“That is something no country does,” observed the baron. “Perhaps it will come some day, but I am not at all hopeful. The better we know other peoples the less we seem to like them. But go on.”
“It was M. Scott—a friend—who proposed the idea of an organ—a journal, you understand, hebdomadaire—where he could gather together a band of fanatics like himself and keep on fighting for his beliefs. The idea appealed to him—he began to think that, in control of such a journal, he might find life again worth living.”
“So he doubted, did he, that life was worth living?” commented the baron. “Even when he had you? It is easy to see that he is an American!”
“Yes; Americans are like that. They have something, I know not what—an engine—a dynamo—inside them, driving them on. I doubt if they are ever really happy, as a Frenchman can be happy—entirely happy and content. At least, not for long; they feel they must be doing something.”
The baron nodded.
“You are right. What is M. Selden going to do?”
“He has his journal!” cried Rénee and clapped her hands.
“Yes,” laughed Selden, “she got it for me, much as she would buy a toy for a child, to keep it quiet.”
“But how?” asked the baron.
“Ah, it was simple,” Rénee explained. “The only difficulty, it seemed, was one of finance. You remember that young M. Davis?”