Madame de Bonmont’s salon had been unusually lively and brilliant since the victory of the Nationalists in Paris and the election of Joseph Lacrisse for the ward of the Grandes-Écuries. The widow of the great Baron received at her house the flower of the new party. An old Rabbi of the Faubourg St. Antoine believed that the gentle Elisabeth attracted to herself the enemies of the chosen people by a special decree of the God of Israel. The hand, he thought, that placed Esther in the bed of Ahasuerus had been pleased to gather together the chiefs of the anti-Semites and the princes of the Trublions in the house of a Jewess. It is true that the Baronne had renounced the faith of her fathers, but who can fathom the designs of Jehovah! In the eyes of the artists, who, like FrÉmont, bethought themselves of the mythological figures in the palaces of Germany, her sumptuous beauty, the beauty of a Viennese Erigone, seemed symbolical of the Nationalist vintage. Her dinners diffused an atmosphere of delight and power, and the smallest luncheon party at her house had a truly national significance. Thus, this morning she had gathered together at her table the most famous defenders of the Church and Army. There was Henri LÉon, Vice-President of the Royalist Committees of the South-West, who had come to congratulate the Nationalists elected in Paris; Captain de Chalmot, the son of General Cartier de Chalmot, with his young American wife, who twittered to such an extent as she expressed her Nationalist propensities that one would have thought the very birds in their cages were taking part in our human disputes; Monsieur Tonnellier, the suspended professor of the fifth form at the LycÉe Sully, who, as every one knows, had been convicted of defending, to his young pupils, an assault committed upon the person of the President of the Republic, had been condemned to pay a fine and was forthwith received in the best society, where he behaved very well, except that he was rather given to playing upon words; FrÉmont, an old Communard and an Inspector of the Fine Arts, who as he grew older became wonderfully reconciled to bourgeois and capitalist society, assiduously frequenting the houses of wealthy Jews, the guardians of the treasures of Christian art, and would gladly have lived under the dictatorship of a horse so long as he could spend the day caressing, with his delicate hands, finely wrought bibelots of precious material; and the old Comte Davant, dyed, waxed and varnished, handsome still, a trifle morose, who remembered the golden age of the Jews when he supplied the great financiers with furniture by Riesener and bronzes by Thomyres. When acting as the Baron’s collector he had gathered together fifteen millions’ worth of old furniture and objects of art. To-day, ruined by unfortunate speculation, he lived among the sons, regretting the fathers, a sad, bitter old man, one of the most insolent of parasites, insolence, as he well knew, being a parasite’s main passport to favour. She had also invited Jacques de Cadde, one of the promoters of the Henry subscription list; Philippe Dellion, Astolphe de Courtrai, Hugues Chassons des Aigues, President of the Nationalist Committee of Celle-Saint-Cloud, and Jambe-d’Argent in breeches and waistcoat of homespun, the white armlet with the golden lilies on his arm, and a wild shock of hair under his round hat, which, like his chaplet of olive-stones, he never removed. He was a Montmartre singer, by name Dupont, who having become a Chouan was received in the best society. He was taking a snack, with an old flint-gun between his legs, drinking copiously. Since the Affair a new classification had occurred in aristocratic French society. Young Baron Ernest sat facing his mother in the chair set for the master of the house. The conversation turned on politics.

“You are wrong,” said Jacques de Cadde to Philippe Dellion. “Believe me, you are wrong not to employ Father FranÇois’ move. No one knows what may happen after the Exhibition and as soon as we begin to hold public meetings.”

“One thing is certain,” said Astolphe de Courtrai, “and that is if we want to do well in the elections in twenty months’ time we must prepare to begin a campaign. I can promise you that I shall be ready, I’m working hard every day at boxing and single-stick.”

“Who’s your trainer?” asked Dellion.

“Gaudibert. He has brought French boxing to perfection. It’s astonishing. He has some exquisite foot-work, some coups de savate, quite of his own. He’s a first-class teacher, and understands the tremendous importance of training.”

“Training is everything,” said Jacques de Cadde.

