"In the first place, what did that mountebank, Colleville, ever do to get the cross ?" There la Peyrade laid his finger on a sore wound which Thuillier hid from every eye so carefully that even his sister did not know of it; but the young man, interested in studying these bourgeois, had divined the secret envy that gnawed at the heart of the ex-official.
"If you, experienced as you are, will do the honor to follow my advice," added the philanthropist, "and, above all, not mention our compact to any one, I will undertake to have you decorated with the Legion of honor, to the applause of the whole quarter." "Oh! if we succeed in that," cried Thuillier, "you don't know what I would do for you." This explains why Thuillier carried his head high when Theodose had the audacity that evening to put opinions into his mouth.
In art--and perhaps Moliere had placed hypocrisy in the rank of art by classing Tartuffe forever among comedians--there exists a point of perfection to which genius alone attains; mere talent falls below it.
There is so little difference between a work of genius and a work of talent, that only men of genius can appreciate the distance that separates Raffaelle from Correggio, Titian from Rubens.

More than that; common minds are easily deceived on this point.

The sign of genius is a certain appearance of facility.

In fact, its work must appear, at first sight, ordinary, so natural is it, even on the highest subjects.

Many peasant-women hold their children as the famous Madonna in the Dresden gallery holds hers.