'Where else, for example, may I hope to find--opportunity?'
Barnet made no reply.
'Perhaps on the Riviera. Or at some such place as Homburg. Or some
plague perhaps.'
'All that,' said Barnet, accepting for the first time facts that had
lain evident in his mind for weeks; 'all that must be over, too.'
There was a pause. Then the voice beside him broke out. 'But, Monsieur,
it is impossible! It leaves--nothing.'
'No. Not very much.'
'One cannot suddenly begin to grow potatoes!'
'It would be good if Monsieur could bring himself----'
'To the life of a peasant! And my wife----You do not know the
distinguished delicacy of my wife, a refined helplessness, a peculiar
dependent charm. Like some slender tropical creeper--with great white
flowers.... But all this is foolish talk. It is impossible that Paris,
which has survived so many misfortunes, should not presently revive.'
'I do not think it will ever revive. Paris is finished. London, too, I
am told--Berlin. All the great capitals were stricken....'
'But----! Monsieur must permit me to differ.'
'It is so.'
'It is impossible. Civilisations do not end in this manner. Mankind will
insist.'
'On Paris?'
'On Paris.'
'Monsieur, you might as well hope to go down the Maelstrom and resume
business there.
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