y of
Parisian mockery on his sensitive, easily convinced nature?

It is precisely in "Numa Roumestan," where he is making his most complete
study of the character of the southerner, that Daudet is most pessimistic.
Le Quesnoy, the worthy northerner, deceives his wife as does Numa, the
lying southerner. The spirit of the novel is epitomized in such sentiments
as "Joie de rue, douleur de maison," "Au nord au midi--tous pareils,
traitres et parjures," "Grand homme pour tout le monde excepte pour sa
femme." A decided pessimism pervades the great novels. Optimistic Daudet
is frequently said to be. He was truly so by nature, he is so in the
"Lettres de mon moulin" and in all his work before the war, but his
pessimism is unquestionable in the great novels.

Surely nature did not intend Daudet to become a pessimist; he loved
mankind, he had many devoted friends and no enemies. He carried happiness
wherever he went. The attic of Auteuil, the rendezvous of the Goncourt
group, is dark and gloomy. A serious, mirthless band surrounds the
armchair of the patriarch. The door opens and Daudet enters. Old Goncourt
rises to greet him: "Eh bien! mon petit, ca va?" "Assez bien, mon
Goncourt" is the reply. The terrible malady has already seized the younger
man, but he still radiates life and cheer: his lightness of heart dispels
the gravity of the company; little by little his animation is communicated
to them all, and the attic resounds with peals of laughter.

It was always so. The sympathy of Daudet, the man, was unfailing; his pity
For the weak, his love for his family and friends, his hatred of villainy,
were boundless. He delighted in little acts of charity the source of which
remained unknown to the world and even to the recipient.

"My father said to me again and again," Leon Daudet tells us, "I should
like, after I have accomplished my task, to set myself up as a merchant of
happiness. My reward would be in my success!" This longing, so entirely
characteristic of the man, is manifest everywhere in his earlier work,
only rarely in the great novels; unfortunately the great novels were his
"task."

If only he had continued as he began, if only he had remained the poet of
the "Lettres de mon moulin"; if only he had not been led astray by his
"task," he might have brought to the world of readers that happiness which
he brought to his few friends in the attic of Auteuil.

* * * * *

We are told