“Of course,” continued Courtrai. “And Gaudibert has superior methods of training, a whole system, based on experience. Massage, friction and dieting followed by plenty of nourishment. His motto is: ‘Keep down fat, build up muscle.’ And in six months, my friends, he makes you a first-rate boxer, and gives your punch an elasticity and your kick a suppleness——”

Madame de Chalmot inquired:

“Can you overthrow this feeble Ministry?”

And at the bare idea of the Waldeck Cabinet she indignantly shook her pretty head—the head of an infant Samuel.

“Do not distress yourself, madame,” said Lacrisse. “This Ministry will be replaced by another just like it.”

“Another Ministry of Republican spendthrifts,” said Monsieur Tonnellier. “France will be ruined.”

“Yes,” said LÉon, “another Ministry just like this one. But the new Ministry will be less unpopular, for it will no longer be the Ministry of the Affair. We shall need a campaign of at least six weeks with all our newspapers to make it hateful to the people.”

“Have you been to the Petit Palais, madame?” said FrÉmont to the Baronne.

She replied that she had been there and had seen some beautiful caskets and some pretty dance-engagement books.

“Émile Molinier,” replied the Inspector of Fine Arts, “has organized an admirable exhibition of French art. The Middle Ages are represented by the most valuable examples. The eighteenth century takes an honourable position too, but there is still space to fill up. You, madame, who possess so many treasures will not refuse us the loan of some of your masterpieces.”

It is true that the great Baron had left his widow many art treasures. For him the Comte Davant had ransacked all the provincial chÂteaux on the banks of the Somme, Loire and RhÔne, and had wrested from ignorant, needy and whiskered gentlemen portraits of ancestors, historic furniture, gifts from kings to their mistresses, imposing souvenirs of the Monarchy, the treasured possessions of the most illustrious families. In her castle at Montil and her house in the Avenue Marceau she had examples of the work of the finest French cabinet-makers and of the greatest wood-carvers of the eighteenth century: chests of drawers, cabinets for medals, secretaires, clocks of all descriptions, candlesticks and exquisite faded tapestries. But although FrÉmont, and Terremondre before him, had begged her to send some pieces of furniture, bronzes or hangings to the coming Exhibition, she had always refused. Vain of her riches and anxious to display them she had not intended, on this occasion, to lend anything. Joseph Lacrisse encouraged her in this refusal: “Have nothing to do with their Exhibition. Your things will be stolen or burned. And who knows if they will ever succeed in organizing their international fair? It’s better to have nothing to do with people like that.”

FrÉmont, who had already been refused on several occasions, persisted:

“You, madame, who possess such beautiful things and are so worthy of possessing them, show yourself to be what you are, liberal, generous and patriotic, for patriotism also is involved in this matter. Send to the Petit Palais your Riesener cabinet decorated with SÈvres in pÂte tendre. With such a treasure you need fear no rival, for its equal is only to be found in England. We will put upon it your porcelain vases, which belonged to the Grand Dauphin, those two marvellous sea-green vases mounted in bronze by Caffieri. It will be dazzling!”

The Comte Davant interrupted him:

“The mounts,” he said in a tone of melancholy wisdom, “are not by Philippe Caffieri. They are marked with a ‘C’ surmounted by a lily. That is Cressent’s mark. You may not know it, but you cannot deny it.”

“Madame, display your magnificence! Add to this your tapestry by Leprince, La FiancÉe moscovite, and you will deserve the gratitude of the whole nation.”

She was ready to give way. But before consenting she questioned Lacrisse with a look. He said: “Lend them your eighteenth-century stuff, as they have none.”

Then, out of deference to the Comte Davant, she asked him what she should do. He replied:

“Do as you like. I have no advice to give you. It will be all the same whether you send or do not send your things to the Exhibition. Rien ne fait rien, as my old friend ThÉophile Gautier used to say.”

“That’s done!” thought FrÉmont. “I’ll go presently and tell the Ministry that I’ve managed to secure the Bonmont collection. It’s well worth the rosette.”

