Boulmier held in his hand, exclaimed,

"What!--you read Michelet--you?"

"Yes," replied Boulmier, very gravely. "I like novels."

Gelis, who dominated both by his fine stature, imperious gestures,
and ready wit, took the book, turned over a few pages rapidly, and
said,

"Michelet always had a great propensity to emotional tenderness. He
wept sweet tears over Maillard, that nice little man introduced la
paperasserie into the September massacres. But as emotional
tenderness leads to fury, he becomes all at once furious against
the victims. There was no help for it. It is the sentimentality of
the age. The assassin is pitied, but the victim is considered quite
unpardonable. In his later manner Michelet is more Michelet than
ever before. There is no common sense in it; it is simply wonderful!
Neither art nor science, neither criticism nor narrative; only furies
and fainting-spells and epileptic fits over matters which he never
deigns to explain. Childish outcries--envies de femme grosse!--and
a style, my friends!--not a single finished phrase! It is
astounding!"

And he handed the book back to his comrade. "This is amusing
madness," I thought to myself, "and not quite so devoid of common
sense as it appears. This young man, though only playing has sharply
touched the defect in the cuirass."

But the Provencal student declared that history was a thoroughly