le engravers of Dom Michel Germain.

His friend asked him whether he was acquainted with all the
manuscripts and printed documents relating to the subject. It was then
that I pricked up my ears. They spoke at first of original sources;
and I must confess they did so in a satisfactory manner, despite
their innumerable and detestable puns. Then they began to speak about
contemporary studies on the subject.

"Have you read," asked Boulmier, "the notice of Courajod?"

"Good!" I thought to myself.

"Yes," replied Gelis; "it is accurate."

"Have you read," said Boulmier, "the article by Tamisey de Larroque in
the Revue des Questions Historiques?"

"Good!" I thought to myself, for the second time.

"Yes," replied Gelis, "it is full of things...."

"Have you read," said Boulmier, "the 'Tableau des Abbayes Benedictines
en 1600,' by Sylvestre Bonnard?"

"Good!" I said to myself, for the third time.

"_Ma foi!_ no!" replied Gelis. "Bonnard is an idiot!"

Turning my head, I perceived that the shadow had reached the place
where I was sitting. It was growing chilly, and I thought to myself
what a fool I was to have remained sitting there, at the risk of
getting the rheumatism, just to listen to the impertinence of those
two young fellows!

"Well! well!" I said to myself as I got up. "Let this prattling
fledgeling write his thesis, and sustain it! He will find my colleague
Quicherat, or some other professor at the school, to show him what an
ignoramus he is. I consider him neither more nor less than a rascal;
and really, now that I come to think of it, what he said about
Michelet awhile ago was quite insufferable, outrageous! To talk in
that way about an old master replete with genius! It was simply
abominable!"

CHILD-LIFE

From 'The Book of My Friend'

Everything in immortal nature is a miracle to the little child.

I was happy. A thousand things at once familiar and mysterious filled
my imagination, a thousand things which were nothing in themselves,
but which made my life. It was very small, that life of mine; but it
was a life--which is to say, the centre of all things, the kernel of
the world. Do not smile at what I say,--or smile only in sympathy, and
reflect: whoever lives, be it only a dog, is at the centre of all
things.

Deciding to be a hermit and a saint, and to resign the good things of
this world, I threw my toys out of the window.

"The child is a fool!" cried my father, closing the wind