A cruel smile played over the Russian’s beard.

“But there exists that Kultur, diametrically opposed to civilization, which the Germans wish to palm off upon us.  Civilization is refinement of spirit, respect of one’s neighbor, tolerance of foreign opinion, courtesy of manner.  Kultur is the action of a State that organizes and assimilates individuals and communities in order to utilize them for its own ends; and these ends consist mainly in placing ‘The State’ above other states, overwhelming them with their grandeur—­or what is the same thing—­with their haughty and violent pride.”

By this time, the three had reached the place de l’Etoile.  The dark outline of the Arc de Triomphe stood forth clearly in the starry expanse.  The avenues extended in all directions, a double file of lights.  Those around the monument illuminated its gigantic bases and the feet of the sculptured groups.  Further up, the vaulted spaces were so locked in shadow that they had the black density of ebony.

Upon passing under the Arch, which greatly intensified the echo of their footsteps, they came to a standstill.  The night breeze had a wintry chill as it whistled past, and the curved masses seemed melting into the diffused blue of space.  Instinctively the three turned to glance back at the Champs Elysees.  They saw only a river of shadow on which were floating rosaries of red stars among the two long, black scarfs formed by the buildings.  But they were so well acquainted with this panorama that in imagination they mentally saw the majestic sweep of the avenue, the double row of palaces, the place de la Concorde in the background with the Egyptian obelisk, and the trees of the Tuileries.

“How beautiful it is!” exclaimed Tchernoff who was seeing something beyond the shadows.  “An entire civilization, loving peace and pleasure, has passed through here.”

A memory greatly affected the Russian.  Many an afternoon, after lunch, he had met in this very spot a robust man, stocky, with reddish beard and kindly eyes—­a man who looked like a giant who had just stopped growing.  He was always accompanied by a dog.  It was Jaures, his friend Jaures, who before going to the senate was accustomed to taking a walk toward the Arch from his home in Passy.

“He liked to come just where we are now!  He loved to look at the avenues, the distant gardens, all of Paris which can be seen from this height; and filled with admiration, he would often say to me, ’This is magnificent—­one of the most beautiful perspectives that can be found in the entire world.’ . . .  Poor Jaures!”

Through association of ideas, the Russian evoked the image of his compatriot, Michael Bakounine, another revolutionist, the father of anarchy, weeping with emotion at a concert after hearing the symphony with Beethoven chorals directed by a young friend of his, named Richard Wagner.  “When our revolution comes,” he cried, clasping the hand of the master, “whatever else may perish, this must be saved at any cost!”