wholly different background, the porch of a gothic cathedral, that I
would see outlined the figure of one of the women of whom I dreamed.

I had heard Bergotte spoken of, for the first time, by a friend older
than myself, for whom I had a strong admiration, a precious youth of the
name of Bloch. Hearing me confess my love of the _Nuit d'Octobre_, he
had burst out in a bray of laughter, like a bugle-call, and told me,
by way of warning: "You must conquer your vile taste for A. de Musset,
Esquire. He is a bad egg, one of the very worst, a pretty detestable
specimen. I am bound to admit, natheless," he added graciously, "that
he, and even the man Racine, did, each of them, once in his life,
compose a line which is not only fairly rhythmical, but has also what is
in my eyes the supreme merit of meaning absolutely nothing. One is

_La blanche Oloossone et la blanche Camire_,

and the other

_La fille de Minos et de Pasiphae_."

They were submitted to my judgment, as evidence for the defence of the
two runagates, in an article by my very dear master Father Lecomte, who
is found pleasing in the sight of the immortal gods. By which token,
here is a book which I have not the time, just now, to read, a book
recommended, it would seem, by that colossal fellow. He regards, or so
they tell me, its author, one Bergotte, Esquire, as a subtle scribe,
more subtle, indeed, than any beast of the field; and, albeit he
exhibits on occasion a critical pacifism, a tenderness in suffering
fools, for which it is impossible to account, and hard to make
allowance, still his word has weight with me as it were the Delphic
Oracle. Read you then this lyrical prose, and, if the Titanic
master-builder of rhythm who composed _Bhagavat_ and the _Levrier de
Magnus_ speaks not falsely, then, by Apollo, you may taste, even you, my
master, the ambrosial joys of Olympus." It was in an ostensible vein of
sarcasm that he had asked me to call him, and that he himself called me,
"my master." But, as a matter of fact, we each derived a certain amount
of satisfaction from the mannerism, being still at the age in which one
believes that one gives a thing real existence by giving it a name.

Unfortunately I was not able to set at rest, by further talks with
Bloch, in which I might have insisted upon an explanation, the doubts
he had engendered in me when he told me that fine lines of poetry (from
which I, if you please, expected nothing less than the revelat