nce was once a fourth of the population of Europe, but now it is only
one-eighth. In a century or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens
and ancient Rome, and we shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now
occupies. Paris seems determined to die."

But Santerre protested: "No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain
stationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the most
intelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nations
advance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We
are simply giving the world an example of high culture, superior
intelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example when
in turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs of
this already on every side."

"Quite so!" exclaimed Seguin, backing up his friend. "The phenomenon is
general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in
numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is
affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as
Europe forces open the door there."

Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated
before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The
pale, slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer
in question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if
communing with himself, he said: "So you do not fear the Yellow Peril,
that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would
at some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it
afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the
sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to
endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence
civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How
was it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their
populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens
and Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes
and renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has
already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but
the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you
please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is
dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is
none the less a fact that she is approachin