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one, because he didn’t want to expose his too youthful mistress to the desires of manly men; or about Legrandin, who had the brilliant idea of endowing himself with the non-existent title of “Comte de Mes Eglises” or something of the sort—(“If he had been born in Cholula he could have called himself Count of the three hundred sixty-five churches,” broke in Peralta)—and was beginning to boast of being a snob in a world where snobbishness was taken as a sign of being enthusiastic for the “latest” in everything.
    Paris, so the Distinguished Academician went on to say, was getting like the Rome of Heliogabalus, opening its doors to everything strange, out of joint, exotic, barbarous, primitive. Modern sculptors, instead of being inspired by the great periods of the past, marvelled at Mycenaean, pre-Hellenic, Scythian art, the art of the steppes. There were people these days who collected horrible African masks, figures bristling with votive nails, zoomorphic idols—the work of cannibals. Negro musicians were arriving from the United States. A scandalous Italian poet had gone so far as to publish a manifesto declaring that it was necessary to destroy Venice and burn down the Louvre. That way could only lead us to exalting Attila, Erostratus, the Iconoclasts, the cakewalk, English cooking, anarchist outrages, and the reign of new Circes calling themselves Lyane de Pougy, Emilienne d’Alençon, or Cleo de Mérode.
    (“I’d willingly be transformed into a swine for them,” murmured Peralta.)
    But now, to cheer up our visitor, I said that every big city suffered from temporary fevers, foolish enthusiasms, fashions, affectations, and extravagances, which lasted only oneday and made no impact on the genius of a nation. Juvenal was already complaining of the habits of dress, perfumes, cults, and superstitions of a Roman society fascinated by everything that came from outside. Snobbishness was nothing new. After all, Molierè’s Précieuses were merely snobs “
avant la lettre
.” You either have a great capital or you don’t have a great capital. And in spite of so many novelties, Paris was still the Holy of Holies of good taste, moderation, order, and proportion, and dictated the rules of polite behaviour, elegance, and savoir vivre to the whole world. And, as for cosmopolitanism, which was also a feature of Athens, it in no way harmed the authentic French genius. “
Ce qui n’est pas clair n’est pas français
,” I say, proud of still being able to quote a certain Rivarol whom the Marist Brothers of Surgidero de la Verónica made me read in my schooldays.
    “Certainly,” agreed the Academician: but our politics, our abject politics, with its rioting, and conflict between parties and fierce parliamentary battles, was introducing confusion and disorder into this essentially rational country. The Panama scandal or the Dreyfus Affair would have been inconceivable in the time of Louis XIV. Not to mention the “socialist mire,” which, as our friend Gabriele D’Annunzio said, “is invading everything,” befouling all that was beautiful and pleasant in our ancient civilisations. Socialism (he sighed, looking at the toes of his patent-leather shoes). Forty kings had made France great. Look at England. Look at the Scandinavian countries, models of order and progress, where stevedores wear waistcoats at work and every bricklayer has a watch and chain under his overalls. Brazil was great when it had an emperor, like Pedro II, who was the friend, fellow diner, and admirer of that same Victor Hugo you all think so well of. Mexico was great when it had Porfirio Díaz as its almost permanent president. And if my country enjoyedpeace and prosperity, it was because my fellow countrymen, more intelligent perhaps than others on the Continent, had re-elected me three, four—how many times? Knowing that the continuity of power is a guarantee of material well-being and political equilibrium. Thanks to my government.
    I