Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/101

He indicated Sarah Bernhardt's grave. "Did she leave a heritage, too?"

"Indeed she did," Berger rejoined. "The only trouble is that her heritage is being exploited by elegant ladies in elegant clothes-or maybe in no clothes at all. . . just as the divine Sarah once rode through the Place de la Chatelet in the clothes Mother Eve wore."

"Too bad I wasn't there," grinned Pierre. "The naked actresses we see nowadays would look better with their clothes on. They don't wait until they die to become skeletons. No flesh, no curves, no glamor. But even glamor-you can't butter your bread with beauty."

"My dear Pierre," Berger taunted him. "You talk like a waiter. Beauty is the bread of life."

Pierre coughed impatiently. "You'll forgive me, Berger," he said, "but to me this sounds like petty bourgeois rot. I thought you were entirely different. According to Anna and Mary you're a real fighter, a revolutionary."

Berger puffed at his pipe. It had gone dead and he knocked the bowl against the palm of his hand. "How do you think revolutions are planned, my friend?" he said impatiently. "Revolutionists are artists-artists in politics. They create beauty too-a beautiful world."

Pierre glanced sideways at him and then yawned. "Well, I've got to go," he said shortly. "This is no place to talk philosophy. I prefer café noir." He started to go. "I suppose you'll be coming back this afternoon. Goodbye."

Berger remained where he was, his face clouded over. Pierre's sudden departure plunged him into gloom. How strangely people reacted, he thought. How intolerant of the faintest deviation from accepted ideas. They cling to their prejudices like fleas to a dog. What did I say that justified his abrupt departure? The truth probably is that we don't