ject of that naturalism
so reviled by Des Hermies. He returned to Gruenewald and said to himself
that the great Crucifixion was the masterpiece of an art driven out of
bounds. One need not go far in search of the extra-terrestrial as to
fall into perfervid Catholicism. Perhaps spiritualism would give one all
one required to formulate a supernaturalistic method.

He rose and went into his tiny workroom. His pile of manuscript notes
about the Marshal de Rais, surnamed Bluebeard, looked at him derisively
from the table where they were piled.

"All the same," he said, "it's good to be here, in out of the world and
above the limits of time. To live in another age, never read a
newspaper, not even know that the theatres exist--ah, what a dream! To
dwell with Bluebeard and forget the grocer on the corner and all the
other petty little criminals of an age perfectly typified by the cafe
waiter who ravishes the boss's daughter--the goose who lays the golden
egg, as he calls her--so that she will have to marry him!"

Bed was a good place, he added, smiling, for he saw his cat, a creature
with a perfect time sense, regarding him uneasily as if to remind him of
their common convenience and to reproach him for not having prepared the
couch. Durtal arranged the pillows and pulled back the coverlet, and the
cat jumped to the foot of the bed but remained humped up, tail coiled
beneath him, waiting till his master was stretched out at length before
burrowing a little hollow to curl up in.

CHAPTER II

Nearly two years ago Durtal had ceased to associate with men of letters.
They were represented in books and in the book-chat columns of magazines
as forming an aristocracy which had a monopoly on intelligence. Their
conversation, if one believed what one read, sparkled with effervescent
and stimulating wit. Durtal had difficulty accounting to himself for the
persistence of this illusion. His sad experience led him to believe that
every literary man belonged to one of two classes, the thoroughly
commercial or the utterly impossible.

The first consisted of writers spoiled by the public, and drained dry in
consequence, but "successful." Ravenous for notice they aped the ways of
the world of big business, delighted in gala dinners, gave formal
evening parties, spoke of copyrights, sales, and long run plays, and
made great display of wealth.

The second consisted of cafe loafers, "bohemians." Rolling on the
benches, gorged with