t costume of some artist's wife or daughter,
while the model who has posed for that lovely Andromeda near the
entrance struts triumphantly by, dressed in a too short skirt, in
wretched clothes tossed upon her beauty with the utmost lack of taste.
They scrutinize one another, admire or disparage one another, exchange
contemptuous, disdainful or inquisitive glances, which suddenly become
fixed as some celebrity passes, the illustrious critic, for instance,
whom we seem to see at this moment, serene and majestic, his powerful
face framed in long hair, making the circuit of the exhibits of
sculpture, followed by half a score of young disciples who hang
breathlessly upon his kindly dicta. Although the sound of voices is lost
in that immense vessel, which is resonant only under the two arched
doorways of entrance and exit, faces assume extraordinary intensity
there, a character of energy and animation especially noticeable in the
vast, dark recess of the restaurant, overflowing with a gesticulating
multitude, the light hats of the women and the waiters' white aprons
standing out in bold relief against the background of dark clothing, and
in the broad aisle in the centre, where the swarm of promenaders _en
vignette_ forms a striking contrast to the immobility of the statues,
the unconscious palpitation with which their chalky whiteness and their
glorified attitudes are encompassed.

There are gigantic wings spread for flight, a sphere upheld by four
allegorical figures, whose attitude, as if they were twirling their
burden, suggests a vague waltz measure, a marvel of equilibrium which
perfectly produces the illusion of the earth's revolution; and there are
arms raised as a signal, bodies of heroic size, containing an allegory,
a symbol that brings death and immortality upon them, gives them to
history, to legend, to the ideal world of the museums which nations
visit from curiosity or admiration.

Although Felicia's bronze group had not the proportions of those
productions, its exceptional merit had procured for it the honor of a
position at one of the points of intersection of the aisles in the
centre, from which the public was standing respectfully aloof at that
moment, staring over the shoulders of the line of attendants and police
officers at the Bey of Tunis and his suite, a group of long burnous,
falling in sculptural folds, which made them seem like living statues
confronting the dead ones. The bey, who had been in Pari