bent form, and his slow gait? The poor and humble do not usually have such an aspect." I was especially impressed by his eyes, which were dark brown, with yellowish whites. Sometimes they were wide open, while he looked straight before him, gloomy and motionless. Then he would contract them in a peculiar way, while he elevated his bushy eyebrows and cast sidelong glances across the rims of his spectacles. At such times an expression of bitterness and scorn would spread over his face. However, I did not think about him very long just then. All Paris was excited over the. anticipated Reform Banquet, and I soon began reading the papers. The next day I returned to the Palais Royal, and again met there the man I had seen on the preceding day. He smiled slightly, and spoke to me immediately, like an old acquaintance. Although other tables were unoccupied, he seated himself at my side without speaking, as though his society could not be disagreeable to me. Then began the following conversation: 'You can tell I'm a foreigner by my pronunciation," I answered. "But why do you con clude that I'm a Russian?" "Why? You said 'pardon' in a drawling tone. Only Russians talk in that sing-song way. But I knew you were a Russian anyhow." I was about to ask him to explain himself more clearly, but he began speaking again. “You have done well to come here just at this time. It's an interesting time for travelers. You will see great things." "What, for instance? "Listen! It's now the beginning of February. Before a month passes France will be a republic." "A republic? "Yes, a republic. But don't be in a hurry to rejoice, if you consider it a thing to rejoice over. Before a year has gone by, the Bonapartes will own this same France." careless tone with which he uttered his paradoxes! No, he was not a confidence operator. "You understand that the King won't consent to anything like a reform?" I said after a pause. "Yet the demands of the opposition don't seem unreasonable." "I know that-I know that," said he carelessly. "Extension of the suffrage, formation of new voting classes-words! words! There will be no banquet. The King won't allow it. Guizot is opposed to it. However," he added, as he no doubt noticed the not very favorable impression his words made upon me, “the deuce take politics! To be engaged in them is interesting, but to stand and gaze while others do the acting is foolish. The little dogs do that, while the big ones-enjoy life. Nothing is left for the little dogs but to yelp and whine. Let's talk about something else." I don't remember what we did talk of immediately after that. It is good taste," he continued, with a thoughtful manner, "that ruins our actors. These stage traditions and conservatisms are what destroy their acting. They are all frozen and lifeless, like the frozen fish one sees at your Russian markets in winter. Not one of our players knows how to say 'I love you' without stretching his legs apart like a pair of compasses and rolling his eyes around with a ridiculous, languishing expression. And that comes from good taste. One can see good players only in Italy nowadays. When I lived in Naples—by the way, what do you think of the new Constitution which His face, as he said this, assumed a cynical King Bomba has just granted to his faithful subexpression. When he spoke of the republic I did not take much interest in what he said, but said to myself: "He takes me for an unsophisticated Scythian, and wants to enlighten me. But the Bonapartes! Why in the world did he select them? Who thought of the Bonapartes at that epoch in the reign of Louis Philippe? Or, at any rate, who spoke of them? Was my companion one of those persons who like to gull people? or one of those chevaliers d'industrie who infest the hotels and cafés, on the watch for strangers to fleece? And yet, his independent manner, the jects? He won't forgive them that act of grace very soon. Ah, surely not! Well, then, when I was in Naples, there were some good fellows at the People's Theatre there. But, the deuce take it, every Italian is an actor! It's in their natures, while, as for us, we only lag along, far behind nature. Our best comedians can't compare with the first Italian street-preacher you may chance to meet. Per le santissime anime del purgatorio!" he cried suddenly, with a nasal, drawling tone, and, as far as I could judge, with the purest Neapolitan accent. I began laughing, and so did he, making no noise, but opening his mouth wide, and looking at fault in quoting a Latin sentence which no one at me over his spectacles. asked you to quote?" "But Rachel—” I began. "Rachel—yes, she is a power-she's like Meyerbeer, who cajoles and threatens us constantly with his 'Prophets.' 