down laughing. First of all, by a glance more rapid
than a word, each paid his tribute of admiration to the splendid general
effect of the long table, white as a bank of freshly-fallen snow, with
its symmetrical line of covers, crowned with their pale golden rolls of
bread. Rainbow colors gleamed in the starry rays of light reflected by
the glass; the lights of the tapers crossed and recrossed each other
indefinitely; the dishes covered with their silver domes whetted both
appetite and curiosity.

Few words were spoken. Neighbors exchanged glances as the Maderia
circulated. Then the first course appeared in all its glory; it would
have done honor to the late Cambaceres, Brillat-Savarin would have
celebrated it. The wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, white and red, were
royally lavished. This first part of the banquet might been compared in
every way to a rendering of some classical tragedy. The second act grew
a trifle noisier. Every guest had had a fair amount to drink, and had
tried various crus at this pleasure, so that as the remains of the
magnificent first course were removed, tumultuous discussions began;
a pale brow here and there began to flush, sundry noses took a purpler
hue, faces lit up, and eyes sparkled.

While intoxication was only dawning, the conversation did not overstep
the bounds of civility; but banter and bon mots slipped by degrees from
every tongue; and then slander began to rear its little snake's heard,
and spoke in dulcet tones; a few shrewd ones here and there gave heed to
it, hoping to keep their heads. So the second course found their minds
somewhat heated. Every one ate as he spoke, spoke while he ate, and
drank without heeding the quantity of the liquor, the wine was so
biting, the bouquet so fragrant, the example around so infectious.
Taillefer made a point of stimulating his guests, and plied them with
the formidable wines of the Rhone, with fierce Tokay, and heady old
Roussillon.

The champagne, impatiently expected and lavishly poured out, was a
scourge of fiery sparks to these men; released like post-horses from
some mail-coach by a relay; they let their spirits gallop away into the
wilds of argument to which no one listened, began to tell stories which
had no auditors, and repeatedly asked questions to which no answer was
made. Only the loud voice of wassail could be heard, a voice made up
of a hundred confused clamors, which rose and grew like a crescendo of
Rossini's. Insidious t