And he smiled to himself. He was no fool, but he did not despise social distinctions, and it struck him as piquant that a man who had been imprisoned as a Communard should be made an officer of the Legion of Honour.

“I must go,” said Lacrisse. “I’ve got to prepare the speech for the banquet of the Grandes-Écuries next Sunday.”

“Oh,” sighed the Baronne, “I shouldn’t trouble to do that. It’s not necessary, you extemporize so wonderfully.”

“Besides, my dear fellow,” said Jacques de Cadde, “it’s not a difficult matter to address electors.”

“Not difficult exactly,” said the chosen candidate, “but delicate. Our enemies complain that we have no programme. That is not true, we have a programme, but——”

“Pheasant shooting, that’s the programme, messieurs,” said Jambe-d’Argent.

“But the elector,” continued Joseph Lacrisse, “is of a more complex nature than one would at first suppose. For instance, I’ve been elected to the Grandes-Écuries by the Monarchists, of course, and by the Bonapartists, and also by the—what shall I call them?—by the Republicans who are sick of the Republic but who still remain Republicans. That is a state of mind not infrequently met with in Paris among the small tradespeople. Thus the pork-butcher who presides over my Committee shouts in my face: ‘I’ve done with the Republic of the Republicans. If I could, I’d blow it up, even if I had to blow up with it; but for your Republic, Monsieur Lacrisse, I would lay down my life for it.’ Doubtless there are points on which we all agree. For instance: ‘Rally round the flag.’ ‘No attacks on the Army!’ ‘Down with the traitors in the pay of the foreigner who work to the undoing of our national defence!’ There we are on common ground.”

“Then there is also anti-Semitism,” said Henri LÉon.

“Anti-Semitism,” replied Joseph Lacrisse, “is very popular in the Grandes-Écuries because there are so many rich Jews in the ward who are on our side.”

“And the anti-masonic campaign!” cried Jacques de Cadde, who was religious.

“All of us in the Grandes-Écuries are agreed to fight the Freemasons,” replied Joseph Lacrisse. “The church-goers reproach them for not being Catholics. The Nationalist Socialists reproach them for not being anti-Semites, and all our meetings adjourn to the cry of ‘Down with the Freemasons!’ to which Citizen Bissolo yells: ‘Down with the Cassocks!’ Immediately he is knocked on the head, thrown down, trampled upon by our friends and dragged off to the police-station by the police. The spirit of the Grandes-Écuries is excellent, but there are false ideas which we shall have to eliminate. The small shopkeeper does not yet understand that the Monarchy alone will bring him any happiness. He does not yet feel that in bowing to the will of the Church he increases his own stature. The shopkeeper’s mind has been poisoned by bad books and bad newspapers. He is against the abuses of the clergy and the intrusion of priests into politics. Many of my electors call themselves anti-clerical.”

“Really?” cried Madame de Bonmont, saddened and surprised.

“Madame,” said Jacques de Cadde, “it is the same in the provinces. And I call that being against religion. Anti-clericalism spells anti-religion.”

“We must not attempt to disguise the fact,” Lacrisse continued. “We have still a great deal to do. And how? This is what we have to find out.”

“As far as I am concerned,” said Jacques de Cadde, “I am in favour of violent measures.”

“What measures?” asked Henri LÉon.

There was a moment’s silence, and Henri LÉon continued:

“We have had prodigious successes—but so had Boulanger, and he wore himself out.”

“He was worn out,” said Lacrisse. “But we need not fear that we shall be worn out in the same way. The Republicans, who put up a very good defence against him, are defending themselves very badly against us.”

“Besides,” said LÉon, “it is not our enemies that I fear; it’s our friends. We have friends in the Chamber. And what are they doing? They haven’t even provided us with a nice little ministerial crisis complicated by a nice little presidential crisis.”

“That would have been desirable,” said Lacrisse, “but it wasn’t possible. If it had been possible MÉline would have done it. We must be just. MÉline does what he can.” “Then,” said LÉon, “we must wait patiently until the Republicans of the Senate and the Chamber make way for us. Is that your opinion, Lacrisse?”

