ly and more gracefully.

The novel is equally strong if you examine it from a different
standpoint. Nothing can be artistically better and more enchanting than
the Farandole scene, or more amusing than Roumestan's intrigue with the
young opera singer; nothing can be more grand than old Le Quesnoy's
confession of sin and shame, or more affecting than the closing scene
where Rosalie is taught forgiveness by her dying sister. Other parts in
Daudet's work may sound hollow; 'Numa Roumestan' will stand the most
critical scrutiny as a drama, as a work of art, as a faithful
representation of life. Daudet's talents were then at their best and
united in happy combination for that splendid effort which was not to be
renewed.

In 'Sapho' Daudet described the modern courtesan, in 'L'Evangeliste' a
desperate case of religious madness. In 'L'Immortel' he gave vent to his
feelings against the French Academy, which had repulsed him once and to
which he turned his back forever in disgust. The angry writer pursued
his enemy to death. In his unforgiving mood, he was not satisfied before
he had drowned the Academy in the muddy waters of the Seine, with its
unfortunate Secretaire-perpetuel, Astier-Rehu. The general verdict was
that the vengeance was altogether out of proportion to the offense; and
that despite all its brilliancy of wit and elaborate incisiveness of
style, the satire was really too violent and too personal to give real
enjoyment to unbiased and unprejudiced readers.

At different periods of his career Daudet had tried his hand as a
dramatist, but never succeeded in getting a firm foot on the French
stage. Play-goers still remember the signal failure of 'Lise Tavernier,'
the indifferent reception of 'L'Arlesienne,' or more recently, of
'L'Obstacle.' All his successful novels have been dramatized, but their
popularity in that new form fell far short of the common expectation. As
an explanation of the fact various reasons may be suggested. Daudet, I
am inclined to think, is endowed with real dramatic powers, not with
scenic qualities; and from their conventional point of view, old stagers
will pronounce the construction of his novels too weak for plays to be
built upon them. Again, in the play-house we miss the man who tells the
story, the happy presence--so unlike Flaubert's cheerless
impassibility--the generous anger, the hearty laugh, the delightful
humor, that strange something which seems to appeal to every one of us
in