he lofty air of familiarity suitable to the superior position he
held over the two representatives of French letters. He represented
the State.

Speaking haughtily through his nose, and braying like a dromedary, he
extended to Perrotin an invitation from the Minister to preside over
a solemn contest of embattled intellectuals from ten nations, in the
great amphitheatre of the Sorbonne--"an imprecatory meeting," he
called it. Perrotin promptly accepted, and professed himself overcome
by the honour. His servile tone before this licensed government
ignoramus made a striking contrast with his bold statements a few
moments before, and Clerambault, somewhat taken aback, thought of the
_Graeculus_.

Mr. "Cheri" walked out with his head in the air, like an ass in a
sacred procession, accompanied by Perrotin to the very threshold, and
when the friends were once more alone, Clerambault would have liked to
resume the conversation, but he could not conceal that he was a little
chilled by what had passed. He asked Perrotin if he meant to state
in public the opinions he had just professed, and Perrotin refused,
naturally, laughing at his friend's simplicity. What is more, he
cautioned him affectionately against proclaiming such ideas from the
house-tops. Clerambault was vexed and disputed the point, but in order
to make the situation clear to him, and with the utmost frankness,
Perrotin described his surroundings, the great minds of the higher
University, which he represented officially: historians, philosophers,
professors of rhetoric. He spoke of them politely but with a deep
half-concealed contempt, and a touch of personal bitterness; for in
spite of his prudence, the less intelligent of his colleagues looked
on him with suspicion; he was too clever. He said he was like an old
blind man's dog in a pack of barking curs; forced to do as they did
and bark at the passers-by.

Clerambault did not quarrel with him, but went away with pity in his
heart.

He stayed in the house for several days, for this first contact with
the outside world had depressed him, and the friend on whom he had
relied for guidance had failed him miserably. He was much troubled,
for Clerambault was weak and unused to stand alone. Poet as he was,
and absolutely sincere, he had never felt it necessary to think
independently of others; he had let himself be carried along by
their thought, making it his own, becoming its inspired voice and
mouth-piece. N