His outbursts greatly amused his little circle. They treated their censor like a spoiled child and cared for him as though he were a dear convalescent. Their protective kindness and forbearance, far from calming Laurent, only put him beside himself, and, not succeeding in damaging their serenity, blasted their civility, only to return to them within a few days. They cherished no bitterness toward him, and forgave his thoughtless insults and passionate harangues as being the paradoxes and sophisms of a large heart.
But, haunted by his outlandish ideas, Laurent dreamed of conforming his conduct to them. The moment was coming when he would strip himself of his last prejudices and violate social conventions. His eccentric habits finally wearied the tolerance of his intimates, and, as people who had a reputation to sustain in the world, they hazarded a few observations. One day they had met him accompanied by a couple of picturesque fellows, prowlers on the quays, bad laborers, well modelled, but of a much too excessive originality, to whom, nevertheless, with the best faith in the world, he expected to present them. Having freed themselves in haste from this compromising acquaintance, they were severely taxed with philistinism.
This time Bergmans replied sharply. Paridael was asking too much of them. His jokes were turning sour. To interest himself in folk who worked and suffered; nothing could be finer. But to take a deep interest in blackguards, to rub elbows with criminals and with the riff-raff; that was to behave eccentrically, to say the least! Then, softening, Bergmans tried to show the stray sheep the abyss toward which he was slipping; he reproached him with being out of work, with his solitary life, his dreams, offered him a posi-
