That all life is, to a great extent, unconscious is perfectly true, and a psychological analyst may therefore imperil the beauty of the particular life he proposes to describe by bringing into undue prominence and bestowing too much care upon its hidden workings. So far as I am concerned, I am quite willing to own that in so doing I may have deserved reproach; but I am persuaded that, if such be the case, the fault is mine and not that of the method employed. Every work of art, if critically considered, will be found to contain incongruities which the genius of the artist must conceal. The drama, for instance, in its use of dialogue, must compress into a few minutes conversations that would, in reality, occupy whole hours. It would therefore seem _a priori_ as if all semblance of truth were in that case impossible. In the same way a lyric poet, by attempting to express in scholarly rhyme and in verse of complicated structure the most simple and spontaneous feelings of the heart, would seem to undertake a most paradoxical, I had almost said an absurd, task. And yet the dialogue of a Shakespeare or of a Molière has all the movement and colour of life itself. Heine's _Lieder_ and Shelley's lyrics are real vibrations of the heart; and, to come back to the psychological novel, I may surely hold up the works of George Eliot, Tourguenieff, and Tolstoi in reply to the objection that a too minute analysis of character and feeling substitutes a dry anatomical study for the glow and ardour of passion. If 'Mensonges' may not be added to the list, it can only be because its author has not the necessary skill to wield what is, after all, a most excellent instrument. These are a few of the ideas which I beg you to lay before the readers of the English version of my story in order that their hearts may be inclined to indulgence before they turn to the work itself. Allow me to thank you, as well as MM. Chatto and Windus, once more for having thought this study of Parisian life worthy the distinction of such a careful and masterly translation as yours. Believe me, Yours very faithfully, PAUL BOURGET. HYÈRES, _January_ 30, 1896. A LIVING LIE CHAPTER I A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS 'The gates are closed, sir,' said the driver, bending down from his box. 'Closed at half-past nine!' exclaimed a voice from the interior of the cab. 'What a place to live in! You needn't trouble to get down. The pavement's dry--I'll walk.'