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 thoroughlycommercial 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 lay open for a Bichat

if he had repaired thither fasting and collected. The master of the
house, knowing his condition, did not dare stir, but encouraged his

guests' extravangances with a fixed grimacing smile, meant to be
hospitable and appropriate. His large face, turning from blue and red

to a purple shade terrible to see, partook of the general commotion by
movements like the heaving and pitching of a brig.

"Now, did you murder them?" Emile asked him.
"Capital punishment is going to be abolished, they say, in favor of

the Revolution of July," answered Taillefer, raising his eyebrows with
drunken sagacity.

"Don't they rise up before you in dreams at times?" Raphael persisted.
"There's a statute of limitations," said the murderer-Croesus.

"And on his tombstone," Emile began, with a sardonic laugh, "the
stonemason will carve 'Passer-by, accord a tear, in memory of one

that's here!' Oh," he continued, "I would cheerfully pay a hundred
sous to any mathematician who would prove the existence of hell to me

by an algebraical equation."
He flung up a coin and cried:

"Heads for the existence of God!"
"Don't look!" Raphael cried, pouncing upon it. "Who knows? Suspense is

so pleasant."
"Unluckily," Emile said, with burlesquemelancholy, "I can see no

halting-place between the unbeliever's arithmetic and the papal Pater
noster. Pshaw! let us drink. Trinq was, I believe, the oracular answer

of the dive bouteille and the final conclusion of Pantagruel."