ong the dead, grazed by the wheels
of the artillery of the conquerors, who defiled singing. Nothing has
moved me like that drive of the old man, who has never uttered a
complaint and who has for himself only that acre of land in which to move
freely. But these are grand words which the holy man wrote one day at the
foot of his portrait for a missionary. The words explain his life:
'Debitricem martyrii fidem'--Faith is bound to martyrdom."

"'Debitricem martyrii fidem'," repeated Dorsenne, "that is beautiful,
indeed. And," he added, in a low voice, "you just now abused very rudely
the dilettantes and the sceptic. But do you think there would be one of
them who would refuse martyrdom if he could have at the same time faith?"

Never had Montfanon heard the young man utter a similar phrase and in
such an accent. The image returned to him, by way of contrast, of
Dorsenne, alert and foppish, the dandy of literature, so gayly a scoffer
and a sophist, to whom antique and venerable Rome was only a city of
pleasure, a cosmopolis more paradoxical than Florence, Nice, Biarritz,
St. Moritz, than such and such other cities of international winter and
summer. He felt that for the first time that soul was strained to its
depths, the tragical death of poor Alba had become in the mind of the
writer the point of remorse around which revolved the moral life of the
superior and incomplete being, exiled from simple humanity by the most
invincible pride of mind. Montfanon comprehended that every additional
word would pain the wounded heart. He was afraid of having already
lectured Dorsenne too severely. He took within his arm the arm of the
young man, and he pressed it silently, putting into that manly caress all
the warm and discreet pity of an elder brother.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Mobile and complaisant conscience had already forgiven himself
Not an excuse, but an explanation of your conduct
Sufficed him to conceive the plan of a reparation
There is always and everywhere a duty to fulfill

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE COSMOPOLIS:

Conditions of blindness so voluntary that they become complicity
Despotism natural to puissant personalities
Egyptian tobacco, mixed with opium and saltpetre
Follow their thoughts instead of heeding objects
Has as much sense as the handle of a basket
Have never known in the morning what I would do in the evening
I no longer lov