“Ah,” sighed Jacques de Cadde, “I regret the days when we cracked one another’s heads. Those were the good old days.”

“They may return,” said Henri LÉon.

“Do you think they will?”

“Yes, by Jove, if we bring them back!”

“True!”

“We have numbers on our side, as General Mercier said. Let us act.”

“Hurrah for Mercier!” cried Jambe-d’Argent.

“Let us act,” repeated Henri LÉon. “And let us lose no time about it. And, above all, let us be careful not to allow ourselves to get cold feet. Nationalism must be swallowed hot. As long as it is boiling it’s a cordial. Cold, it’s a drug.”

“What do you mean—a drug?” demanded Lacrisse severely.

“A salutary drug, an efficacious remedy, a good medicine, but one that the patient will not swallow willingly nor with pleasure. We must not let the mixture settle. Shake the bottle before pouring out the dose, according to the precept of the wise chemist. At the present moment our Nationalist mixture, which has been well shaken, is of a beautiful pink colour, pleasant to look upon and of a slightly acid flavour which pleases the palate. If we let the bottle rest, the mixture will lose much of its colour and flavour. A sediment will form. The best will go to the bottom. The monarchical and clerical ingredients which enter into its composition will stick to the bottom, and the wily patient will leave three-quarters of it in the bottle. Shake it up, gentlemen, shake it up.”

“What did I tell you?” cried young Cadde.

“It is easy to say ‘shake it up,’ but it must be done at the right time, otherwise you run the risk of upsetting the electors,” objected Lacrisse.

“Oh,” said LÉon, “of course, if you are thinking of your re-election!”

“Who said I was thinking of it? I’m not!”

“You are right, one mustn’t meet trouble so much more than half-way.”

“What? Trouble? You think my electors will change their minds?”

“On the contrary, I fear they will not. They were discontented and they have elected you. They will be discontented again in four years’ time, and then it will be with you. Would you like a word of advice, Lacrisse?”

“Go on.”

“You were elected by two thousand votes.” “Two thousand three hundred and nine.”

“Two thousand three hundred and nine. You cannot please two thousand three hundred and nine people. But you mustn’t think only of the quantity, you must think of the quality too. You have among your electors a fair number of anti-clerical Republicans, small shopkeepers and clerks. They are not the most intelligent.”

Lacrisse, who had become an earnest person, replied slowly and thoughtfully:

“I will explain. They are Republicans, but, above all, they are patriots. They voted for a patriot whose ideas did not coincide with theirs, who did not think as they did on matters which they thought of secondary importance. Their conduct is perfectly honourable and I suppose you do not hesitate to approve of it.”

“Certainly I approve of it, but, between ourselves, we may confess that they are not particularly bright.”

“Not very bright!” replied Lacrisse bitterly. “Not very bright! I will not say that they are as bright as——” He searched his brain for the name of a brilliant man, but either he could not find one among his friends or his ungrateful memory refused the name he sought, or perhaps a natural malevolence caused him to reject each name that came into his mind. He did not finish his sentence, remarking rather crossly, “Anyway, I can’t see what’s the good of railing at them.”

“I’m not railing at them. I only say they are less intelligent than your Monarchist and Catholic electors who worked for you with the good Fathers. Well, your interest as well as your duty is to work for them, first of all because they think as you do, and also because you don’t hoodwink the good Fathers, while one does hoodwink fools.”

“That’s a mistake, a profound mistake!” cried Joseph Lacrisse. “Anyone can see, my dear fellow, that you don’t know the electors. But I know them! Fools are not more easily hoodwinked than others. They delude themselves, it’s true, and they delude themselves at every moment; but one doesn’t hoodwink them.”

“Yes, yes, one does, only one must know how to set about it.”

“Don’t you believe it!” replied Lacrisse, with sincerity. Then, on second thoughts, “Anyhow, I don’t want to hoodwink them.”

