"What shall I say?" pursued Lepany. "Shall I say that the Ideal is, as it were, the Real distilled and sublimated in the alembic of the imagination? Shall I say that the Ideal is an image projected by the soul of genius upon the background of the universe? That it is that dazzling, that unimaginable, that incommunicable goal towards which the suns in their orbits, the stars in their courses, the spheres with all their harmonies, have been chaotically tending since time began! Ideal, say you? Call it ideal, soul, mind, matter, art, eternity,... what are they all but words? What are words but the weak strivings of the fettered soul that fain would soar to those empyrean heights where Truth, and Art, and Beauty are one and indivisible? Shall I say all this..." "My dear fellow, you have said it already--you needn't say it again," interrupted Valentin. "Ay; but having said it--having expressed myself, perchance with some obscurity...." "With the obscurity of Erebus!" said, very deliberately, a fat student in a blouse. "Monsieur!" exclaimed De Lepany, measuring the length and breadth of the fat student with a glance of withering scorn. The Byzantine was no less indignant. "Don't heed them, _mon ami_!" he cried, enthusiastically. "Thy definition is sublime-eloquent!" "Nay," said Valentin, "we concede that Monsieur de Lepany is sublime; we recognise with admiration that he is eloquent; but we submit that he is wholly unintelligible." And having delivered this parting shot, the club-footed realist slipped his arm through the arm of the fat student, and went off to a distant table and a game at dominoes. Then followed an outburst of offended idealism. His own clique crowded round Lepany as the champion of their school. They shook hands with him. They embraced him. They fooled him to the top of his bent. Presently, being not only as good-natured as he was conceited, but (rare phenomenon in the Quartier Latin!) a rich fellow into the bargain, De Lepany called for champagne and treated his admirers all around. In the midst of the chatter and bustle which this incident occasioned, a pale, earnest-looking man of about five-and-thirty, coming past our table on his way out of the Café, touched Müller on the arm, bent down, and said quietly:-- "Müller, will you do me a favor!" "A hundred, Monsieur," replied my companion; half rising, and with an air of unusual respect and alacrity. "Thanks, one will be enough. Do you see that man yonder, sitting alone in the corner, with his back to the light?" "I do."