"Yes," Chrétien agreed, "but I am speaking of others, of the naive souls who believe that because an object moves it must exist. Nature! but it is the artist who creates nature, and art is only the faculty of objectifying in an image the individual representation of the world. "And," Passavant put in, "man himself is only the image of the idea." "In that case," Chrétien answered, "far from attaining the absolute truth, as those ninnies boast of doing, art is but a reflected image--the image of an image. It is no longer the will which acts directly, but only a will already fixed in the individual, subjected to intelligence, weakened by division, in short, limited to whims." "Such writers," Entragues remarked, "are, like the generality of men, almost the whole humanity, victims of an optical illusion. They imagine that the external world acts outside of them; this is a transcendental stupidity, but which is not necessarily produced by their special esthetics. The world is the idea I have of it, and the special modulations of my brain determine this idea. They have ugly brains, that is all. One could make amusing sketches in this way: the world as seen by a crab, the world as seen by a pig, the world as seen by a helminth. We describe ourselves, we can describe only that; an artist's creation is the slow and daily reaction of intelligence and will on a certain mass of individual cells." "It would then be necessary," Renaudeau said, "to accept them as they are! Not quite. One can recreate oneself, cleanse one's low nature, take it to the Turkish bath, sponge it, rub it until the blood circulates. You are too indulgent, Monsieur Entragues." "Entragues," said Calixte Heliot, who just then entered, "loves nothing but art and interests himself only in style." "A novelty, indeed!" Entragues replied. "Unfortunately, art is not sufficient to produce style; a gift is necessary. Without that thing which Vauvenargues calls heart, Villiers sentiment, Hello love, literature is an unleavened dough. Look at Flaubert; he is a peremptory and sovereign artist who congenitally lacked love. Do you think that Villiers, by the most diligent labor, could have effaced from his work the stamp of his proud personality! Compare _Bouvard et Pécuchet_ with the _Contes cruels_; there you have the patient genius and the spontaneous genius, resigned scorn and indignant scorn, a hurt intellect and a wounded soul...." "Are you bringing me your poem, Heliot?" Fortier asked. "Just put it in the closet with the masterpieces." "Thank you," Calixte said, simply, as he opened a huge portfolio. From it he drew his manuscript, where could be read, on the first page, the author's name, Calixte Heliot, in a very beautiful flowing handwriting. He was proud of his Christian name. Then he brought out a small case and slowly untied its strings. "Here is a masterpiece for you. Eh! What does Van Baël think of it?"