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h-like to the focus, so in its dreamy microcosm did the lights of the little town, a thousand flickering points from the outskirts and a line of long illumination marking the main street athwart the dark mass of roofs and dissipating itself hazily in midair, appeal to the imagination—set it wondering as to the myriad joyous affairs of men. In low voices they talked of Fortinbras. His spirit seemed to have emerged from the welter of Paris into this pool of the world’s tranquillity. In spite of his magnetic force hi

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rds had been but words. What they were to meet at Brant?me they knew not. They scarce had thought. What to them had been the landlord

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up of unconsidered trifles, but a serving girl of no account, plain and redolent of the scullery? Bigourdin’s courteous bearing and d

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acy of speech had come upon them as a surprise. So had the refinement of Félise. They had to readjust their conception of Fortinbras.

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y were amazed, simple souls, to find that he had ties in life so indubitably respectable. And he had a wife, too, a chronic invalid, w

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whom he lived in the jealous obscurity of Paris. It was pathetic. . . . They had obeyed him hardly knowing why. At the back of their m

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he had been but a charlatan of peculiar originality—at the same time a being almost mythical, so remote from them was his life. And

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he became startlingly real. They heard his voice soft and persuasive whispering by their side with a touch of gentle mockery. Then si

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