'I will give-no, I will not give.' He is a skillful man, a maestro; but not in the musical sense. Certainly not! Rachel has deteriorated lately, and you are to blame for it, you foreign gentlemen! In Italy there's an actress named Ristori. They say she has just married some marquis or other, and that the stage is going to lose her. It's a pity. She's good, though she does grimace a little." "Were you in Italy long?" The stranger smiled coldly, as though he had understood my thoughts. "Oh, literature is not an art," he said, with a kind of carelessness in his manner. "Literature ought by all means to amuse, and biographical literature is the only kind that does amuse." "You are particularly fond of biographies, then?" "No, you don't understand what I mean. I was speaking of those works in which the author talks about himself, and exposes himself to the judgment-that is, to the laughter-of the reader. That's all a writer can do, and on that ac Yes, I wandered around in that country, too. count Montaigne is the greatest of all writers. Where haven't I been?" He's really the only one." "Painting? There's too much blood, too much flesh, too much sin in it. They paint nude figures. A statue is never nude. Why should any one heat men's blood? It's not at all necessary. All men are guilt-laden, criminal, eaten up by fleshly lust, from head to foot." All eaten up?" "All! You, I, even that good-natured-looking old boy there buying a doll for his own or some other person's child. All are full of guilt. There's a criminal court in the life of everybody, and no one has a right to imagine that he ought not to be brought into that cursed little prisoner's dock." "You must know this better than most people," I said, in spite of myself. "What should one read, then? And what should the people read? Or do you think people oughtn't to read at all?" I had noticed on his finger a ring with a coatof-arms, and, in spite of his miserable appearance, his manner made me think he was familiar with aristocratic ideas, and might even be of aristocratic extraction. "The people ought to read," he answered. "But just what they read is of no importance. They say your Russian peasants all read one and the same book" (" Francile the Venetian,"* I thought). After they have read one copy into tatters they buy another. And they're right. Their reading gives them a certain importance in their own eyes, and keeps them from thinking. As for those who go to church, they needn't read at all." "Do you concede such importance to religion?" The stranger eyed me over his spectacles. "I don't believe in God, my good sir," he said. "But religion is an important thing. "I certainly do. Experto credi" (instead of Priesthood is, perhaps, the best calling in the crede)" Roberto." world. Droll fellows, these clergymen! They "And what do you think of literature?" alone have gotten at the true nature of power. I asked, carrying on my examination. If you want to make a fool of me," I thought, "why * A popular tale, in the style of "The Four Children shouldn't I make a fool of you, too—you who are of Haimon." To command with humility, to obey with pride, that's the whole secret. Ah, power! To possess power is the only real happiness on earth." I had begun to be accustomed to the eccentric turns in our conversation, and merely took pains to keep up with my singular companion. Whatever came into his mind he uttered, with a cool, calm manner, as if all those axioms which he stated with such perfect confidence had followed each other in a thoroughly natural sequence. At the same time, one saw clearly that it was an indifferent matter to him whether any one agreed with him or not. "If you love power so," I observed, “and if you have such respect for the clerical profession, why didn't you become a clergyman?" Your remark is just, my good sir. But I aimed at something higher. I intended to found a religion of my own. I tried the experiment in America. But I wasn't alone in making the attempt. Pretty much everybody over there is occupied with such matters." "You've been in America, too, then? "I passed two years there. You have noticed that I've brought back with me the bad habit of chewing tobacco. I don't smoke, or use snuff, but I chew. Excuse me!" He turned away to spit. "To return to our subject, I had an idea of founding a religion. I had invented a very pretty little legend, and, to get people to accept it, I only needed to become a martyr. When that sort of cement is wanting, the foundations are not lasting. It's not like war, where it's much more advantageous to pour out the blood of others. But, to make an offering of my own blood -thank you, no! I gave it up. Just now," he continued, after a moment of silence, "you quizzed me about my love of power. It's true, and I'm convinced I shall yet be a king." 66 'Subjects will soon come. You have a proverb in Russia which says, in effect, 'Wherever there's a trough there'll be hogs.' It's born in men to place themselves in subjection to some one. They'll be sure to cross the ocean, land on my island, and there find a master. What I shall say to them is clear." "He is really insane," I thought.— "Is it for the same reason that you believe the French will subject themselves to a Bonaparte ?" I asked. Certainly, just for that reason, sir." "Pardon me! The French already have a master. So, in their case, this need of being in subjection, of which you speak, ought to be satisfied." He shook his head. "That's just it," he said. "Our present king, Louis Philippe, doesn't feel himself to be a king, a despot. But let's drop politics." 'Would you rather talk about philosophy?" He spat at long range, in the American style. Ah," said he, "you're ironical! Well, I don't mind talking about philosophy, especially as my philosophy is peculiar. It has no resemblance to the German philosophy, which, it is true, I know very little about, but which I detest, as I do everything German." His eyes flashed as he spoke. "Yes, I detest the Germans, because I'm patriotic. And you, too, as a Russian, ought to hate them." Ob "Well, that's not so easy to describe. serve, though, that there are only two good things in life, namely, taking part in birth or in death; that is, in one of the two misfortunes I mentioned." "Yes, war, the chase, and love, as the Spaniards say. But, it's true, they add, 'for one pleasure a thousand pains.'"