Byrons who, having crumpled up their lives like a serviette after

dinner, have nothing left to do but to set their country ablaze, blow
their own brains out, plot for a republic or clamor for a war----"

"Emile," Raphael's neighbor called eagerly to the speaker, "on my
honor, but for the revolution of July I would have taken orders, and

gone off down into the country somewhere to lead the life of an
animal, and----"

"And you would have read your breviary through every day."
"Yes."

"You are a coxcomb!"
"Why, we read the newspapers as it is!"

"Not bad that, for a journalist! But hold your tongue, we are going
through a crowd of subscribers. Journalism, look you, is the religion

of modern society, and has even gone a little further."
"What do you mean?"

"Its pontiffs are not obliged to believe in it any more than the
people are."

Chatting thus, like good fellows who have known their De Viris
illustribus for years past, they reached a mansion in the Rue Joubert.

Emile was a journalist who had acquired more reputation by dint of
doing nothing than others had derived from their achievements. A bold,

caustic, and powerful critic, he possessed all the qualities that his
defects permitted. An outspoken giber, he made numberless epigrams on

a friend to his face; but would defend him, if absent, with courage
and loyalty. He laughed at everything, even at his own career. Always

impecunious, he yet lived, like all men of his calibre, plunged in
unspeakable indolence. He would fling some word containing volumes in

the teeth of folk who could not put a syllable of sense into their
books. He lavished promises that he never fulfilled; he made a pillow

of his luck and reputation, on which he slept, and ran the risk of
waking up to old age in a workhouse. A steadfast friend to the gallows

foot, a cynical swaggerer with a child's simplicity, a worker only
from necessity or caprice.

"In the language of Maitre Alcofribas, we are about to make a famous
troncon de chiere lie," he remarked to Raphael as he pointed out the

flower-stands that made a perfumed forest of the staircase.
"I like a vestibule to be well warmed and richly carpeted," Raphael

said. "Luxury in the peristyle is not common in France. I feel as if
life had begun anew here."

"And up above we are going to drink and make merry once more, my dear
Raphael. Ah! yes," he went on, "and I hope we are going to come off

conquerors, too, and walk over everybody else's head."
As he spoke, he jestingly pointed to the guests. They were entering a

large room which shone with gilding and lights, and there all the
younger men of note in Paris welcomed them. Here was one who had just

revealed fresh powers, his first picture vied with the glories of
Imperial art. There, another, who but yesterday had launched forth a

volume, an acrid book filled with a sort of literaryarrogance, which
opened up new ways to the modern school. A sculptor, not far away,

with vigorous power visible in his rough features, was chatting with
one of those unenthusiastic scoffers who can either see excellence

anywhere or nowhere, as it happens. Here, the cleverest of our
caricaturists, with mischievous eyes and bitter tongue, lay in wait

for epigrams to translate into pencil strokes; there, stood the young
and audacious writer, who distilled the quintessence of political

ideas better than any other man, or compressed the work of some
prolific writer as he held him up to ridicule; he was talking with the

poet whose works would have eclipsed all the writings of the time if
his ability had been as strenuous as his hatreds. Both were trying not

to say the truth while they kept clear of lies, as they exchanged
flattering speeches. A famous musician administered soothing

consolation in a rallying fashion, to a young politician who had just
fallen quite unhurt, from his rostrum. Young writers who lacked style

stood beside other young writers who lacked ideas, and authors of
poetical prose by prosaic poets.

