I often told him similar stories which I had read in books. They were all mixed up, effervescing in my mind into one long story of disturbed, beautiful lives, interspersed with flames of passion. They were full of senseless deeds of heroism, blue-blooded nobility, legendary feats, duels and deaths, noble words and mean actions. Rokambol was confused with the knightly forms of Lya-Molya and Annibal Kokonna, Ludovic XI took the form of the Père Grandet, the Comet Otletaev was mixed up with Henry IV. This story, in which I changed the character of the people and altered events according to my inspiration, became a whole world to me. I lived in it, free as grand-father's God, Who also played with every one as it pleased Him. While not hindering me from seeing the reality, such as it was, nor cooling my desire to understand living people, nevertheless this bookish chaos hid me by a transparent but impenetrable cloud from much of the infectious obscenity, the venomous poison of life. Books rendered many evils innocuous for me. Knowing how people loved and suffered, I could never enter a house of ill fame. Cheap depravity only roused a feeling of repulsion and pity for those to whom it was sweet. Rokambol taught me to be a Stoic, and not be conquered by circumstances. The hero of Dumas inspired me with the desire to give myself for some great cause. My favorite hero was the gay monarch, Henry IV, and it seemed to me that the glorious songs of B?ranger were written about him. He relieved the peasants of their taxes, And himself he loved to drink. Yes, and if the whole nation is happy, Why should the king not drink? Henry IV was described in novels as a kind man, in touch with his people. Bright as the sun, he gave me the idea that France--the most beautiful country in the whole world, the country of the knights--was equally great, whether represented by the mantle of a king or the dress of a peasant. Ange Piutou was just as much a knight as D'Artagnan. When I read how Henry was murdered, I cried bitterly, and ground my teeth with hatred of Ravaillac. This king was nearly always the hero of the stories I told the stoker, and it seemed to me that Yaakov also loved France and "Khenrik." "He was a good man was King 'Khenrik,' whether he was punishing rebels, or whatever he was doing," he said. He never exclaimed, never interrupted my stories with questions, but listened in silence, with lowered brows and immobile face, like an old stone covered with fungus growth. But if, for some reason, I broke off my speech, he at once asked: "Is that the end?" "Not yet." "Don't leave off, then!" Of the French nation he said, sighing: "They had a very easy time of it!" "What do you mean?" "Well, you and I have to live in the heat. We have to labor, while they lived at ease. They had nothing to do but to sing and walk about--a very consoling life!" "They worked, too!"