99.  Here let us note how great is the power, how mysterious the attraction, of veritable happiness.  Something of a hush comes over Saint-Simon’s stirring narrative as one of the members of the “little flock” passes through the careless, triumphant crowd, unceasingly busy with intrigue and salutation, petty love and petty triumph, amidst the marble staircases and magnificent halls of Versailles.  Saint-Simon goes calmly on with his story; but for one second we seem to have compared all this jubilant vanity and ephemeral rejoicing, this brazen-tongued falsehood that secretly trembles, with the serene, unvarying loftiness of those strenuous, tranquil souls.  It is as though there should suddenly appear in the midst of a band of children—­who are plucking flowers, it may be, stealing fruit, or playing forbidden games—­a priest or an aged man, who should go on his way, letting fall not one word of rebuke.  The games are suddenly stopped; startled conscience awakens; and unbidden thoughts of duty, reality, truth, rush in on the mind; but with men no more than with children are impressions of long duration, though they spring from the priest, or the sage, or only the thought that has passed and gone on its way.  But it matters not, they have seen; and the human soul, for all that the eyes are only too willing to close or turn away, is nobler than most men would wish it to be, for it often troubles their peace; and the soul is quick to declare its preference for that it has seen, and fain would abandon its enforced and wearisome idleness.  And although we may smile and make merry as the sage disappears in the distance, he has, though he know it not, left a clear track in the midst of our error and folly, where, haply, it still will abide for a long time to come.  And when the sudden hour of tears bursts upon us, then most of all shall we see it enwrapped in light.  We find again and again, in Saint-Simon’s story, that sorrow no sooner invades a soul somewhat loftier than others, somewhat nearer to life perhaps, than it speedily flies for comfort to one it has thus seen pass by in the midst of the uneasy silence and almost malevolent wonder, that in this world too often attend the footsteps of a blameless life.  It is not our wont to question happiness closely in the days when we deem ourselves happy; but when sorrow draws nigh, our memory flies to the peace that somewhere lies hidden:  the peace that depends not on the rays of the sun, or the kiss that has been withheld, or the disapproval of kings.  At such moments we go not to those who are happy, as we once were happy; for we know that this happiness melts away before the first fretful gesture of fate.  Would you learn where true happiness dwells, you have only to watch the movements of those who are wretched, and seek consolation.  Sorrow is like the divining-rod that used to avail the seekers of treasure or of clear running water; for he who may have it about him unerringly makes for the house where profoundest peace has its