surprises him. But all the phenomena of social organisation and of his
own life remain for him mysterious to the end. The description of the
policeman in his short cape and hood, who stands quite still, under the
light of a street lamp at the edge of the pavement shining with the wet
of a rainy autumn evening along the whole extent of a long and deserted
thoroughfare, is a perfect piece of imaginative precision. From under
the edge of the hood his eyes look upon Crainquebille, who has just
uttered in an uncertain voice the sacramental, insulting phrase of the
popular slang--_Mort aux vaches_! They look upon him shining in the deep
shadow of the hood with an expression of sadness, vigilance, and
contempt.

He does not move. Crainquebille, in a feeble and hesitating voice,
repeats once more the insulting words. But this policeman is full of
philosophic superiority, disdain, and indulgence. He refuses to take in
charge the old and miserable vagabond who stands before him shivering and
ragged in the drizzle. And the ruined Crainquebille, victim of a
ridiculous miscarriage of justice, appalled at this magnanimity, passes
on hopelessly down the street full of shadows where the lamps gleam each
in a ruddy halo of falling mist.

M. Anatole France can speak for the people. This prince of the Senate is
invested with the tribunitian power. M. Anatole France is something of a
Socialist; and in that respect he seems to depart from his sceptical
philosophy. But as an illustrious statesman, now no more, a great prince
too, with an ironic mind and a literary gift, has sarcastically remarked
in one of his public speeches: "We are all Socialists now." And in the
sense in which it may be said that we all in Europe are Christians that
is true enough. To many of us Socialism is merely an emotion. An
emotion is much and is also less than nothing. It is the initial