nds; and these ends consist mainly in placing 'The State' above
other states, overwhelming them with their grandeur--or what is the same
thing--with their haughty and violent pride."

By this time, the three had reached the place de l'Etoile. The dark
outline of the Arc de Triomphe stood forth clearly in the starry
expanse. The avenues extended in all directions, a double file of
lights. Those around the monument illuminated its gigantic bases and the
feet of the sculptured groups. Further up, the vaulted spaces were so
locked in shadow that they had the black density of ebony.

Upon passing under the Arch, which greatly intensified the echo of their
footsteps, they came to a standstill. The night breeze had a wintry
chill as it whistled past, and the curved masses seemed melting into the
diffused blue of space. Instinctively the three turned to glance back
at the Champs Elysees. They saw only a river of shadow on which were
floating rosaries of red stars among the two long, black scarfs formed
by the buildings. But they were so well acquainted with this panorama
that in imagination they mentally saw the majestic sweep of the avenue,
the double row of palaces, the place de la Concorde in the background
with the Egyptian obelisk, and the trees of the Tuileries.

"How beautiful it is!" exclaimed Tchernoff who was seeing something
beyond the shadows. "An entire civilization, loving peace and pleasure,
has passed through here."

A memory greatly affected the Russian. Many an afternoon, after lunch,
he had met in this very spot a robust man, stocky, with reddish beard
and kindly eyes--a man who looked like a giant who had just stopped
growing. He was always accompanied by a dog. It was Jaures, his friend
Jaures, who before going to the senate was accustomed to taking a walk
toward the Arch from his home in Passy.

"He liked to come just where we are now! He loved to look at the
avenues, the distant gardens, all of Paris which can be seen from this
height; and filled with admiration, he would often say to me, 'This is
magnificent--one of the most beautiful perspectives that can be found in
the entire world.' . . . Poor Jaures!"

Through association of ideas, the Russian evoked the image of his
compatriot, Michael Bakounine, another revolutionist, the father of
anarchy, weeping with emotion at a concert after hearing the symphony
with Beethoven chorals directed by a young friend of his, named Richard
Wagner. "When our re