As usual Barthes had spent his day in marching, like a caged lion, up and down the room in which he had accepted shelter after the fashion of a big fearless child, who never worried with regard either to his present circumstances or the troubles which the future might have in store for him.

His life had ever been one of unlimited hope, which reality had ever shattered.

Although all that he had loved, all that he had hoped to secure by fifty years of imprisonment or exile,--liberty, equality and a real brotherly republic,--had hitherto failed to come, such as he had dreamt of them, he nevertheless retained the candid faith of his youth, and was ever confident in the near future.

He would smile indulgently when new comers, men of violent ideas, derided him and called him a poor old fellow.

For his part, he could make neither head nor tail of the many new sects.