He was already on his feet and went to meet his visitor, a stage-lover looking fellow, with the blue clean-shaven chin of a priest or a Yankee, who held his head very high, and wore in the grey cut-a-way which clothed his well-rounded figure, the rosette which is displayed alike by our heroes and our lackeys.  The old gentleman presented Clerambault to him with cheerful alacrity:  “Mr. Agenor Clerambault—­Mr. Hyacinth Moncheri,” and asked the Honourable Under-Secretary of State to what he owed the honour of his visit.  The Honourable Under-Secretary, not in the least surprised by the obsequious welcome of the old scholar, settled himself in his armchair with the lofty air of familiarity suitable to the superior position he held over the two representatives of French letters.  He represented the State.

Speaking haughtily through his nose, and braying like a dromedary, he extended to Perrotin an invitation from the Minister to preside over a solemn contest of embattled intellectuals from ten nations, in the great amphitheatre of the Sorbonne—­“an imprecatory meeting,” he called it.  Perrotin promptly accepted, and professed himself overcome by the honour.  His servile tone before this licensed government ignoramus made a striking contrast with his bold statements a few moments before, and Clerambault, somewhat taken aback, thought of the Graeculus.

Mr.  “Cheri” walked out with his head in the air, like an ass in a sacred procession, accompanied by Perrotin to the very threshold, and when the friends were once more alone, Clerambault would have liked to resume the conversation, but he could not conceal that he was a little chilled by what had passed.  He asked Perrotin if he meant to state in public the opinions he had just professed, and Perrotin refused, naturally, laughing at his friend’s simplicity.  What is more, he cautioned him affectionately against proclaiming such ideas from the house-tops.  Clerambault was vexed and disputed the point, but in order to make the situation clear to him, and with the utmost frankness, Perrotin described his surroundings, the great minds of the higher University, which he represented officially:  historians, philosophers, professors of rhetoric.  He spoke of them politely but with a deep half-concealed contempt, and a touch of personal bitterness; for in spite of his prudence, the less intelligent of his colleagues looked on him with suspicion; he was too clever.  He said he was like an old blind man’s dog in a pack of barking curs; forced to do as they did and bark at the passers-by.

Clerambault did not quarrel with him, but went away with pity in his heart.