rom the author. This was not difficult, for he
was entirely absorbed in the elevation of his thoughts. His genius at
this moment had nothing in common with the earth; and when he once more
opened his eyes on those who surrounded him, he saw near him four
admirers, whose voices were better heard than those of the assembly.

Corneille said to him:

"Listen. If you aim at present glory, do not expect it from so fine a
work. Pure poetry is appreciated by but few souls. For the common run of
men, it must be closely allied with the almost physical interest of the
drama. I had been tempted to make a poem of 'Polyeuctes'; but I shall
cut down this subject, abridge it of the heavens, and it shall be only a
tragedy."

"What matters to me the glory of the moment?" answered Milton. "I think
not of success. I sing because I feel myself a poet. I go whither
inspiration leads me. Its path is ever the right one. If these verses
were not to be read till a century after my death, I should write them
just the same."

"I admire them before they are written," said the young officer. "I see
in them the God whose innate image I have found in my heart."

"Who is it speaks thus kindly to me?" asked the poet.

"I am Rene Descartes," replied the soldier, gently.

"How, sir!" cried De Thou. "Are you so happy as to be related to the
author of the Princeps?"

"I am the author of that work," replied Rene.

"You, sir!--but--still--pardon me--but--are you not a military man?"
stammered out the counsellor, in amazement.

"Well, what has the habit of the body to do with the thought? Yes, I wear
the sword. I was at the siege of Rochelle. I love the profession of arms
because it keeps the soul in a region of noble ideas by the continual
feeling of the sacrifice of life; yet it does not occupy the whole man.
He can not always apply his thoughts to it. Peace lulls them. Moreover,
one has also to fear seeing them suddenly interrupted by an obscure blow
or an absurd and untimely accident. And if a man be killed in the
execution of his plan, posterity preserves an idea of the plan which he
himself had not, and which may be wholly preposterous; and this is the
evil side of the profession for a man of letters."

De Thou smiled with pleasure at the simple language of this superior
man--this man whom he so admired, and in his admiration loved. He pressed
the hand of the young sage of Touraine, and drew him into an adjoining
cabinet with Corneille, Milt