“Who’s asking you to? You must satisfy them. And you can do that easily enough. You don’t see enough of Father AdÉodat. He’s a good adviser, and so moderate! He will tell you, with his shrewd smile, his hands tucked into his sleeves, ‘Keep your majority. Content them. We shall not take offence at an occasional vote on the indefeasibility of the rights of man and the citizen, or even against the clergy thrusting themselves into the Government. At public meetings think of your Republican electors, and think of us in the Committees. It is there, in peace and silence, that good work is done. That the greater part of the Council occasionally shows itself to be anti-clerical is an evil that we can bear with patience. But it is important that the large Committees should be profoundly religious. They will be more powerful than the Council itself; because an active compact minority is always worth more than a lifeless, confused majority.’

“That, my dear Lacrisse, is what Father AdÉodat will tell you. He is admirably patient and serene. When our friends come and tell him with a shudder: ‘Oh, Father, what fresh abominations the Freemasons are preparing! Compulsory University training for office; Article 7; the law relating to associations! Horrible!’—the good Father smiles and says nothing. He says nothing, but this is what he thinks: ‘We’ve been through worse than this. We went through ’89 and ’93, the suppression of religious communities and the sale of Church property. And does anyone imagine that in former days, under the most Christian Monarchy, we kept or increased our property without effort or struggle? If so, they know very little of French history. Our rich abbeys, our towns and villages, our serfs, our meadows and mills, our woods and our ponds, our justice and our jurisdiction—powerful enemies, lords, bishops and kings were incessantly striving to dispossess us of them. We had to defend by force or before the courts a field or a road one day, the next a castle or a gibbet. To preserve our riches from the cupidity of secular power we had continually to produce those ancient charters of Clotaire and Dagobert, which the impious knowledge taught in the Government schools to-day calls forgeries. We pleaded for ten centuries against the king’s servants. We have only been pleading thirty years against the justice of the Republic. And the people think we are growing weary! No, we are neither frightened nor discouraged. We have money and property. It is the inheritance of the poor. To keep and multiply it we count on two aids that will not fail us: the protection of God and the impotence of Parliament.’

“Such are the thoughts which take shape beneath the shining pate of Father AdÉodat. Lacrisse, you were Father AdÉodat’s candidate; you are his chosen one. Go and see him. He is a great politician and will give you good advice. He will teach you how to satisfy the pork-butcher who is a Republican and how to charm the umbrella-maker who is a Freethinker. Go and see Father AdÉodat, see him again and again.”

“I have spoken with him several times,” said Lacrisse. “He is certainly very clever. These good Fathers have grown rich with surprising rapidity. They do a great deal of good in the ward.”

“A great deal of good,” repeated Henri LÉon. “The whole of the enormous quadrilateral between the Rue des Grandes-Écuries, the riding-school, Baron Golsberg’s hÔtel and the outer boulevard belongs to them. They are working patiently at a gigantic scheme. They have undertaken to erect, in the heart of Paris, in your ward, my dear fellow, another Lourdes, an immense basilica which will draw millions of pilgrims yearly. In the meanwhile they are covering their huge holdings with house-property.”

“I know that,” said Lacrisse.

“I know it too,” put in FrÉmont. “I know their architect, a man called Florimond, an extraordinary fellow. You know the good Fathers are organizing pilgrimages in France and abroad. Florimond, with his long hair and flowing beard, accompanies the pilgrims on their visits to the cathedrals. He’s got the head of a master-mason of the thirteenth century. He gazes at the spires and belfries with ecstatic eyes. He explains arches in tierce-point and Christian symbolism to the ladies. He shows them Mary, the flower of the tree of Jesse, at the heart of the great rose windows. Tearfully, with sighs and prayers, he calculates the resistance of the walls. At the table d’hÔte, where monks and pilgrims sit together, his face and hands, still grey with the dust of the old stones which he has embraced, bear witness to the faith of the Catholic artisan. He tells them his dream: ‘That I, a humble workman, may bring my stone to the building of the new sanctuary that will last as long as the world.’ Then he goes back to Paris and builds mean houses, tenement houses, with bad mortar and hollow bricks laid on edge, miserable buildings that won’t last twenty years.”