* "Bravo! They have good thoughts, sometimes, those infernal Spaniards. And there you have testimony to the correctness of my philosophy." "But," he exclaimed, springing up, talked long enough. Au revoir !”, 66 we have "Wait!" I cried. "We've been talking for more than an hour, and I don't know yet with whom I have the honor-" "You want to know my name? Why? I haven't asked yours. Neither have I inquired where you live, so I don't think it necessary to tell you in what hole I lodge. We shall meet here again; that's enough. My talk amuses you." He winked, with a malicious expression. "I amuse you, eh?" I felt not a little insulted. Decidedly, this man was too free. * "Guerra, caza, y amores, Por un placer mil dolores." "And you interest and please me too. That's enough, I think, for such interviews as our. If you choose, call me Monsieur François; and if it suits you I shall call you Monsieur Ivan. Nearly all Russians are Ivans. I had a chance to find that out for myself once, for I was unfortunate enough to be a tutor in the family of one of your generals, and to live in one of your provinces. What an ass that general was! And what a poverty-stricken province it was! I wish you a very good day, Monsieur Ivan." He turned on his heel and went away. “What a strange creature!" I thought, as I walked homeward. “Is he making fun of me? Does he really believe what he professes? What is he? A reduced author? An old student? A ruined tradesman? A poor countryman? An actor without engagements? And what impels him to make disclosures to me?" I asked myself these questions, but could arrive at no conclusion about him. My curiosity was excited, and it was with a good deal of interest that I looked for him, the next day, at the Palais Royal. I waited for my original in vain. But on the day after that he appeared again, under the portico of the café. “Ah, Monsieur Ivan,” he cried, as soon as he saw me, "good day! Fate brings us together again. How do you do?" "What!" cried I. 'Why, his role has hardly been begun. Think of the speeches he makes in the Chambers!” "Other men will come," he murmured, " and all these speeches are nothing but sound-nothing more. He is like a man in a boat addressing a cataract. In a moment the flood will destroy the boat and him with it. However, you don't believe me. I know it, and I'll say no more." "Do you think, then," I continued, "that Odilon Barrot would be-" Here Monsieur François opened his eyes wide, laughed aloud, and shook his head. "Bum, bum, bum," he said, imitating the waiter who brought the coffee. "That's all there is of Odilon Barrot." "Then," I returned, a little indignant, “according to your opinion we are really on the eve of the republic. And I suppose the other men of whom you spoke just now are the socialists." Monsieur François assumed a somewhat more earnest aspect. "Socialism was born among us, in France," he said, "and in France it will die, if it is not dead already; or rather, it will be killed. There are two ways in which it can be killed: either by ridicule (for Monsieur Considérant will not always be able to state with impunity that men can grow tails, with an eye on the tip); or else in this way." He raised both hands, as though taking aim with a gun. 'Voltaire said Frenchmen have no head for epic poetry. I venture to say Frenchmen have no head for socialism." "People don't think so outside of France." "Then foreigners show for the hundredth time that they don't understand us. Socialism to-day needs a creative power. It will seek it among the Italians, the Germans, perhaps among you. As for the French, they are discoverers. They have found out almost everything, but they don't originate. Frenchmen are sharp and narrow, like a sword. They penetrate the hearts of things. They discover, they explore. But to originate one must be broad and round." Like the English, or like your friends the Germans," I said, not without some intention of bantering him. But he did not notice my jest. "Socialism!" he continued. "That's not a French principle. Our principles are very differ We seated ourselves in the garden. In paying his two sous for the chair he drew out an old, flat pocket-book in which he searched for a long time before finding the two sous which were its sole contents. I expected a new course of his paradoxes, but he began questioning me about certain important Russian personages of that era. I answered him, but he wanted more details, more biographical anecdotes. He knew many things which I had not suspected that he could know. His fund of knowledge was certainly re-ent. markable. By degrees we approached the subject of politics. It was hard to avoid it in that time of public excitement. Carelessly, as though he attached little importance to them, he mentioned Guizot and Thiers. Speaking of the first, he said France was certainly in bad luck. She has only one public man with a will, and he's the very one who is standing in her way. As for Thiers," he added, “ his role was played