"Where's the harm?"

And the nobleman and the physician proceeded to disparage Louis
Philippe, recalling the Pritchard case, and the September laws against
the liberty of the press:

"And that of the stage," added Pecuchet.

Marescot could stand this no longer.

"It goes too far, this stage of yours!"

"That I grant you," said the count--"plays that glorify suicide."

"Suicide is a fine thing! Witness Cato," protested Pecuchet.

Without replying to the argument, M. de Faverges stigmatised those works
in which the holiest things are scoffed at: the family, property,
marriage.

"Well, and Moliere?" said Bouvard.

Marescot, a man of literary taste, retorted that Moliere would not pass
muster any longer, and was, furthermore, a little overrated.

"Finally," said the count, "Victor Hugo has been pitiless--yes,
pitiless--towards Marie Antoinette, by dragging over the hurdle the type
of the Queen in the character of Mary Tudor."

"What!" exclaimed Bouvard, "I, an author, I have no right----"

"No, sir, you have no right to show us crime without putting beside it a
corrective--without presenting to us a lesson."

Vaucorbeil thought also that art ought to have an object--to aim at the
improvement of the masses. "Let us chant science, our discoveries,
patriotism," and he broke into admiration of Casimir Delavigne.

Madame Bordin praised the Marquis de Foudras.

The notary replied: "But the language--are you thinking of that?"

"The language? How?"

"He refers to the style," said Pecuchet. "Do you consider his works well
written?"

"No doubt, exceedingly interesting."

He shrugged his shoulders, and she blushed at the impertinence.

Madame Bordin had several times attempted to come back to her own
business transaction. It was too late to conclude it. She went off on
Marescot's arm.

The count distributed his pamphlets, requesting them to hand them round
to other people.

Vaucorbeil was leaving, when Pecuchet stopped him.

"You are forgetting me, doctor."

His yellow physiognomy was pitiable, with his moustaches and his black
hair, which was hanging down under a silk handkerchief badly fastened.

"Purge yourself," said the doctor. And, giving him two little slaps as
if to a child: "Too much nerves, too much artist!"

"No, surely!"

They summed up what they had just heard. The morality of art is
contained for every person in that which flatters that person's
interests. No one has any love for lite