The timid Amedee was defeated at the start in this melee of conversation. Maurice also kept silent, with a slightly disdainful smile under his golden moustache, and an attack of coughing soon disabled Gustave. Alone, like two ships in line who let out, turn by turn, their volleys, the lawyer and the actor continued their cannonading. Arthur Papillon, who belonged to the Liberal opposition and wished that the Imperial government should come around to “a pacific and regular movement of parliamentary institutions,” was listened to for a time, and explained, in a clear, full voice the last article in the ‘Courrier du Dimanche’. But, bursting out in his terrible voice, which seemed like all of Gideon’s trumpets blowing at once, the comedian took up the offensive, and victoriously declared a hundred foolish things--saying, for example, that the part of Alceste should be made a comic one; making fun of Shakespeare and Hugo, exalting Scribe, and in spite of his profile and hooked nose, which should have opened the doors of the Theatre-Francais and given him an equal share for life in its benefits, he affirmed that he intended to play lovers’ parts, and that he meant to assume the responsibility of making “sympathetic” the role of Nero, in Britannicus. This would have become terribly tiresome, but for the entrance upon the scene of some truffled partridges, which the juggler carved and distributed in less time than it would take to shuffle a pack of cards. He even served the very worst part of the bird to the simple Amedee, as he would force him to choose the nine of spades. Then he poured out the chambertin, and once more all heads became excited, and the conversation fell, as was inevitable, upon the subject of women. Jocquelet began it, by speaking the name of one of the prettiest actresses in Paris. He knew them all and described them exactly, detailing their beauties like a slave-dealer. “So little Lucille Prunelle is a friend of the great Moncontour--” “Pardon me,” interrupted Gustave, who was looking badly, “she has already left him for Cerfbeer the banker.” “I say she has not.” “I say that she has.” They would have quarrelled if Maurice, with his affable, bantering air, had not attacked Arthur Papillon on the subject of his love-affairs; for the young advocate drank many cups of Orleanist tea, going even into the same drawing-rooms as Beule and Prevost-Paradol, and accompanying political ladies to the receptions at the Academie Francaise. “That is where you must make havoc, you rascal!” But Papillon defends himself with conceited smiles and meaning looks. According to him--and he puts his two thumbs into the armholes of his vest--the ambitious must be chaste.