s 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.

Glyndon's mind at that moment had escaped to his art, and the comments
and presence of Nicot had been no welcome interruption. He turned
from the landscape of Salvator, and his eye falling on a Nativity by
Coreggio, the contrast between the two ranks of genius struck him as
a discovery. That exquisite repose, that perfect sense of beauty, that
strength without effort, that breathing moral of high art, which speaks
to the mind through the eye, and raises the thoughts, by the aid of
tenderness and love, to the regions of awe and wonder,--ay! THAT was the
true school. He quitted the gallery with reluctant steps and inspired
ideas; he sought his own home. Here, pleased not to find the sober
Mervale, he leaned his face on his hands, and endeavoured to recall the
words of Zanoni in their last meeting. Yes, he felt Nicot's talk even on
art was crime; it debased the imagination