“Oh! come now!” “Certainly. He was ill at ease, and he was furious at being made to feel ill at ease by someone he really despises. It was to conceal his shyness that he bluffed.” “I call it stupid.” “My dear fellow, everyone can’t be as intelligent as you are.” “You said that last time, too.” “What a memory!” Olivier was determined to hold his ground. “I try,” said he, “to forget your jokes. But last time you did at last talk to me seriously. You said things I can’t forget.” Armand’s eyes grew troubled. He went off into a forced laugh. “Oh, old fellow, last time I talked to you as you wanted to be talked to. You called for something in a minor key, so, in order to please you, I played my lament, with a soul like a corkscrew and anguish à la Pascal.... It can’t be helped, you know. I’m only sincere when I’m cracking jokes.” “You’ll never make me believe that you weren’t sincere when you talked to me as you did that day. It’s now that you are playing a part.” “Oh, simplicity! What a pure angelic soul you possess! As if we weren’t all playing parts more or less sincerely and consciously. Life, my dear fellow, is nothing but a comedy. But the difference between you and me is that I know I am playing a part, whilst....” “Whilst ...” repeated Olivier aggressively. “Whilst my father, for instance, not to speak of you, is completely taken in when he plays at being a pastor. Whatever I say or do, there’s always one part of myself which stays behind, and watches the other part compromise itself, which laughs at and hisses it, or applauds it. When one is divided in that way, how is it possible to be sincere? I have got to the point of ceasing to understand what the word means. It can’t be helped; when I’m sad, I seem so grotesque to myself that it makes me laugh; when I’m cheerful, I make such idiotic jokes that I feel inclined to cry.” “You make me feel inclined to cry too, my dear boy. I didn’t think you were in such a bad way.” Armand shrugged his shoulders and went on in a totally different tone of voice: “To console you, should you like to know the contents of our first number? Well, there’s my _Nocturnal Vase_; four songs by Cob-Lafleur; a dialogue by Jarry; some prose poems by young Ghéridanisol, one of our boarders; and then _The Flat Iron_, a vast essay in general criticism, in which the tendencies of the review will be more or less definitely laid down. Several of us have combined together to produce this _chef-d’œuvre_.” Olivier, not knowing what to say, objected clumsily: “No _chef-d’œuvre_ was ever produced by several people together.” Armand burst out laughing: