Saint-Loup was not satisfied with this comparison. In an ecstasy of joy, into which there no doubt entered the joy that he felt in making me shine before his friends, with extreme volubility, stroking me as though he were rubbing down a horse that had just come first past the post, he reiterated: “You’re the cleverest man I know, do you hear?” He corrected himself, and added: “You and Elstir.—You don’t mind my bracketing him with you, I hope. You understand—punctiliousness. It’s like this: I say it to you as one might have said to Balzac: ‘You are the greatest novelist of the century—you and Stendhal.’ Excessive punctiliousness, don’t you know, and at heart an immense admiration. No? You don’t admit Stendhal?” he went on, with an ingenuous confidence in my judgment which found expression in a charming, smiling, almost childish glance of interrogation from his green eyes. “Oh, good! I see you’re on my side; Bloch can’t stand Stendhal. I think it’s idiotic of him. The _Chartreuse_ is after all an immense work, don’t you think? I am so glad you agree with me. What is it you like best in the _Chartreuse_, answer me?” he appealed to me with a boyish impetuosity. And the menace of his physical strength made the question almost terrifying. “Mosca? Fabrice?” I answered timidly that Mosca reminded me a little of M. de Norpois. Whereupon peals of laughter from the young Siegfried Saint-Loup. And while I was going on to explain: “But Mosca is far more intelligent, not so pedantic,” I heard Robert cry: “Bravo!” actually clapping his hands, and, helpless with laughter, gasp: “Oh, perfect! Admirable! You really are astounding.”