DECEMBER 291 



moy mesme des propos les plus eloignez de mon estat. . . . 

 Estant cheu tout a coup d'une tresdoulce condition de vie 

 et tresheureuse, a la plus douloureuse et penible qui se 

 puisse imaginer . . . ie maintiens toutes fois, iusques a 

 cette heure, mon esprit en telle assiette, que pourveu que 

 i'y puisse apporter de la Constance, ie me trouve en assez 

 meilleure condition de vie que mille avltres, qui n'ont ny 

 fiebvre ny mal que celuy qu'ils se donnent eulx mesmes par 

 la faute de leurs discours. 



This is the kind of sweet philosopher for a prisoner 

 of the Whips to take with him to one of those IOAV 

 green-backed chairs of a summer afternoon. The sun 

 is off the river front; air flows in through the open 

 windows; soothing sounds come off the water; the 

 frou-frou of many visitors ; the tinkle of tea-cups and 

 the murmur of many voices are heard on the terrace. 

 Scenes of old France flit before you as you turn the 

 pages the France of the last of the Valois, of the 

 religious wars, of Catherine's escadron volant. The 

 better to realise the misty groups, perhaps you close 

 your eyes; presently you are in the presence of the 

 smiling sage himself, clad in his accustomed black 

 velvet and lace, for he has explained how he never 

 could be bothered by conforming to the polychrome 

 motley of his countrymen (Francois accoustumez a nous 

 bigarrer). You are just about to ask him how it was 

 possible for him and Ronsard and Jodelle, and the rest 

 of a select little literary society, to keep their spirits 

 serene amid the constant purposeless slaughter and 

 unlovely debauchery of the times, when Trrrr, trrrr, 

 trrrr a detestable bell awakens you with a start : you 



