ed the wisdom of men disappeared by
enchantment.

Then the great scholars assembled: those who were engaged in
mathematics, in physics, in chemistry, in astronomy, in poetry, in
history, and in other arts and letters.

They held counsel and said:

"We are the custodians of human genius. We will recall the noblest
inventions of the wisest of men and the greatest of poets and have
them graven in immortal marble. They will represent only the supreme
summits of achievement since the beginning of the world. Pascal shall
be entitled to but one thought, Newton to but one star, Darwin to
but one insect, Galileo to but one grain of dust, Tolstoi to but one
charity, Heinrich Heine to but one verse, Shakespeare to but one cry,
Wagner to but one note...."

Then as the scholars summoned their thoughts to recall the
masterpieces indispensable to the salvation of man, they realized with
terror that their brains were void.

THE TWO GREAT ACTRESSES

I wish I could find new words to depict the gentleness of a little
prostitute whom we met one evening in the center of a large, almost
deserted square. The little prostitute was wearing wretched boots that
were too large and soaked up the water. She had a parasol covered like
an umbrella, and a little straw hat, the lining of which surely bore
the words: _Derniere mode_.

She had a weak little voice, and she was intelligent. She was
recovering, as the expression goes, from pleurisy. Moreover, she had
the air of being as frail morally as physically.

I encountered her many times, after ten o'clock, when she was weary
with seeking, often in vain, for any first-comer who would go with
her.

She sat down on a bench in the shadows, beside me, and rested her poor
pale head against me.

I knew that when she did this it was somewhat with the feeling of
slight consolation, like that of a poor animal when it no longer feels
itself abused. I was held by an infinite pity for this friend. I knew
that she looked at her trade as an important task, however ungrateful
it was. For a long time she waited thus for the train to the suburb
where she lived.

One evening she asked if she might go with me to the end of the
street.

We came to a great lighted square where there was a large theater. On
one of the pillars of this edifice was a brilliant, gilded poster. It
represented Sarah Bernhardt in the costume of Tosca, I believe. She
wore a stiff rich robe and held a palm in her hand. And