“Philosophy is our ruler,” he would reply. “What benefits will not Reason shower on men who accept her all potent sway! The Golden Age which the poets fabled will become a reality. All ills will disappear with the fanaticism and tyranny which gave them birth. The virtuous and enlightened man will enjoy all possible felicity. What do I say? By the aid of physicians and chemists he will even succeed in attaining immortality upon earth.” Sophie listened to him, but shook her head. “If you wish to deprive us of death,” she said, “find us first a fountain of youth. Without that your immortality awakens my apprehension.” The old philosopher laughingly asked her if she found the Christian doctrine of resurrection more comforting. “For my part,” he said, after emptying his glass, “I am inclined to fear lest the angels and saints should feel impelled to favour the choir of virgins at the expense of the company of dowagers.” “I do not know,” replied the young woman, in a meditative tone and lifting her eyes to his, “I do not know what value these poor charms, framed out of the dust of the earth, may have in the eyes of angels; but I am sure that divine omnipotence will be better able to repair the ravages of time, if in so blissful an abode such redress should be needful, than all your physics and your chemistry will ever succeed in doing in this world. You, who are an atheist, Monsieur Franchot, and do not believe that God reigns in the heavens, you cannot understand anything about the Revolution, which is the advent of God upon earth.” She rose. Night had fallen, and in the distance under their eyes the great town starred itself with lights. Marcel offered his arm to Sophie, and whilst the older men argued with one another, the two sauntered together along the sombre alleys. Marcel found them charming, and Sophie supplied him in turn with their names and associations. “Here,” she said, “we are in the Allée de Jean Jacques, which leads to the Salon d’Emile. This alley was straight. I had it deflected so that it should pass under the old oak. All day long it gives shade to this rustic bench, which I have called 'Friendship’s Rest.' “We will sit down for a moment on this bench,” said Sophie. They sat down. In the silence Marcel could hear the fluttering of his own heart. “Sophie, I love you,” he murmured, and captured her hand. She drew it away gently, and pointing out to the young man that a light breeze had set the leaves rustling— “Do you hear that?” she said. “I hear the wind among the leaves.” She shook her head, and said in tones as sweet as a chant— “Marcel, Marcel! Who tells you that is the wind among the leaves? Who tells you that we are alone? Are you, then, after all, one of those commonplace souls which have failed to discern any of the mysterious portents of the world unseen?” And as he questioned her with a glance that was all bewilderment—