became deeply learned in the most diverse and hostile sciences. He, so
cold and correct, was almost never to be found save in the company of
astrologers, cabbalists, demonologists, alchemists, theologians, or
inventors.

Weary of the advances and the facile intimacies of artists, Durtal had
been attracted by this man's fastidious reserve. It was perfectly
natural that Durtal, surfeited with skin-deep friendships, should feel
drawn to Des Hermies, but it was difficult to imagine why Des Hermies,
with his taste for strange associations, should take a liking to
Durtal, who was the soberest, steadiest, most normal of men. Perhaps Des
Hermies felt the need of talking with a sane human being now and then as
a relief. And, too, the literary discussions which he loved were out of
the question with these addlepates who monologued indefatigably on the
subject of their monomania and their ego.

At odds, like Durtal, with his confrères, Des Hermies could expect
nothing from the physicians, whom he avoided, nor from the specialists
with whom he consorted.

As a matter of fact there had been a juncture of two beings whose
situation was almost identical. At first restrained and on the
defensive, they had come finally to _tu-toi_ each other and establish a
relation which had been a great advantage to Durtal. His family were
dead, the friends of his youth married and scattered, and since his
withdrawal from the world of letters he had been reduced to complete
solitude. Des Hermies kept him from going stale and then, finding that
Durtal had not lost all interest in mankind, promised to introduce him
to a really lovable old character. Of this man Des Hermies spoke much,
and one day he said, "You really ought to know him. He likes the books