Anthime spoke to Julius about his candidature to the Academy and his chances of getting in; he spoke with a smile, for he had very little belief in them; and Julius himself pretended to a calm and, as it were, resigned indifference. What was the use of saying that his sister, the Comtesse de Saint-Prix, had got Cardinal André up her sleeve, and in consequence the other fifteen immortals who always voted with him? Anthime then said a vague word or two of sketchy compliment about Julius’s last novel, _On the Heights_. As a matter of fact he had thought it an extremely bad book; and Julius, who was not in the least deceived, hurriedly put himself in the right by saying: “I was quite aware that you wouldn’t like a book of that kind.” Anthime might have excused the book. But this allusion to his opinions touched him in a sore place; he began to protest that they never in the least influenced his judgment of works of art in general, or of his brother-in-law’s novels in particular. Julius smiled condescendingly, and, in order to change the subject, enquired after his brother-in-law’s sciatica, which he inadvertently called “lumbago.” Ah! why had he not enquired instead about his scientific researches? Then it would have been a satisfaction to answer him. But his “lumbago”! It would be his wen next, most likely! But his brother-in-law, apparently, knew nothing about his scientific researches--he _chose_ to know nothing about them.... Anthime was exasperated and his “lumbago” was hurting him. With a sneering laugh, he answered viciously: “Am I better? Ha, ha, ha! You’d be very sorry to hear that I was!” Julius was astonished and begged his brother-in-law to say why such uncharitable feelings should be imputed to him. “Good heavens! You Catholics aren’t above calling in a doctor when one of you falls ill; but when the patient gets well, it’s no thanks to science--it’s all because of the prayers you said while the doctor was looking after him. You would think it a gross impertinence if a man who didn’t go to church got better.” “Would you rather remain ill than go to church?” said Marguerite, earnestly. What made her poke _her_ oar in? As a rule she never took part in conversations of general interest, and as soon as Julius opened his mouth, she would meekly efface herself. This was man’s talk. Pooh! Why should he show her any consideration? He turned to her abruptly: