“The judges would serve the dynasty better by exercising a little wholesome restraint over what may prove more fatal to it in the long run than even servile flattery,” observed the philosopher. “What think you, M. le Sénateur?” “Que voulez-vous?” The senator shrugged his shoulders. “One must reckon with human nature; you cannot lock it in on every side. If you don’t leave a safety-valve to let off the superfluous steam, the ship will blow up.” “Take care the valve does not turn out to be a leak, or the ship may sink!” replied the academician. “Our press and our literature are eating into the very marrow of the nation’s heart, and rotting it. The people are taught to scoff at everything--to make a jest of everything, human and divine. Nothing is sacred to the venal scribes who pander to the base passions of humanity, and prey upon its vices and its follies. When public morality has come to such a pass that one of the first writers of the day publicly vindicates the devil’s claim to our respect and pity as ‘an unsuccessful revolutionist,’ and when one of the last writes and prints such a sentence as, ‘I grant you the good God, but leave me the devil!’ and that the cynical blasphemy calls out no stronger comment than a laugh or a shrug--when, I say, we have come to this pitch of progress and civilization, it is time the ship’s hold were looked to.” “I grant you they are dangerous symptoms,” assented the senator, shaking his head, and preparing a pinch from his enamelled snuff-box. “A much more ominous symptom, to my mind, is that the nation is dreadfully _ennuyée_,” observed the Deputy du Centre, with a weighty emphasis on the adverb. “When France _ennuies_ herself, it is time to cry, Take care.” “Who is to take care?” said the Princess de M----. “The government, madame. We have had this one eighteen years now; three years beyond the lease usually granted to governments in France, and the people are thoroughly tired of it. Paris especially is _ennuyée_ of late.” “Paris is always _ennuyée_ unless she has a war, or an exhibition, or some kind of a carnival, to keep her in good humor,” said Berthe; “but Paris is not France.” “Pardon, madame, Paris c’est le monde!” replied M. du Centre, in melodramatic accent. “Le monde, non,” retorted Madame de M----; “le demi-monde peut-être.” There was a general laugh at this sortie of the princess, and before it subsided a group of new arrivals, amongst whom were the Snow-Storm and her mother, were ushered in, and broke up the controversy. Several of the company, some who had not spoken a word to Berthe, but had merely made _acte de présence_ in the crowd, withdrew. Madame de Beaucœur and the Princess de M---- remained on. “_Quelle charmante jeune fille!_” said the former _sotto voce_ to the princess, as Madame de Galliac and her daughter sat down near them. “Who is she?” “Mademoiselle de Galliac. She is the _partie_ of the season. _On dit_ gives her four millions.”