cannot amount to much, a good appearance is a consolation, and we love
to be reflected in eyes which lend beauty to our mediocrity.

This widespread sympathy, which delighted Clerambault, was not less
sweet to the three who surrounded him at this moment. They were as
proud of him as if they had made him, for what one admires does seem
in a sense one's own creation, and when in addition one is of the same
blood, a part of the object of our admiration, it is hard to tell if
we spring from him, or he from us.

Agénor Clerambault's wife and his two children gazed at their great
man with the tender satisfied expression of ownership; and he, tall
and high-shouldered, towered over them with his glowing words and
enjoyed it all; he knew very well that we really belong to the things
that we fancy are our possessions.




Clerambault had just finished with a Schilleresque vision of the
fraternal joys promised in the future. Maxime, carried away by his
enthusiasm in spite of his sense of humour, had given the orator a
round of applause all by himself. Pauline noisily asked if Agénor
had not heated himself in speaking, and amid the excitement Rosine
silently pressed her lips to her father's hand.

The servant brought in the mail and the evening papers, but no one was
in a hurry to read them. The news of the day seemed behind the times
compared with the dazzling future. Maxime however took up the popular
middle-class sheet, and threw his eye over the columns. He started