9 P.M.

I have made up my mind.  I shall go to see M. Charnot.  But before that I shall go to his publisher’s and find out something about this famous man’s works, of which I know nothing whatever.

December 31st

He lives in the Rue de l’Universite.

I have called.  I have seen him.  I owe this to an accident, to the servant’s forgetting her orders.

As I entered, on the stroke of five, he was spinning a spiral twist of paper beneath the lamplight to amuse his daughter—­he a member of the Institute, she a girl of eighteen.  So that is how these big-wigs employ their leisure moments!

The library where I found them was full of book cases-open bookcases, bookcases with glass doors, tall bookcases, dwarf bookcases, bookcases standing on legs, bookcases standing on the floor—­of statuettes yellow with smoke, of desks crowded with paper-weights, paper-knives, pens, and inkstands of “artistic” pat terns.  He was seated at the table, with his back to the fire, his arm lifted, and a hairpin between his finger and thumb—­the pivot round which his paper twist was spinning briskly.  Across the table stood his daughter, leaning forward with her chin on her hands and her white teeth showing as she laughed for laughing’s sake, to give play to her young spirits and gladden her old father’s heart as he gazed on her, delighted.

I must confess it made a pretty picture; and M. Charnot at that moment was extremely unlike the M. Charnot who had confronted me from behind the desk.

I was not left long to contemplate.

The moment I lifted the ‘portiere’ the girl jumped up briskly and regarded me with a touch of haughtiness, meant, I think, to hide a slight confusion.  To compare small things with great, Diana must have worn something of that look at sight of Actaeon.  M. Charnot did not rise, but hearing somebody enter, turned half-round in his armchair, while his eyes, still dazzled with the lamplight, sought the intruder in the partial shadow of the room.

I felt myself doubly uneasy in the presence of this reader of the Early Text and of this laughing girl.

“Sir,” I began, “I owe you an apology—­”

He recognized me.  The girl moved a step.

“Stay, Jeanne, stay.  We shall not take long.  This gentleman has come to offer an apology.”

This was a cruel beginning.

She thought so, too, perhaps, and withdrew discreetly into a dim corner, near the bookcase at the end of the room.

“I have felt deep regret, sir, for that accident the other day—­I set down the penholder clumsily, in equilibrium—­unstable equilibrium —­besides, I had no notion there was a reader behind the desk.  Of course, if I had been aware, I should—­I should have acted differently.”

M. Charnot allowed me to flounder on with the contemplative satisfaction of an angler who has got a fish at the end of his line.  He seemed to find me so very stupid, that as a matter of fact I became stupid.  And then, there was no answer—­not a word.  Silence, alas! is not the reproof of kings alone.  It does pretty well for everybody.  I stumbled on two or three more phrases quite as flatly infelicitous, and he received them with the same faint smile and the same silence.