He, too, has removed his hat. So I, in my corner discreetly remove
mine, too.

He is a young man, refined and distinguished, who impresses by his
innate elegance. Yet he is an invalid, tormented by abscesses. One
never sees him but his neck is swollen, or his wrists enlarged by a
ghastly outcrop. But the sickly body encloses bright and sane
intelligence. I admire him because he is thoughtful and full of ideas,
and can express himself faultlessly. Recently he gave me a lesson in
sociology, touching the links between the France of to-day and the
France of tradition, a lesson on our origins whose plain perspicuity
was a revelation to me. I seek his company; I strive to imitate him,
and certainly he is not aware how much influence he has over me.

All are attentive while he says that he is thinking of organizing a
young people's association in Viviers. Then he speaks to me, "The
farther I go the more I perceive that all men are afflicted with short
sight. They do not see, nor can they see, beyond the end of their
noses."

"Yes," say I.

My reply seems rather scanty, and the silence which follows repeats it
mercilessly. It seems so to him, too, no doubt, for he engages other
interlocutors, and I feel myself redden in the darkness of Brisbille's
cavern.

Crillon is arguing with Brisbille on the matter of the recent
renovation of an old hat, which they keep handing to each other and