ased sense--is, at best, questionably present. This is not
the case with Bernard.

It is particularly difficult, in such a book as this, to deal with so
large a collection of what may be most appropriately called "Scenes and
Characters" as that which constitutes his most valuable if not all his
valuable work. In the older handling referred to, I selected, for pretty
full abstract and some translation, _Un Homme Serieux_ among longer
books, and _Le Gendre_ among the short stories; and I still think them
the best, except _Le Pied d'Argile_, which, from Thackeray's
incomparable adaptation[273] of it in _The Bedford Row Conspiracy_,
remains as a standing possibility of acquaintance with Charles de
Bernard's way for those who do not read French, or do not care to
"research" for the original. Thackeray also gave a good deal of _Les
Ailes d'Icare_ in abstract and translation, and he borrowed something
more from it in _A Shabby Genteel Story_. _La Peau du Lion_ and _La
Chasse aux Amants_ have some slight resemblance to _Le Gendre_, in that
the gist of all three is concerned with the defeat of unscrupulous
lovers, and neither is much inferior to it. I never knew anybody who had
read _La Femme de Quarante Ans_ and its history of sentimental
star-gazing _a deux_ without huge enjoyment; and _L'Arbre de la
Science_, as well as the shorter _Un Acte de Vertu_, deserve special
mention.

But, in fact, take the volumes entitled _L'Ecueil_, _Le Noeud
Gordien_, _Le Paravent,_ and _Le Paratonnerre_; open any of them where
you like, and it will go hard but, in the comic stories at any rate, you
will find yourself well off. The finest of the tragic ones is, I think,
_L'Anneau d'Argent_, which in utilising the sad inefficacy of the
Legitimist endeavours to upset the July Monarchy, comes close to the
already-mentioned things of Sandeau and Ourliac.

That a critic like M. Brunetiere should dismiss Bernard as "commonplace"
(I forget the exact French word, but the meaning was either this or
"mediocre"), extending something the same condemnation, or damningly
faint praise, to Sandeau, may seem strange at first sight, but explains
itself pretty quickly to those who have the requisite knowledge. Neither
could, by any reasonable person, be accused of that _grossierete_ which
offended the censor so much, and to no small extent so rightly. Neither
was extravagantly unacademic or in other ways unorthodox. But both might
be called _vulgaire_ from the s