indeed it is he who rescues Olivier and is rescued by him; we leave those two in happiness. But that is still not the centre. The nearest to the centre lies in a discussion about the art of the novel. Edouard is holding forth to Bernard his secretary and some friends. He has said (what we all accept as commonplace) that truth in life and truth in a novel are not identical, and then he goes on to say that he wants to write a book which shall include both sorts of truth. "And what is its subject?" asked Sophroniska. "There is none," said Edouard sharply. "My novel has no subject. No doubt that sounds foolish. Let us say, if you prefer, that it will not have 'a' subject.... 'A slice of life,' the naturalistic school used to say. The mistake that school made was always to cut its slice in the same direction, always lengthwise, in the direction of time. Why not cut it up and down? Or across? As for me, I don't want to cut it at all. You see what I mean. I want to put everything into my novel and not snip off my material either here or there. I have been working for a year, and there is nothing I haven't put in: all I see, all I know, all I can learn from other people's lives and my own." "My poor man, you will bore your readers to death," cried Layra, unable to restrain her mirth. "Not at all. To get my effect, I am inventing, as my central character, a novelist, and the subject of my book will be the struggle between what reality offers him and what he tries to make of the offer." "Have you planned out this book?" asked Sophroniska, trying to keep grave. "Of course not." "Why 'of course'?" "For a book of this type any plan would be unsuitable. The whole of it would go wrong if I decided any detail ahead. I am waiting for reality to dictate to me." "But I thought you wanted to get away from reality." "My novelist wants to get away, but I keep pulling him back. To tell the truth, this is my subject: the struggle between facts as proposed by reality, and the ideal reality." "Do tell us the name of this book," said Laura, in despair. "Very well. Tell it them, Bernard." "_Les Faux Monnayeurs_" said Bernard. "And now will you please tell us who these faux monnayeurs are." "I haven't the least idea." Bernard and Laura looked at each other and then at Sophroniska. There was the sound of a deep sigh. The fact was that ideas about money, depreciation, inflation, forgery, etc., had gradually invaded Edouard's book--just as theories of clothing invade _Sartor Resartus_ and even assume the functions of characters. "Has any of you ever had hold of a false coin?" he asked after a pause. "Imagine a ten-franc piece, gold, false. It is actually worth a couple of sous, but it will remain worth ten francs until it is found out. Suppose I begin with the idea that----"