fell into, rather than seated
himself in, the chair. He rested his elbow on the table, and with his
hand covered his large and beautiful eyes, which were half closed, and
reddened with nightwatches or tears. He repeated his fragments from
memory. His doubting auditors looked at him haughtily, or at least
patronizingly; others carelessly glanced over the translation of his
verses.

His voice, at first suppressed, grew clearer by the very flow of his
harmonious recital; the breath of poetic inspiration soon elevated him
to himself; and his look, raised to heaven, became sublime as that of
the young evangelist, conceived by Raffaello, for the light still shone
on it. He narrated in his verses the first disobedience of man, and
invoked the Holy Spirit, who prefers before all other temples a pure and
simple heart, who knows all, and who was present at the birth of time.

This opening was received with a profound silence; and a slight murmur
arose after the enunciation of the last idea. He heard not; he saw only
through a cloud; he was in the world of his own creation. He continued.

He spoke of the infernal spirit, bound in avenging fire by adamantine
chains, lying vanquished nine times the space that measures night and
day to mortal men; of the darkness visible of the eternal prisons and
the burning ocean where the fallen angels float. Then, his voice, now
powerful, began the address of the fallen angel. "Art thou," he
said, "he who in the happy realms of light, clothed with transcendent
brightness, didst outshine myriads? From what height fallen? What though
the field be lost, all is not lost! Unconquerable will and study of
revenge, immortal hate and courage never to submit nor yield-what is
else not to be overcome."

Here a lackey in a loud voice announced MM. de Montresor and
d'Entraigues. They saluted, exchanged a few words, deranged the
chairs, and then settled down. The auditors availed themselves of
the interruption to institute a dozen private conversations; scarcely
anything was heard but expressions of censure, and imputations of bad
taste. Even some men of merit, dulled by a particular habit of thinking,
cried out that they did not understand it; that it was above their
comprehension (not thinking how truly they spoke); and from this feigned
humility gained themselves a compliment, and for the poet an impertinent
remark--a double advantage. Some voices even pronounced the word
"profanation."

The poet, in