Verses like that were taken seriously. Behind the hocus-pocus of such fine-sounding words, the bombast, the theatrical clash and clang of the swords and pasteboard helmets, there was always the incurable futility of a Sardou, the intrepid vaudevillist, playing Punch and Judy with history. When in the world was the like of the heroism of Cyrano ever to be found? These writers moved heaven and earth; they summoned from their tombs the Emperor and his legions, the bandits of the Ligue, the _condottieri_ of the Renaissance, called up the human cyclones that once devastated the universe:--just to display a puppet, standing unmoved through frightful massacres, surrounded by armies, soldiers, and whole hosts of captive women, dying of a silly calfish love for a woman whom he had seen ten or fifteen years before--or King Henri IV submitting to assassination because his mistress no longer loved him. So, and no otherwise, did these good people present their parlor Kings, and _condottieri_, and heroic passion. They were worthy scions of the illustrious nincompoops of the days of _Grand Cyrus_, those Gascons of the ideal--Scudéry, La Calprenède--an everlasting brood, the songsters of sham heroism, impossible heroism, which is the enemy of truth. Christophe observed to his amazement that the French, who are said to be so clever, had no sense of the ridiculous. He was lucky when religion was not dragged in to fit the fashion! Then, during Lent, certain actors read the sermons of Bossuet at the Gaîté to the accompaniment of an organ. Jewish authors wrote tragedies about Saint Theresa for Jewish actresses. The _Way of the Cross_ was acted at the Bodinière, the _Child Jesus_ at the Ambigu, the _Passion_ at the Porte-Saint-Martin, _Jesus_ at the Odéon, orchestral suites on the subject of _Christ_ at the Botanical Gardens. And a certain brilliant talker--a poet who wrote passionate love-songs--gave a lecture on the _Redemption_ at the Châtelet. And, of course, the passages of the Gospel that were most carefully preserved by these people were those relating to Pilate and Mary Magdalene:--"_What is truth_?" and the story of the blessed foolish virgin.--And their boulevard Christs were horribly loquacious and well up in all the latest tricks of worldly casuistry. Christophe said: "That is the worst yet. It is untruth incarnate. I'm stifling. Let's get out."