es to be positive, insensible, and
wilful in the midst of it all, as all America. And poor Alba ended as
did her father. I do not speak to you of Baron Hafner's daughter," and
he raised his hat. Then, in an altered voice:

"She is a saint, in whom I was deceived. But she has Jewish blood in
her veins, blood which was that of the people of God. I should have
remembered it and the beautiful saying of the Middle Ages: 'The Jewish
women shall be saved because they have wept for our Lord in secret.'....
You outlined for me in advance the scene of the drama in which we have
been mixed up.... And do you remember what I said: 'Is there not among
them a soul which you might aid in doing better?' You laughed in my face
at that moment. You would have treated me, had you been less polite,
as a Philistine and a cabotin. You wished to be only a spectator, the
gentleman in the balcony who wipes the glasses of his lorgnette in order
to lose none of the comedy. Well, you could not do so. That role is not
permitted a man. He must act, and he acts always, even when he thinks
he is looking on, even when he washes his hands as Pontius Pilate, that
dilettante, too, who uttered the words of your masters and of yourself.
What is truth? Truth is that there is always and everywhere a duty to
fulfil. Mine was to prevent that criminal encounter. Yours was not to
pay attention to that young girl if you did not love her, and if
you loved her, to marry her and to take her from her abominable
surroundings. We have both failed, and at what a price!"

"You are very severe," said the young man; "but if you were right would
not Alba be dead? Of what use is it for me to know what I should have
done when it is too late?"

"First, never to do so again," said the Marquis; "then to judge yourself
and your life."

"There is truth in what you say," replied Dorsenne, "but you are
mistaken if you think that the most intellectual men of our age have not
suffered, too, from that abuse of thought. What is to be done? Ah, it is
the disease of a century too cultivated, and there is no cure."

"There is one," interrupted Montfanon, "which you do not wish to see....
You will not deny that Balzac was the boldest of our modern writers. Is
it necessary for me, an ignorant man, to recite to you the phrase which
governs his work: 'Thought, principle of evil and of good can only be
prepared, subdued, directed by religion.' See?" he continued, suddenly
taking his companion