glorious name echoes at present in all corners of the earth, amid the
exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of society,
the envious scorn of several of his colleagues, the respect of a mass of
readers, and the frenzied admiration of a great number. He expected to
see a kind of bearded giant, of awe-inspiring aspect, with a thundering
voice and an appearance little prepossessing at first.

The door opened on a room of uncommonly large dimensions, broad and high,
lighted by an enormous window looking out over the valley. Old tapestries
covered the walls; on the left, a monumental fireplace, flanked by two
stone men, could have burned a century-old oak in one day. An immense
table littered with books, papers and magazines stood in the middle of
this apartment so vast and grand that it first engrossed the eye, and the
attention was only afterward drawn to the man, stretched out when they
entered on an Oriental divan where twenty persons could have slept. He
took a few steps toward them, bowed, motioned to two seats, and turned
back to his divan, where he sat with one leg drawn under him. A book lay
open beside him, and in his right hand he held an ivory paper-cutter, the
end of which he observed from time to time with one eye, closing the
other with the persistency of a near-sighted person.

While the journalist explained the purpose of the visit, and the writer
listened to him without yet answering, at times staring at him fixedly,
Patissot, more and more embarrassed, was observing this celebrity.

Hardly forty, he was of medium height, fairly stout, and with a
good-natured look. His head (very similar to those found in many Italian
paintings of the sixteenth century), without being beautiful in the
plastic sense of the word, gave an impression of great strength of
character, power and intelligence. Short hair stood up straight on the