“I am taking it with perfect calm, as you can see,” answered Julius at once. “But at the same time I really don’t think it’s my father’s place to speak so--especially not my father’s--and especially not about that book, which in reality is nothing from first to last but a monument in his honour.” Had not Julius, indeed, retraced in this book the old diplomat’s truly representative career? As a companion picture to the turbulent follies of romanticism, had he not glorified the dignified, the ordered, the classic calm of Juste-Agénor’s existence in its twofold aspect, political and domestic? “Fortunately, you didn’t write it to please him.” “He insinuates that I wrote _On the Heights_ in order to get into the Academy.” “Well! and if you did! Even if you did get into the Academy by writing a fine book! What then?” And she added with contemptuous pity: “Let’s hope, at any rate, that the reviews will set him right.” Julius exploded. “The reviews! Good God! The reviews!” he exclaimed, and then turning furiously upon Marguerite as if it were her fault, added with a bitter laugh: “They do nothing but abuse me.” At last Marguerite was effectually awakened. “Is there a great deal of criticism?” she asked with solicitude. “Yes, and a great deal of crocodile praise too.” “Oh, how right you are to despise all those wretched journalists! Think of what M. de Vogué wrote to you the day before yesterday: ‘A pen like yours defends France like a sword!’” “‘Threatened as France is with barbarism, a pen like yours defends her better than a sword!’” corrected Julius. “And when Cardinal André promised you his vote the other day, he declared that you had the whole Church behind you.” “A precious lot of good _that_’ll do me!” “Oh, my dear Julius!” “We’ve just seen in Anthime’s case what the protection of the clergy is worth.” “Julius, you’re getting bitter. You’ve often told me you didn’t work for the hope of reward--nor for the sake of other people’s approval--that your own was enough. You’ve even written some splendid things to that effect.” “I know, I know,” said Julius impatiently. With such a rankling pain at his heart, this soothing syrup was of no avail. He went back to his dressing-room.