While the author of _Antigone_ and _Orphèe_, lively, smiling, often flung some light-hearted jest into the midst of the most serious conversations and sometimes even tried to point a pun, the author of _René_ usually stayed till six o'clock, but in an almost absolute silence. Seated in one of the corners of the chimney, opposite Madame Récamier, he leant upon his cane, listened to everything with interest and sometimes replied by means of an ironical and disheartened question. Because he has, in many places in his Memoirs, spoken of the strength of the democratic current, some have thought themselves authorized to turn him into a deserter from Royalism, hailing in the triumph of Democracy the realization of his supreme hopes. This is just contrary to the truth. That France was going towards Democracy he saw and proclaimed aloud; but, far from rejoicing in this new revolution, or looking upon it in the light of a progress for humanity or a happiness for France, he saw in Democracy the worst of governments, _omnium deterrimum_, to use Bellarmine's strong expression. One day, at the Abbaye-aux-Bois, Laprade, who, at that time, was an ingenuous person, thought he might confess before the great poet his juvenile faith in the future of Democracy, of a Christian Democracy which would fulfil all the promises of the Divine Law-giver. Chateaubriand received these enthusiastic confidences with his melancholy smile; and then, after saying that he believed the fall of the Throne of July to be near at hand and the advent of Democracy to be inevitable, he began to sketch in broad lines that future society which would be the offspring of a democracy without religion or ideals. The more he spoke, the more did the singer of _Psyché_ see his beautiful illusions fade away. The New Jerusalem of which he had dreamt so long crumbled to the noise of that great word, as the walls of Jericho fell to the sound of the trumpet. Instead of the promised land, a riotous arena, stained with blood by the struggle of appetites and covetousness; and, at the furthermost point of the horizon, at the end of the journey, rest in the stupidity of a semi-Barbarism, of vast pastures in which human herds browzed on thick grass, with lowered heads, without ever looking at the sky[510]. On the subject of the dangers and disgraces which the democratic system was preparing for France, he spoke the strongest and most contemptuous words at every juncture. M. de Marcellus tells us how, in 1844, on a day when they were taking a little stroll together in his garden in the Rue du Bac, Chateaubriand said: