I recognized at once the two types of fast men so wonderfully drawn by Forain. One, whom I guessed by his looks to be Tournade, had a fat red face, like that of an overfed coachman, with a heavy and ignoble mouth, brutal, sly and satiated eyes, an incipient baldness, short red whiskers, and the shoulders of a professional boxer. He had a hand, with long fat fingers covered with big rings with large stones in them. Some greedy peasant lives over again in people of this kind, and they bring to a life of elegant debauchery the ignobly positive soul of a usurer’s son with a porter’s temperament. The other one, Figon, was thin and weak, with a never-ending nose, and every tooth in his head was a masterpiece of gold stopping. His eyes were green and twinkling. His sparse hair, narrow shoulders, and worn-out spine were a fine example of the exhaustion found in every race which would justify the anger of the workers against the middle classes if they themselves, who are nourished and corroded by the same vices, were not still less worthy. Both the obese Tournade and the skinny Figon had that way of wearing evening dress, the large gilt buttons on the front, the button-hole, and the hat on the back of the head, all of which constitute the uniform of foolishness or infamy, which the genial caricaturist of the Doux Pays—that jeering Goya of the dismal revels of Paris—has illustrated in his legends, in which its correctness makes its baseness more apparent. Lighted by the rough lights of the little dressing-room, these two visitors were standing leaning against the wall, handling their canes in a brutish way, and watching the little actress who was at her toilette with a wrapper round her shoulders. She was making up her face for the next act in which she had to appear in disguise, in the costume of the picture after which the play was called, all in blue from the satin of her shoes to the ribbon in her hair. The only long chair and couch had a dress and cloak spread out on them. Evidently the persons had intruded upon her, had not been asked to sit down, and she was about to dismiss them. This sign of her independence caused me keen pleasure. I conceived for these young fellows a violent antipathy—after that how could I doubt presentiments?—especially for the candle maker’s heir, who exchanged a brief greeting with Jacques. Figon made use, to the fashionable author, of all the usual “dear masters,” and eulogies of the piece which were imbecile platitudes. Jacques received these compliments with his mouth pursed up. Incense is always agreeable however common it may be, even when it is in the vulgar form of tobacco smoke. He nodded his head as Figon concluded. “You are my two favourite authors, you and——” I will not repeat here the name of the obscene and outrageously mediocre writer with whom the fool associated poor Jacques. The latter gave a start which almost made me burst out laughing, while the actress interrupted—