Clio' (1900) contains historical sketches.

To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature
would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the
stature and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive
qualities: delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of
writers who are more read and probably will ever exercise greater
influence than some of greater name. The latter show us life as a whole;
but life as a whole is too vast and too remote to excite in most of
us more than a somewhat languid curiosity. France confines himself to
themes of the keenest personal interest, the life of the world we live
in. It is herein that he excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies
are many-sided, his power of exposition is unsurpassed. No one has
set before us the mind of our time, with its half-lights, its shadowy
vistas, its indefiniteness, its haze on the horizon, so vividly as he.

In Octave Mirbeau's notorious novel, a novel which it would be
complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by
her director against the works of Anatole France, "Ne lisez jamais du
Voltaire... C'est un peche mortel... ni de Renan... ni de l'Anatole
France. Voila qui est dangereux." The names are appropriately united; a
real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession exists between the three
writers.

JULES LEMAITRE
de l'Academie Francais

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I. "I NEED LOVE"

She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the
tea-table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of
flowers ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the
flowery branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls
quiver. Then she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention.
She held herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow
with her eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin
gown, around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein
sombre lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face
of that day. The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this
amiable woman whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her,
lived without either acute joy or profound sadness.

On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures
of the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique
games and dying graces. L