as if it were a hare the boar of Erymanthe on the mountainous muscles of his shoulders. At the least provocation this gaiety would burst forth and cause his strong chest to heave, which might surprise a person with a delicate constitution, but it had to be shared, no matter how much effort one made to remain serious. Do not believe however that Balzac was seeking to entertain his audience: he obeyed, affected by a kind of internal euphoria and painting with rapid strokes, with a comic intensity and an incomparable talent for satire, the bizarre phantasmagoria that danced in the dark chamber of his brain. I do not know how to better compare the impression produced by certain of his conversations than with that which one experiences while leafing through the strange drawings of Songes Drolatiques, by the master Alcofribas Nasier. These are of monstrous personages, composed of the most hybrid elements. Some have for a head a bellows in which the hole represents the eye, while others have an alembic flute for a nose; these ones walk with wheels in place of feet; those ones have the rounded belly of a cooking pot and wear a lid in place of a hat, but an intense life animates these fanciful beings, and one recognizes in their grimacing faces the vices, the follies and the passions of man. Some, although absurdly outside the realm of possibility, stop you like a portrait. One could give them a name. When one listened to Balzac, a whole carnival of extravagant and real puppets frolicked before your eyes, wearing on their shoulders a colorful phrase, waving long sleeves of epithets, blowing their noses noisily with an adverb, smacking themselves with a bat of antitheses, pulling you by the tail of your coat, and whispering into your ear your secrets in a disguised and nasal voice, pirouetting, whirling in the midst of a sparkle of lights and of glitter. Nothing was more vertiginous, and at the end of one half hour, one felt, like the student after the speech of Méphistophélès, a millstone turning in the brain.