terrupted, put his head between his hands and his elbows on
the table, that he might not hear the noise either of praise or censure.
Three men only approached him, an officer, Poquelin, and Corneille; the
latter whispered to Milton:

"I would advise you to change the picture; your hearers are not on a
level with this."

The officer pressed the hand of the English poet and said to him:

"I admire you with all my soul."

The astonished Englishman looked at him, and saw an intellectual,
impassioned, and sickly countenance.

He bowed, and collected himself, in order to proceed. His voice took a
gentle tone and a soft accent; he spoke of the chaste happiness of the
two first of human beings. He described their majestic nakedness, the
ingenuous command of their looks, their walk among lions and tigers,
which gambolled at their feet; he spoke of the purity of their morning
prayer, of their enchanting smile, the playful tenderness of their
youth, and their enamored conversation, so painful to the Prince of
Darkness.

Gentle tears quite involuntarily made humid the eyes of the beautiful
Marion de Lorme. Nature had taken possession of her heart, despite her
head; poetry filled it with grave and religious thoughts, from which
the intoxication of pleasure had ever diverted her. The idea of virtuous
love appeared to her for the first time in all its beauty; and she
seemed as if struck with a magic wand, and changed into a pale and
beautiful statue.

Corneille, his young friend, and the officer, were full of a silent
admiration which they dared not express, for raised voices drowned that
of the surprised poet.

"I can't stand this!" cried Desbarreaux. "It is of an insipidity to make
one sick."

"And what absence of grace, gallantry, and the belle flamme!" said
Scudery, coldly.

"Ah, how different from our immortal D'Urfe!" said Baro, the
continuator.

"Where is the 'Ariane,' where the 'Astrea?'" cried, with a groan,
Godeau, the annotator.

The whole assembly well-nigh made these obliging remarks, though uttered
so as only to be heard by the poet as a murmur of uncertain import.
He understood, however, that he produced no enthusiasm, and collected
himself to touch another chord of his lyre.

At this moment the Counsellor de Thou was announced, who, modestly
saluting the company, glided silently behind the author near Corneille,
Poquelin, and the young officer. Milton resumed his strain.

He recounted the arrival of