And each one, thinking of his
gain, bartered the battle for the spoil.
It seemed to them that suddenly the lights went out; and a darkness
like a rushing wind swept past them, filled with many sounds. And
then forgetfulness. And then the coming back of light.
They were seated at a table, glittering with silver and dainty
chinaware, to which the red wine in Venetian goblets, the varied
fruit and flowers, gave colour. The room, furnished too gorgeously
for taste, they judged to be a private cabinet in one of the great
restaurants. Of such interiors they had occasionally caught glimpses
through open windows on summer nights. It was softly illuminated by
shaded lamps. The Stranger's face was still in shadow. But what
surprised each of the three most was to observe opposite him two more
or less bald-headed gentlemen of somewhat flabby appearance, whose
features, however, in some mysterious way appeared familiar. The
Stranger had his wine-glass raised in his hand.
"Our dear Paul," the Stranger was saying, "has declined, with his
customary modesty, any public recognition of his triumph. He will
not refuse three old friends the privilege of offering him their
heartiest congratulations. Gentlemen, I drink not only to our dear
Paul, but to the French Academy, which in honouring him has honoured
France."
The Stranger, rising from his chair, turned his piercing eyes--the
only part of him that could be clearly seen--upon the astonished
Poet.
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