long ago." 66 We have two of them, two corner-stones. They are revolution and routine. Robespierre and Monsieur Prudhomme-they are our heroes." "Indeed? And how about the military element?" "We are not a military people. Does that surprise you? We are a brave people, very brave; warlike, but not military. Thank God, we are better than that!" He bit the end of his cane. "Yes, and yet, if it were not for the French, there would be no Europe." There'd be an America, then." "No, for America is Europe too, only changed. The Americans have none of those fundamental elements on which the European fabric is based, and yet the result is the same. You remember what the sergeant said to the recruits: 'The leftturn is exactly like the right-turn, except that it's just the opposite.' Well, America is the left-turn of Europe. If France were Rome," he continued, after a short pause, "this would be the time for a Catiline to appear. For in a little while-you'll see it" (here he raised his voice)—"the stones of our streets, perhaps here, just by us, will again drink blood. We shall have no Catiline, but we shall have a Cæsar. By the way, don't you think it a pity that Shakespeare never wrote a 'Catiline '?" "Really?" "I've never understood it, I tell you. You look at me and seem to think: You prophesy that there'll be catastrophes in France very soon; then this is the moment for you to fish in troubled waters.' But the pike doesn't catch fish when the water is troubled, and I've not yet been a pike." He turned around and struck the back of his chair with his clinched hand. "No, I've not known how to take advantage of anything. If I had, should I have presented myself before you in such a condition as this? I should probably not have made your acquaintance, which I would have regretted." He said this with a forced smile. "I shouldn't have lived in the miserable garret I now inhabit. Neither should I have occasion, every morning when I leave my wretched bed and cast a glance over the sea of houses in Paris, to repeat Jugurtha's words, Shake-Urbs venalis!' And yet, if I'd been like this city, I shouldn't be in this poor and miserable state to-day." "Yes; he was a man born under favorable circumstances, and not without talent. He could see black and white at the same time, which was remarkable, and he didn't advocate either of them, which was still more remarkable. He wrote one very good thing-Coriolanus.' That's his best piece." The notion that Monsieur François belonged to the aristocracy came into my mind again. "You probably like Coriolanus because in it Shakespeare speaks without respect, even with contempt, of the common people," I said. "No," he replied, "I don't despise the common people-I don't despise people at all. Before a man despises others he ought to begin by despising himself. I only do that now and then -especially when I'm hungry," he added with a gloomy look. "Despise the people? Why? The people are like the ground. If I choose I cultivate it, and it supports me. If I don't choose I let it lie idle, and tread it under my feet. Sometimes, it's true, it takes a notion to shake itself, like a wet poodle. Then it throws down everything we have built-all our pretty little houses. But they're rare, those earthquakes. Oh, I know very well they'll destroy the earth some day, and that the people will destroy me, too. But there's no help for it. Despise the people? We only despise what we should, under other circumstances, be forced to respect highly. In their case there's no occasion for either contempt or respect. With regard to them one need only know his own advantage and be able to make use of cat's-paws." "Now he's going to ask me for money," I thought. He remained silent for a little while, with his chin resting on his breast, and stirred the sand with his cane. Then he sighed again, took off his spectacles, drew out an old, tattered handkerchief, and rubbed his forehead with it, raising his elbow quite high. "Yes," he went on, in a peculiar tone, "life is a sad thing, sir—a sad thing! I have one consolation. It is that I shall soon die, and, no doubt, by violence." "You'll never be a king, then?" I felt like asking him, but restrained myself. "Yes, by violence,” he continued. “Look at this!" He held out his left hand toward me, with the palm upward, and laid the index-finger of his right hand in it. Neither of them was very clean. "Do you see this line, intersecting the line of life?" "You believe in palmistry, then?" "Do you see this line?" he repeated, persistently. "Well, look at it carefully. If you ever notice it again when there's nothing around to remind you of me, and yet think of me suddenly, you may be sure I shall then be dead." "You believe in fate, too?" He moved his shoulders slightly. "Well, sir," he said, "I'm like Socrates, who knew many things and professed to know nothing. I believe nothing, and I believe a great deal. My luck is the only thing I don't believe in." He bowed his head again, letting one hand, which still held his handkerchief, fall on his knee, "Allow me to ask whether you have ever while the other, with his spectacles, hung loosely understood that?" by his side. I took this opportunity to observe Monsieur François heaved a sigh. "No," he him more closely than I had before done. He said, "I've never understood it." seemed to me very old and broken. A great |