“I was saying that the spirit of France lived always ahead of the time, was ever first to conceive the feeling of the coming century, and by its own struggles and sufferings--sometimes too abrupt and perilous--made easy the way for the rest of the world.” During these words a change passed over Valmond. His restless body became still, his mobile face steady and almost set--all the life of him seemed to have burnt into his eyes; but he answered nothing, and the Cure, in the pause, was constrained to say: “Our dear Monsieur Garon knows perfectly the history of France, and is devoted to the study of the Napoleonic times and of the Great Revolution--alas for our people and the saints of Holy Church who perished then!” The avocat lifted a hand in mute disacknowledgment. Again there was a silence, and out of the pause Monsieur De la Riviere’s voice was heard. “Monsieur Valmond, how fares this spirit of France now--you come from France?” There was a shadow of condescension and ulterior meaning in De la Riviere’s voice, for he had caught the tricks of the poseur in this singular gentleman. Valmond did not stir, but looked steadily at De la Riviere, and said slowly, dramatically, yet with a strange genuineness also: “The spirit of France, monsieur, the spirit of France looks not forward only, but backward, for her inspiration. It is as ready for action now as when the old order was dragged from Versailles to Paris, and in Paris to the guillotine, when France got a principle and waited, waited--” He did not finish his sentence, but threw back his head with a sort of reflective laugh. “Waited for what?” asked the young Seigneur, trying to conquer his dislike. “For the Man!” came the quick reply. The avocat rubbed his hands in pleasure. He instantly divined one who knew his subject, though he talked this melodramatically: a thing not uncommon among the habitants and the professional story-tellers, but scarcely the way of the coterie. “Ah, yes, yes,” he said, “for--? monsieur, for--?” He paused, as if to give himself the delight of hearing their visitor speak. “For Napoleon,” was the abrupt reply. “Ah, yes, dear Lord, yes--a Napoleon--of--of the Empire. France can only cherish an idea when a man is behind it, when a man lives it, embodies it. She must have heroes. She is a poet, a poet--and an actress.” “So said the Man, Napoleon,” cried Valmond, getting to his feet. “He said that to Barras, to Remusat, to Josephine, to Lucien, to--to another, when France had for the moment lost her idea--and her man.”