ity the new and the true school, which could never have arisen in a country of priestcraft and delusion."
"And the saints and virgins of Raffaêle 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 impostor — 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."
