which had moved him deeply in his youth before the spectacle of his country’s wounds, still affected him, now that he was growing old, when confronted by unhappy social conditions, but enabled him, too, to derive delight from the graceful expression of human thought, from exquisite shapes, from the classic line, and the heroic cast of a face. With all this he was patriotic even in art, never jesting about the Burgundian school, faithful to political sentiment, and relying on France to bring justice and liberty to the universe. “You old communard!” repeated M. Worms-Clavelin. “Hold your tongue, Worms! Your soul is ignoble and your mind obtuse. You have no meaning in yourself, but, in the phrase of to-day, you are a representative type. Just Heavens! how many victims were butchered during a whole century of civil war just that M. Worms-Clavelin might become a republican _préfet_! Worms, you are lower in the scale than the _préfets_ of the Empire.” “The Empire!” exclaimed M. Worms-Clavelin. “Blast the Empire! First of all it swept us all into the abyss, and then it made me an official. But, all the same, wine is made, corn is grown, just as in the time of the Empire; they bet on the Bourse, as under the Empire; one eats, drinks, and makes love, as under the Empire. At bottom, life is just the same. How could government and administration be different? There are certain shades of difference, I grant you. We have more liberty; we even have too much of it. We have more security. We enjoy a government which suits the ideals of the people. As far as such a thing is possible, we are the masters of our fate. All the social forces are now held in just balance, or nearly so. Now just you show me what there is that could be changed. The colour of our postage stamps perhaps ... and after that!... As old Montessuy used to say, ‘No, no, friend, short of changing the French, there is nothing in France to change.’ Of course, I am all for progress. One must talk about moving, were it only in order to dispense with movement. ‘Forward! forward!’ The _Marseillaise_ must have been useful in _not_ carrying one to the frontier!...” The look which Georges Frémont turned on the _préfet_ was full of deep, affectionate, kindly, thoughtful scorn: “Everything is as perfect as it can be, then, Worms?”