like a flash, at one pull?”
“What a flash of wit!”
“Drunk as lords,” muttered a young man gravely, trying to give some wine to his waistcoat.
“Yes, sir; real government is the art of ruling by public opinion.”
“Opinion? That is the most vicious jade of all. According to you moralists and politicians, the laws you set up are always to go before those of nature, and opinion before conscience. You are right and wrong both. Suppose society bestows down pillows on us, that benefit is made up for by the gout; and justice is likewise tempered by red-tape, and colds accompany cashmere shawls.”
“Wretch!” Emile broke in upon the misanthrope, “how can you slander civilization here at table, up to the eyes in wines and exquisite dishes? Eat away at that roebuck with the gilded horns and feet, and do not carp at your mother…”
“Is it any fault of mine if Catholicism puts a million deities in a sack of flour, that Republics will end in a Napoleon, that monarchy dwells between the assassination of Henry IV. and the trial of Louis XVI., and Liberalism produces Lafayettes?”
“Didn’t you embrace him in July?”
“No.”
“Then hold your tongue, you sceptic.”
“Sceptics are the most conscientious of men.”
“They have no conscience.”
“What are you saying? They have two apiece at least!”
“So you want to discount heaven, a thoroughly commercial notion. Ancient religions were but the unchecked development of physical pleasure, but we have developed a soul and expectations; some advance has been made.”
“What can you expect, my friends, of a century filled with politics to repletion?” asked Nathan. “What befell The History of the King of Bohemia and his Seven Castles, a most entrancing conception?..”
“I say,” the would-be critic cried down the whole length of the table. “The phrases might have been drawn at hap-hazard from a hat, ‘twas a work written ‘down to Charenton.’”
“You are a fool!”
“And you are a rogue!”
“Oh! oh!”
“Ah! ah!”
“They are going to fight.”
“No, they aren’t.”
“You will find me to-morrow, sir.”
“This very moment,” Nathan answered.
“Come, come, you pair of fire-eaters!”
“You are another!” said the prime mover in the quarrel.
“Ah, I can’t stand upright, perhaps?” asked the pugnacious Nathan, straightening himself up like a stag-beetle about to fly.
He stared stupidly round the table, then, completely exhausted by the effort, sank back into his chair, and mutely hung his head.
“Would it not have been nice,” the critic said to his neighbor, “to fight about a book I have neither read nor seen?”
“Emile, look out for your coat; your neighbor is growing pale,” said Bixiou.
“Kant? Yet another ball flung out for fools to sport with, sir! Materialism and spiritualism are a fine pair of battledores with which charlatans in long gowns keep a shuttlecock a-going. Suppose that God is everywhere, as Spinoza says, or that all things proceed from God, as says St. Paul… the nincompoops, the door shuts or opens, but isn’t the movement the same? Does the fowl come from the egg, or the egg from the fowl?.. Just hand me some duck… and there, you have all science.”
“Simpleton!” cried the man of science, “your problem is settled by fact!”
“What fact?”
“Professors’ chairs were not made for philosophy, but philosophy for the professors’ chairs. Put on a pair of spectacles and read the budget.”
“Thieves!”
“Nincompoops!”
“Knaves!”
“Gulls!”
“Where but in Paris will you find such a ready and rapid exchange of thought?” cried Bixiou in a deep, bass voice.
“Bixiou! Act a classical farce for us! Come now.”
“Would you like me to depict the nineteenth century?”
“Silence.”
“Pay attention.”
“Clap a muffle on your trumpets.”
“Shut up, you Turk!”
“Give him some wine, and let that fellow keep quiet.”
“Now, then, Bixiou!”
The artist buttoned his black coat to the collar, put on yellow gloves, and began to burlesque the Revue des Deux Mondes by acting a squinting old lady; but the uproar drowned his voice, and no one heard a word of the satire. Still, if he did not catch the spirit of the century, he represented the Revue at any rate, for his own intentions were not very clear to him.
Dessert was served as if by magic. A huge epergne of gilded bronze from Thomire’s studio overshadowed the table. Tall statuettes, which a celebrated artist had endued with ideal beauty according to conventional European notions, sustained and carried pyramids of strawberries, pines, fresh dates, golden grapes, clear-skinned peaches, oranges brought from Setubal by steamer, pomegranates, Chinese fruit; in short, all the surprises of luxury, miracles of confectionery, the most tempting dainties, and choicest delicacies. The coloring of this epicurean work of art was enhanced by the splendors of porcelain, by sparkling outlines of gold, by the chasing of the vases. Poussin’s landscapes, copied on Sevres ware, were crowned with graceful fringes of moss, green, translucent, and fragile as ocean weeds.
The revenue of a German prince would not have defrayed the cost of this arrogant display. Silver and mother-of-pearl, gold and crystal, were lavished afresh in new forms; but scarcely a vague idea of this almost Oriental fairyland penetrated eyes now heavy with wine, or crossed the delirium of intoxication. The fire and fragrance of the wines acted like potent philters and magical fumes, producing a kind of mirage in the brain, binding feet, and weighing down hands. The clamor increased. Words were no longer distinct, glasses flew in pieces, senseless peals of laughter broke out. Cursy snatched up a horn and struck up a flourish on it. It acted like a signal given by the devil. Yells, hisses, songs, cries, and groans went up from the maddened crew. You might have smiled to see men, light-hearted by nature, grow tragical as Crebillon’s dramas, and pensive as a sailor in a coach. Hard-headed men blabbed secrets to the inquisitive, who were long past heeding them. Saturnine faces were wreathed in smiles worthy of a pirouetting dancer. Claude Vignon shuffled about like a bear in a cage. Intimate friends began to fight.
Animal likenesses, so curiously traced by physiologists in human faces, came out in gestures and behavior. A book
