Eyes
of morbid curiosity were looking at the open wounds of his heart-ragged
wounds made by the shrapnel of tragedy and treachery, not the clean
wounds got in a fair fight, easily healed. For the moment at least the
little egoist was a mere suffering soul--an epitome of shame, misery and
disappointment. He must straightway flee the place where he was tied to
the stake of public curiosity and scorn. He drew the reins tighter, and
the horses straightened to depart. Then it was that old Judge Carcasson
laid a hand on his knee.
"Come, come," he said to the dejected and broken little man, "where is
your philosophy?"
Jean Jacques looked at the Judge, as though with a new-born suspicion
that henceforth the world would laugh at him, and that Judge Carcasson
was setting the fashion; but seeing a pitying moisture in the other's
eyes, he drew himself up, set his jaw, and calling on all the forces at
his command, he said:
"Moi je suis philosophe!"
His voice frayed a little on the last word, but his head was up now.
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