lf on him, and buries a poniard in his breast. Long live
anarchy! He is arrested, measured, photographed, questioned, judged,
condemned to death, and guillotined. That is my novel."

"It is not very amusing," said the Princess; "but that is not your fault.
Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other Frenchmen. The
Russians have more audacity and more imagination."

Countess Martin asked Paul Vence whether he knew a silent, timid-looking
man among the guests. Her husband had invited him. She knew nothing of
him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was a senator.
He had seen him one day by chance in the Luxembourg, in the gallery that
served as a library.

"I went there to look at the cupola, where Delacroix has painted, in a
wood of bluish myrtles, heroes and sages of antiquity. That gentleman was
there, with the same wretched and pitiful air. His coat was damp and he
was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying, while
rubbing his hands: 'The proof that the Republic is the best of
governments is that in 1871 it could kill in a week sixty thousand
insurgents without becoming unpopular. After such a repression any other
regime would have been impossible.'"

"He is a very wicked man," said Madame Martin. "And to think that I was
pitying him!"

Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace
of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the banks
of the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her.

Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The
General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin.

"I met this morning, in the park, Baronne Warburg, mounted on a
magnificent horse. She said, 'General, how do you manage to have such
fine horses?' I replied: Madame, to have fine horses, you must be either
very wealthy or very clever.'"

He was so well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice.

Paul Vence came near Countess Martin:

"I know that senator's name: it is Lyer. He is the vice-president of a
political society, and author of a book entitled, The Crime of December
Second."

The General continued:

"The weather was horrible. I went into a hut and found Le Menil there. I
was in a bad humor. He was making fun of me, I saw, because I sought
shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like wind and
snow. He said that he liked bad weather, and that he was to go