He had expressed Bourdelle’s secret thought; for Bourdelle, in spite of his pretended modesty, is a gourmand. Rodin agreeing, allowed them to lead him to a little eating-house hidden in a side-street off the Champs Élysées, where we chose a quiet corner and installed ourselves comfortably. Despiau, who has a lively disposition, began teasing Bourdelle. “Help yourself, Bourdelle,” he said, passing him a dish, “though you know you don’t deserve to be fed, because you are an artist—that is to say, of no use to any one.” “I pardon you this impertinence,” Bourdelle answered, “because you take half for yourself.” He began gayly, but ended in a momentary crisis of pessimism, as he added: “But I won’t contradict you. It is true that we are good for nothing. When I think of my father, who was a stonecutter, I say to myself, ‘His work was necessary to society. He prepared the building materials for men’s houses.’ I can see him now, good old man, conscientiously sawing his blocks of freestone, winter and summer, in the open workshop. His was a rugged type such as we do not see nowadays. But I—but we—what service do we render to our kind? We are jugglers, mountebanks, dreamers, who amuse the people in the market-place. They scarcely deign to take an interest in our efforts. Few people are capable of understanding them. And I do not know whether we really deserve their good-will, for the world could very well get on without us.” II It was Rodin who answered. “I do not believe that our friend Bourdelle means a word of what he says. As for me, my opinion is entirely opposed to his. I believe that artists are the most useful of men.” [Illustration: THE BROKEN LILY By Rodin ] Bourdelle laughed. “You are blinded by love of your profession.” “Not at all, for my opinion rests on very sound reasons, which I will tell you. But first have some of this wine which the _patron_ recommends. It will put you in a better frame of mind to listen to me.” When he had poured it out for us, he resumed: “To begin with—have you reflected that in modern society artists, I mean true artists, are about the only men who take any pleasure in their work?” “It is certain that work is all our joy, all our life,” Bourdelle cried, “but that does not mean that—” “Wait! It seems to me that what is most lacking in our contemporaries is love of their profession. They only accomplish their tasks grudgingly. They would willingly _strike_. It is so from the top to the bottom of the social ladder. The politician sees in his office only the material advantages which he can gain from it, and he does not seem to know the pride which the old statesmen felt in the skilful direction of the affairs of their country.