"It is absolute nonsense," cried my master.
"But it is symbolism, Monsieur," replied the young man in a tone of indulgent pity.
"What does it mean?"
The young man—he was very kind—smiled and shrugged his shoulders politely.
"What in common speech is the meaning of one of Bach's fugues or Claude Monet's effects of sunlight? One cannot say. They appeal direct to the soul. So does a subtle harmony of words, using words as notes of music, or pigments, what you will, arranged by the magic of a master. These things are transcendental, Monsieur."
"Saperlipopette!" breathed Paragot. "My little Asticot," he whispered to me, "have I really come to this, to sit at the feet of an acting pro-sub-vice-deputy infant Gamaliel and be taught the elements of symbolic poetry?"
"But Master," said I, somewhat captivated by the balderdash, "there is, after all, colour in words. Don't you remember how delighted you were with the name of a little town we passed through on our way to Orléans—Romorantin? You were haunted by it and said it was like the purple note of an organ."
"Which shews you my son that I was aware of the jargon of symbolism before these goslings were hatched," he replied.
He drained his tumbler, called the waiter and paid the reckoning.
"Let us go to Père Louviot's in the Halles where we can meet some real men and women."