"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 literary arrogance, 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