without doubt,” returned Nicot, pragmatically,—­“those great Roman actions which inspire men with sentiments of liberty and valour, with the virtues of a republic.  I wish the cartoons of Raphael had illustrated the story of the Horatii; but it remains for France and her Republic to give to posterity the new and the true school, which could never have arisen in a country of priestcraft and delusion.”

“And the saints and virgins of Raphael are to you only men and women?” repeated Glyndon, going back to Nicot’s candid confession in amaze, and scarcely hearing the deductions the Frenchman drew from his proposition.

“Assuredly.  Ha, ha!” and Nicot laughed hideously, “do you ask me to believe in the calendar, or what?”

“But the ideal?”

“The ideal!” interrupted Nicot.  “Stuff!  The Italian critics, and your English Reynolds, have turned your head.  They are so fond of their ‘gusto grande,’ and their ’ideal beauty that speaks to the soul!’—­soul!—­Is there a soul?  I understand a man when he talks of composing for a refined taste,—­for an educated and intelligent reason; for a sense that comprehends truths.  But as for the soul,—­bah!—­we are but modifications of matter, and painting is modification of matter also.”

Glyndon turned his eyes from the picture before him to Nicot, and from Nicot to the picture.  The dogmatist gave a voice to the thoughts which the sight of the picture had awakened.  He shook his head without reply.

“Tell me,” said Nicot, abruptly, “that imposter,—­Zanoni!—­oh!  I have now learned his name and quackeries, forsooth,—­what did he say to thee of me?”

“Of thee?  Nothing; but to warn me against thy doctrines.”

“Aha! was that all?” said Nicot.  “He is a notable inventor, and since, when we met last, I unmasked his delusions, I thought he might retaliate by some tale of slander.”

“Unmasked his delusions!—­how?”

“A dull and long story:  he wished to teach an old doting friend of mine his secrets of prolonged life and philosophical alchemy.  I advise thee to renounce so discreditable an acquaintance.”

With that Nicot nodded significantly, and, not wishing to be further questioned, went his way.