“But,” said LÉon, “they are not required to last twenty years. They are the houses of the Grandes-Écuries of which I was speaking just now, and will one day give place to the great basilica of St. Anthony and its dependencies, a whole religious city that will spring up in the next fifteen years. Before fifteen years have elapsed the good Fathers will own the whole quarter of Paris that has elected our friend Lacrisse.”

Madame de Bonmont rose, taking the Comte Davant’s arm.

“You understand, I don’t like parting with my things. Articles loaned run risks. It makes one so anxious. But if it is in the national interest—the country before all. You and Monsieur FrÉmont will choose what should be exhibited.”

“All the same,” said Jacques de Cadde, as they left the table, “you are wrong, Dellion, not to try Father FranÇois’ expedient.”

Coffee was served in the small drawing-room.

Jambe-d’Argent, the Chouan singer, sat down at the piano. He had just added to his repertoire a few Royalist songs dating from the Restoration, which he thought would make a hit in fashionable drawing-rooms. He sang to the tune of La Sentinelle:

Chassons des Aigues, the President of the Nationalist Committee of Action, went up to Joseph Lacrisse.

“Come now, my dear Councillor, are we really doing anything on the fourteenth of July?”

“The Council,” replied Lacrisse gravely, “cannot organize any demonstration of opinion. That is not within its province, but if spontaneous demonstrations occur——”

“Time passes and the danger increases,” replied Chassons des Aigues, who was expecting to be expelled from his Club, and against whom a charge of swindling had been lodged with a magistrate. “We must act.”

“Don’t get excited,” said Lacrisse. “We have the men and we have the money.”

“We have the money,” repeated Chassons des Aigues thoughtfully.

“With men and money one wins elections,” continued Lacrisse. “In twenty months we come into power, and we shall remain in power for twenty years.”

“Yes, but until then—” sighed Chassons des Aigues, whose pensive eyes gazed anxiously into the vague future.

“Until then,” replied Lacrisse, “we shall canvass the provinces. We have begun already.”

“It would be better to bring things to a head at once,” declared Chassons des Aigues in accents of deep conviction. “We cannot allow this treacherous Government time to disorganize the Army and paralyse the national defence.”

“That is obvious,” said Jacques de Cadde. “Now, follow my reasoning carefully. Our cry is ‘Long live the Army!’” “Rather!” said young Dellion.

“Let me speak. Our cry is ‘Long live the Army!’ It is our rallying cry. If the Government begins to replace the Nationalist generals by Republicans, we shall no longer be able to shout ‘Long live the Army!’”

“Why?” asked young Dellion.

“Because then we should be shouting ‘Vive la RÉpublique!’ That’s plain enough.”

“There is no fear of that,” said Joseph Lacrisse. “The spirit among the officers is excellent. If the Ministry of Treason succeeds in placing one Republican out of ten in the high command, it will be the end of all things.”

“That will be unpleasant,” said Jacques de Cadde, “for then we shall be forced to cry ‘Hurrah for nine-tenths of the Army!’ And that’s too long for a slogan.”

“Be easy!” said Lacrisse. “When we shout ‘Hurrah for the Army!’ everybody knows that we mean ‘Hurrah for Mercier!’”

Jambe-d’Argent, at the piano, sang:

“All the same,” said Chassons des Aigues, “the fourteenth of July is a good day to begin the row. There will be a crowd in the streets, an electrified crowd, returning from the review, and cheering the regiments as they pass! With method, one could do a great deal on that day, we could stir the inarticulate masses.”

“You are wrong,” said Henri LÉon. “You don’t understand the psychology of crowds. The good Nationalist returning from the review has a baby in his arms, and is dragging another brat by the hand. His wife is with him, carrying wine, bread and ham in a basket. You try to stir up a man with his two kids and his wife carrying the family lunch! And then, don’t you see, the masses are inspired by very simple associations of ideas. You won’t get them to riot on a holiday. To crowds, the strings of lamps and the Bengal lights suggest cheerful and pacific ideas. They see a square of Chinese lanterns in front of the cafÉs, and a gallery decked with bunting for the musicians, and all they think about is dancing. If you want to see riots in the streets you must choose the psychological moment.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jacques de Cadde.

