ion?..."

"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 o