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Updated: September 28, 2025
We took very good care never to utter a hint of the ignorance of so perfect a son; and, thanks, to our forbearance, little Raymond made his way to the highest positions. He had lost his mother then; but honours of all kinds were showered upon him. He became omnipotent to the grievous injury of his colleagues and of science.... But here comes my young fiend of the Luxembourg. "Good-evening, Gelis.
Shall I be able to do as much with mine? but that is not the present question. So far as I am able to understand, Monsieur Gelis intends to devote a brief archaeological notice to each of the abbeys pictured by the humble engravers of Dom Michel Germain. His friend asked him whether he was acquainted with all the manuscripts and printed documents relating to the subject.
Gelis, who is an orphan, as Jeanne is, did not make his proposal to me in person. He got one of his professors, an old colleague of mine, highly esteemed for his learning and character, to come to me on his behalf. But what a love messenger! Great Heavens! A bear neat a bear of the Pyrenees, but a literary bear, and this latter variety of bear is much more ferocious than the former.
Then he examined the two volumes of the "Chronique," compared the plans of the subterranean passage, requested a repetition of the sentences discovered by Father Gelis, and then asked: "Was yesterday the first time you have spoken hose two sentences to any one?" "Yes." "You had never communicated then to Horace Velmont?" "No." "Well, order the automobile. I must leave in an hour." "In an hour?"
You were a fool to have been listening to Monsieur Gelis at the foot of the statue of Marguerite de Valois; you were doubly a fool to have heard what he said; and you were trebly a fool not to have forgotten what it would have been much better never to have heard." Having thus scolded the old lion, I exhorted him to show clemency.
Monsieur Gelis reminds me very much at this moment of a certain young fool whom I heard talking wildly one day in the garden of the Luxembourg, under the statue of Marguerite of Navarre.
This joke, though in itself trifling, enabled me to know that the young man called Gelis was a student at the Ecole des Chartes. From the conversation which followed I was able to learn that his neighbor, blond and wan almost to diaphaneity, taciturn and sarcastic was Boulmier, a fellow student.
Gelis asks leave to differ from me on this subject. He tells me he does not believe that history is a science, or that it could possibly ever become a science. "In the first place," he says to me, "what is history? The written representation of past events. But what is an event? Is it merely a commonplace fact? It is any fact? No! You say yourself it is a noteworthy fact.
I am reading, Mademoiselle I am reading that Antigone, having buried the blind old man, wove a fair tapestry embroidered with images in the likeness of laughing faces." "Ah!" said Gelis, as he burs out laughing "that is not in the text." "It is a scholium," I said. "Unpublished," he added, getting up. I am not an egotist. But I am prudent.
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