Fourierism has killed him. You have just seen, cousin, one of the
effects of ambition upon artists. Too often, in Paris, from a desire
to reach more rapidly than by natural ways the celebrity which to them
is fortune, artists borrow the wings of circumstance, they think they
make themselves of more importance as men of a specialty, the
supporters of some 'system'; and they fancy they can transform a
clique into the public. One is a republican, another Saint-Simonian;
this one aristocrat, that one Catholic, others juste-milieu, middle
ages, or German, as they choose for their purpose. Now, though
opinions do not give talent, they always spoil what talent there is;
and the poor fellow whom you have just seen is a proof thereof. An
artist's opinion ought to be: Faith in his art, in his work; and his
only way of success is toil when nature has given him the sacred
fire."

"Let us get away," said Bixiou. "Leon is beginning to moralize."

"But that man was sincere," said Gazonal, still stupefied.

"Perfectly sincere," replied Bixiou; "as sincere as the king of
barbers just now."

"He is mad!" repeated Gazonal.

"And he is not the first man driven man by Fourier's ideas," said
Bixiou. "You don't know anything about Paris. Ask it for a hundred
thousand francs to realize an idea that will be useful to humanity,
--the steam-engine for instance,--and you'll die, like Salomon de Caux,
at Bicetre; but if the money is wanted for some paradoxical absurdity,
Parisians will annihilate themselves and their fortune for it. It is