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I have seen a good man scandalized at the sight of Ingres's La Source. Just as morality has no function to be artistic, so Art has nothing to do with morality. Both have their own functions, and each is useful in its own way. The final aim of morality is morality; of art, art, and nothing else. René Bazin has sketched cleverly Pasteur's brilliant career.
One was Victor Massé, a composer of simple light operas and a man with no understanding of a symphony, who was very frequently ill and had to entrust his teaching to one of his pupils; another was Henri Reber, an oldish musician with narrow and dogmatic ideas; and the third was François Bazin, who was not capable of distinguishing in his pupil's fugues a false answer from a true one, and whose highest title to glory is derived from a composition called Le Voyage en Chine.
"What do you want with me, my friend?" said Aramis, with that mildness of language which was observable in him every time that his ideas were directed toward the Church. "A man wishes to see Monsieur at home," replied Bazin. "A man! What man?" "A mendicant." "Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner."
"Nothing but saddles?" "Now do you understand?" said Athos. "My friends, that's exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. HOLA, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen." "And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?" asked d'Artagnan. "My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day," replied Aramis.
One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly. A voice thick, yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of the reader. D'Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under the branches and red fibers of the vine and cried, "Bazin, my dear Bazin! good-day to you."
That night what crowds thronged from Paris to the top of the Montmartre heights, from the observatory on which the celebrated inventor Bazin had lighted up, with some magical electric machine, all the plain of Gennevilliers from Mont Valerien to the Fort de la Briche!
Bazin smiled hypocritically. "Ah, but we have monsieur le surintendant," said he. "And you laugh at the king, then?" Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent. "My supper," said D'Artagnan, "it is getting towards seven o'clock." Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the cook. In the meantime, D'Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.
But it passed away; reflection came, and D'Artagnan contented himself with saying, "The devil! the devil! I have done well to quit the service of the king. Tell me, worthy Master Bazin," added he, "how many musketeers does monsieur le surintendant retain in his service?"
"Immediately," replied d'Artagnan; "we have not a minute to lose." "Hello, Grimaud! Planchet! Mousqueton! Bazin!" cried the four young men, calling their lackeys, "clean my boots, and fetch the horses from the hotel." Each Musketeer was accustomed to leave at the general hotel, as at a barrack, his own horse and that of his lackey. Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin set off at full speed.
He came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where his presence was urgent, as he piteously said. "Is it my equipment?" "Yes and no," replied Mousqueton. "Well, but can't you speak?" "Come, monsieur." Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton. An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door.
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