At the sight of all these incomplete beings, a simple Saint Simonian,
ingenuous enough to believe in his own doctrine, charitably paired

them off, designing, no doubt, to convert them into monks of his
order. A few men of science mingled in the conversation, like nitrogen

in the atmosphere, and several vaudevillistes shed rays like the
sparking diamonds that give neither light nor heat. A few paradox-

mongers, laughing up their sleeves at any folk who embraced their
likes or dislikes in men or affairs, had already begun a two-edged

policy, conspiring against all systems, without committing themselves
to any side. Then there was the self-appointedcritic who admires

nothing, and will blow his nose in the middle of a cavatina at the
Bouffons, who applauds before any one else begins, and contradicts

every one who says what he himself was about to say; he was there
giving out the sayings of wittier men for his own. Of all the

assembled guests, a future lay before some five; ten or so should
acquire a fleetingrenown; as for the rest, like all mediocrities,

they might apply to themselves the famous falsehood of Louis XVIII.,
Union and oblivion.

The anxious jocularity of a man who is expending two thousand crowns
sat on their host. His eyes turned impatiently towards the door from

time to time, seeking one of his guests who kept him waiting. Very
soon a stout little person appeared, who was greeted by a

complimentary murmur; it was the notary who had invented the newspaper
that very morning. A valet-de-chambre in black opened the doors of a

vast dining-room, whither every one went without ceremony, and took
his place at an enormous table.

Raphael took a last look round the room before he left it. His wish
had been realized to the full. The rooms were adorned with silk and

gold. Countless wax tapers set in handsome candelabra lit up the
slightest details of gilded friezes, the delicatebronze sculpture,

and the splendid colors of the furniture. The sweet scent of rare
flowers, set in stands tastefully made of bamboo, filled the air.

Everything, even the curtains, was pervaded by elegance without
pretension, and there was a certain imaginative charm about it all

which acted like a spell on the mind of a needy man.
"An income of a hundred thousand livres a year is a very nice

beginning of the catechism, and a wonderful assistance to putting
morality into our actions," he said, sighing. "Truly my sort of virtue

can scarcely go afoot, and vice means, to my thinking, a garret, a
threadbare coat, a gray hat in winter time, and sums owing to the

porter. . . . I should like to live in the lap of luxury a year, or
six months, no matter! And then afterwards, die. I should have known,

exhausted, and consumed a thousand lives, at any rate."
"Why, you are taking the tone of a stockbroker in good luck," said

Emile, who overheard him. "Pooh! your riches would be a burden to you
as soon as you found that they would spoil your chances of coming out

above the rest of us. Hasn't the artist always kept the balance true
between the poverty of riches and the riches of poverty? And isn't

struggle a necessity to some of us? Look out for your digestion, and
only look," he added, with a mock-heroic gesture, "at the majestic,

thrice holy, and edifying appearance of this amiablecapitalist's
dining-room. That man has in reality only made his money for our

benefit. Isn't he a kind of sponge of the polyp order, overlooked by
naturalists, which should be carefully squeezed before he is left for

his heirs to feed upon? There is style, isn't there, about those bas-
reliefs that adorn the walls? And the lustres, and the pictures, what

luxury well carried out! If one may believe those who envy him, or who
know, or think they know, the origins of his life, then this man got

rid of a German and some others--his best friend for one, and the
mother of that friend, during the Revolution. Could you house crimes

under the venerable Taillefer's silvering locks? He looks to me a very
worthy man. Only see how the silver sparkles, and is every glittering

ray like a stab of a dagger to him? . . . Let us go in, one might as
well believe in Mahomet. If common report speak truth, here are thirty

men of talent, and good fellows too, prepared to dine off the flesh
and blood of a whole family; . . . and here are we ourselves, a pair

of youngsters full of open-hearted enthusiasm, and we shall be
partakers in his guilt. I have a mind to ask our capitalist whether he

is a respectablecharacter. . . ."
"No, not now," cried Raphael, "but when he is dead drunk, we shall

have had our dinner then."
The two friends sat down laughing. First of all, by a glance more

rapid than a word, each paid his tribute of admiration to the splendid
general effect of the long table, white as a bank of freshly-fallen

snow, with its symmetrical line of covers, crowned with their pale
golden rolls of bread. Rainbow colors gleamed in the starry rays of

light reflected by the glass; the lights of the tapers crossed and
recrossed each other indefinitely; the dishes covered with their