“What! I succeed--with great difficulty--in clearing my mind of the whole thing; I convince myself that there’s nothing to be expected--nothing to be hoped for--nothing to be admitted; that Anthime has been taken in--that the whole thing is quackery--that there’s nothing left to do but to laugh at it--when up you come and say: ‘Hold hard! There’s been a mistake--a miscalculation--we must begin again.’ Oh, no! Not a bit of it! Never in the world! I shan’t budge. If he isn’t the real one, so much the worse.” Fleurissoire was horrified. “But,” said he, “the Church....” And he regretted that his hoarseness prevented any flights of eloquence. “But supposing the Church herself is taken in?” Julius planted himself in front of him, standing crosswise so as almost to block up the way, and in a mocking, cutting voice which was not like him: “Well! What the dickens does it matter to you?” Then a doubt fell upon Fleurissoire--a fresh, formless, atrocious doubt which was absorbed in some indefinable way into the thick mass of his discomfort--Julius, Julius himself, this Julius to whom he was talking, this Julius to whom he clung with all the longing of his heart-broken faith--this Julius was not the _real_ Julius either. “What! Can it be you who say such things? You, Julius? On whom I was counting so? The Comte de Baraglioul, whose writings....” “Don’t talk to me of my writings, I beg. I’ve heard quite enough about them this morning from your Pope--false or true, whichever he may be. Thanks to my discovery, the next ones will be better--you may count upon that. I’m anxious to talk to you now about serious matters. You’ll lunch with me, won’t you?” “With pleasure; but I must leave you early. I’m expected in Naples this evening ... yes, on some business, which I’ll tell you about. You’re not taking me to the Grand, I hope?” “No; we’ll go to the Colonna.” Julius, on his side, was not at all anxious to be seen at the Grand Hotel in company with such a lamentable object as Fleurissoire; and Fleurissoire, who felt pale and worn out, was already in a twitter at being seated full in the light at the restaurant table, directly opposite his brother-in-law and exposed to his scrutinising glance. If only that glance had sought his own, it would have been more tolerable; but no, he felt it already going straight to the border line of his magenta comforter, straight to that frightful spot where the suspicious pimple was budding, hopelessly divulged. And while the waiter was bringing the hors-d’œuvre: “You ought to take sulphur baths,” said Baraglioul. “It’s not what you think,” protested Fleurissoire. “I’m glad to hear it,” answered Baraglioul, who, for that matter, hadn’t thought anything; “I just offered the suggestion in passing.” Then, throwing himself back in his chair, he went on in a professorial manner: