them. All the rest is vanity; the passions, faith,
sincere or insincere, are only the painted face of that necessity
which rules the world, without caring for our idols: family, race,
country, religion, society, progress.... Progress indeed! The great
illusion! Humanity is like water that must find its level, and when
the cistern brims over a valve opens and it is empty again.... A
catastrophic rhythm, the heights of civilisation, and then downfall.
We rise, and are cast down ..."

Thus Perrotin calmly unveiled his Thought. She was not much accustomed
to going naked; but she forgot that she had a witness, and undressed
as if she were alone. She was extremely bold, as is often the thought
of a man of letters not obliged to suit the action to the word,
but who much prefers, on the contrary, not to do so. The alarmed
Clerambault listened with his mouth open; certain words revolted him,
others pierced him to the heart; his head swam, but he overcame his
weakness, for he was determined to lose nothing of these profundities.
He pressed Perrotin with questions: and he, on his part, flattered and
smiling, complaisantly unrolled his pyrrhonian visions, as peaceable
as they were destructive.

The vapours of the pit were rising all about them; and Clerambault was
admiring the ease of this free spirit perched on the edge of the abyss
and enjoying it, when the door opened, and the servant came in with a
card which he gave to Perrotin.

At once the terrible phantoms of the brain vanished; a trap-door
shut out the emptiness, and an official drawing-room rug covered it.
Perrotin roused himself and said eagerly: "Certainly, show him in at
once." Turning to Clerambault he added:

"Pardon me, my dear friend, it is the Honourable Under-Secretary of
State for Public Instruction."

He was already on his feet and went to meet his visitor, a stage-lover
looking fellow, with the blue clean-shaven chin of a priest or a
Yankee, who held his head very high, and wore in the grey cut-a-way
which clothed his well-rounded figure, the rosette which is displayed
alike by our heroes and our lackeys. The old gentleman presented
Clerambault to him with cheerful alacrity: "Mr. Agenor
Clerambault--Mr. Hyacinth Moncheri," and asked the Honourable
Under-Secretary of State to what he owed the honour of his visit.
The Honourable Under-Secretary, not in the least surprised by the
obsequious welcome of the old scholar, settled himself in his armchair
with t