lover for a young diplomat, and found after the suicide of the actor that never more could she come together with her new lover because in their tenderest moments she was haunted by the bloody spectre of the dead man. _Histoire Comique_ is finely written, and in the best French literary style; it eloquently evokes the life of the French actress, so much on the edge of the _demi-monde_ and now and then over the edge. It is almost as good as _Les Petites Cardinal_ ... and then Anatole France spoils it. In comes Doctor Trublet, in other words Anatole France himself, talking about medicine, about morality, about faith, talking, everlastingly talking. Trublet talks delightfully, but while he talks one thinks of the pretty little actress in whom one had grown interested, and thinks: “Oh, dear old doctor, do stop talking; kisses, not words, shall win the prize.” But then Anatole France has never cared whether his ideas were relevant to the _story_; it has always been enough for him that they should be relevant to the _temperament_ he sketches. Perhaps for this reason, and it is an important observation if one is to judge Anatole France fairly, his characters are unusually living. People like Captain Victor, Tudesco, bombastic, ebullient, Falstaffian people, move in our midst. Their creator is always poking fun at them; persistently he erects Aunt Sallies and then throws bouquets at them. He teases them because he loves them. It should be observed, however, and I do not want to be ill-natured about it, that Anatole France never pokes fun at the characters that embody his own personality. Bergeret, the other nice old gentlemen, Vence, Dechartre, are never absurd; they are amiable, scholarly, tender, generous, and have a strong sense of humour. I do not say that Anatole France ought to see his ridiculous side; I do not see it myself, but it must be there. Only, and you must take my word for this without asking for evidence, it is not in the nature of any human being, save the Englishman, to “take himself off.” I have known a good many Frenchmen, Germans, Austrians, Spaniards, and have never found in any one of them a glimmer of self-deprecation: they were all supermen, and I expect were much the same before the birth of Nietzsche. Still, and I repeat that I do not want to be ill-natured about it, in spite of that little failing, it must be owned that this little band of incarnations of Anatole France is very human; after all, Anatole France is probably human himself, so far as a man can be human when he is sane. Their humanity resides in their passion for life. Every one of them holds the creed which is ideally stated in the preface to _Mademoiselle de Maupin_. As I believe Anatole France admires Gautier, I will venture to quote from it: