M. Bergeret was preparing his lesson on the eighth book of the ?neid, and he ought to have been devoting himself exclusively to the fascinating5 details of metre and language. In this task he would have found, if not joy, at any rate mental peace and the priceless balm of spiritual tranquillity. Instead, he had turned his thoughts in another direction: he was musing on the soul, the genius, the outward features of that classic world whose books he spent his life in studying.

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