“Well, you must try to understand,” said Henri LÉon.

“Do you think I’m a blockhead?” “What an idea!”

“You can say it if you think so; you won’t annoy me. I don’t pretend to be an intellectual. Besides, I’ve noticed that the clever men fight against our ideas and beliefs, that they want to destroy all that we cherish. So I should be exceedingly sorry to be what is called a clever man. I’d rather be a fool and think what I think and believe what I believe.”

“And you are quite right,” said LÉon. “We have only to remain what we are. And if we are not fools we must behave as if we are. It is folly that succeeds best in this world. The clever men are the fools. They don’t get anywhere.”

“What you say is very true,” cried Jacques de Cadde.

Jambe-d’Argent sang:

“All the same,” said Chassons des Aigues, “you are wrong, Lacrisse, to reject revolutionary measures; they are the best.”

“Children!” said Henri LÉon. “We have only one means of action, one only, but it is certain, powerful and efficacious. It is the Affair. The Affair gave us birth; we Nationalists must not forget that. We have grown and prospered through the Affair. It alone has fed us and feeds us still. Thence comes our food and our drink; thence we derive the staff of our being. If, uprooted from the soil, it withers and dies, we shall languish and fade out of existence.

“We can pretend to uproot it, but in reality we shall cherish it carefully, nourish it and water it. The public is an ass; moreover, it is disposed in our favour. When it sees us digging and scraping and hoeing round the plant it will think we are doing our best to uproot it completely, and it will love and bless us for our zeal. It will never dream that we may be lovingly cultivating it. It has flowered anew in the very middle of the Exhibition, and this simple-minded people does not see that it is our care that has achieved this result.”

Jambe-d’Argent sang:

“That’s a very pretty song,” murmured the Baronne, with half-closed eyes. “Yes,” said Jambe-d’Argent, shaking back his rough mane, “it’s called Cadet-Buteux enrÉgimentÉ, ou le Soldat du Roi. It’s a little masterpiece. It was a bright idea of mine to unearth some of these old Royalist songs of the Restoration.

Then, suddenly bringing down his huge hand on the tail-piece of the piano, where he had laid his chaplet and his medals, he exclaimed:

“Nom de Dieu! Lacrisse, don’t touch my rosary. It has been blessed by our Holy Father the Pope!”

“All the same,” said Chassons des Aigues, “we ought to have a manifestation in the streets. The streets are ours, and the people ought to know it. Let’s go to Longchamps on the 14th.”

“I’m on,” said Jacques de Cadde.

“So am I,” cried Dellion.

“Your manifestations are idiotic,” said the little Baron, who until then had been silent. He was rich enough to refrain from belonging to any political party. “Nationalism is beginning to bore me,” he added.

“Ernest!” said the Baronne with the gentle severity of a mother.

“It’s true,” went on Ernest, “your manifestations bore me to death.” Young Dellion, who owed him money, and Chassons des Aigues, who wanted to borrow some, carefully avoided any direct reply. Chassons tried to smile, as though charmed by his wit, and Dellion half assented.

“I don’t deny it, but what doesn’t bore one to death?”

This inspired Ernest with profound reflections, and after a moment’s silence he said, with a genuine accent of sincerity:

“You are right, everything bores one.” And he continued, thoughtfully: “Take motor-cars, for instance. They break down just when you don’t want them to. Not that one minds being late, for all the fun one gets where one is going; but I was hung up five hours the other day between Marville and Boulay. Do you know that part of the country? It is just before you get to Dreux. Not a house, not a tree, not a dip in the ground to be seen; nothing but flat, yellow, open country all round, with a silly-looking sky stuck on top of it all like a bell-glass. One grows old in such localities. Never mind, I’m going to try a different make, seventy kilometres an hour, and runs as smoothly.... Will you come with me, Dellion? I’m starting to-night.”