to commonplace minds.  His freedom of speech often made—­his colleagues tremble; they asked themselves with terror how he had been able to keep his place as long as he had.  As soon as they had seated themselves, Monsieur Perdrix thanked his “collaborators” in a neat little speech, promising them his protection, the more valuable as his power grew, and he ended with a stirring peroration in which he thanked and glorified a government so liberal and just that it knows how to seek out the worthy from among the humble.

Monsieur Capitaine, the assistant chief, answered in the name of the office, congratulated, greeted, exalted, sang the praises of all; frantic applause greeted these two bits of eloquence.  After that they settled down seriously to the business of eating.

Everything went well up to the dessert; lack of conversation went unnoticed.  But after the coffee a discussion arose, and Monsieur Rade let himself loose and soon began to overstep the bounds of discretion.

They naturally discussed love, and a breath of chivalry intoxicated this room full of bureaucrats; they praised and exalted the superior beauty of woman, the delicacy of hex soul, her aptitude for exquisite things, the correctness of her judgment, and the refinement of her sentiments.  Monsieur Rade began to protest, energetically refusing to credit the so-called “fair” sex with all the qualities they ascribed to it; then, amidst the general indignation, he quoted some authors: 

“Schopenhauer, gentlemen, Schopenhauer, the great philosopher, revered by all Germany, says:  ’Man’s intelligence must have been terribly deadened by love in order to call this sex with the small waist, narrow shoulders, large hips and crooked legs, the fair sex.  All its beauty lies in the instinct of love.  Instead of calling it the fair, it would have been better to call it the unaesthetic sex.  Women have neither the appreciation nor the knowledge of music, any more than they have of poetry or of the plastic arts; with them it is merely an apelike imitation, pure pretence, affectation cultivated from their desire to please.’”

“The man who said that is an idiot,” exclaimed Monsieur de Sombreterre.

Monsieur Rade smilingly continued: 

“And how about Rousseau, gentlemen?  Here is his opinion:  ’Women, as a rule, love no art, are skilled in none, and have no talent.’”

Monsieur de Sombreterre disdainfully shrugged his shoulders: 

“Then Rousseau is as much of a fool as the other, that’s all.”

Monsieur Rade, still smiling, went on: 

“And this is what Lord Byron said, who, nevertheless, loved women:  ’They should be well fed and well dressed, but not allowed to mingle with society.  They should also be taught religion, but they should ignore poetry and politics, only being allowed to read religious works or cook-books.’”

Monsieur Rade continued: 

“You see, gentlemen, all of them study painting and music.  But not a single one of them has ever painted a remarkable picture or composed a great opera!  Why, gentlemen?  Because they are the ‘sexes sequior’, the secondary sex in every sense of the word, made to be kept apart, in the background.”