just heard with Lambernier's incomplete revelations. With the exception
of Gerfaut, who did not lose one of his host's movements, the guests,
more or less absorbed by their own sensations, paid no attention to the
strange attitude of the master of the house, or, like Monsieur de
Camier, attributed it to the influence of wine. The conversation
continued its noisy course, interrupted every few moments by the
startling vagaries of some guest more animatedly excited than the rest,
for, at the end of a repast where sobriety has not reigned, each one is
disposed to impose upon others the despotism of his own intoxication, and
the idle talk of his peculiar hallucinations. Marillac bore away the
prize among the talking contingent, thanks to the vigor of his lungs and
the originality of his words, which sometimes forced the attention of his
adversaries. Finally he remained master of the field, and flashed
volleys of his drunken eloquence to the right and left.

"It is a pity," he exclaimed, in the midst of his triumph, as he glanced
disdainfully up and down the table, "it really is a pity, gentlemen, to
listen to your conversation. One could imagine nothing more commonplace-
prosaic or bourgeois. Would it not please you to indulge in a discussion
of a little higher order?

Let us join hands, and talk of poetry and art. I am thirsting for an
artistic conversation; I am thirsting for wit and intelligence."

"You must drink if you are thirsty," said the notary, filling his glass
to the brim.

The artist emptied it at one draught, and continued in a languishing
voice as he gazed with a loving look at his fat neighbor.