sively tall, lank figure was so emaciated
that it was like a caricature of a man. The swaggering air suitable to
his part had become habitual with him, and he walked always with immense
strides, head well thrown back, and hand on the pommel of the huge sword
he was never seen without.

As to Scapin, he looked more like a fox than anything else, and had a
most villainous countenance; yet he was a good enough fellow in reality.

The painter has a great advantage over the writer, in that he can so
present the group on his canvas that one glance suffices to take in the
whole picture, with the lights and shadows, attitudes, costumes, and
details of every kind, which are sadly wanting in our description--too
long, though so imperfect--of the party gathered thus unexpectedly round
our young baron's table. The beginning of the repast was very silent,
until the most urgent demands of hunger had been satisfied. Poor de
Sigognac, who had never perhaps at any one time had as much to eat as
he wanted since he was weaned, attacked the tempting viands with an
appetite and ardour quite new to him; and that too despite his great
desire to appear interesting and romantic in the eyes of the beautiful
young women between whom he was seated. The pedant, very much amused at
the boyish eagerness and enjoyment of his youthful host, quietly heaped
choice bits upon his plate, and watched their rapid disappearance with
beaming satisfaction. Beelzebub had at last plucked up courage and crept
softly under the table to his master, making his presence known by a
quick tapping with his fore-paws upon the baron's knees; his claims were
at once recognised, and he feasted to his heart's content on the savoury
morsels quietly thrown down to him. Poor old Miraut, who had followed
Pierre into the room, was not neglected either, and had his full share
of the good things that found their way to his master's plate.

By this time there was a good deal of laughing and talking round the
festive board. The baron, though very timid, and much embarrassed, had
ventured to enter into conversation with his fair neighbours. The pedant
and the tyrant were loudly discussing the respective merits of tragedy
and comedy. Leander, like Narcissus of old, was complacently admiring
his own charms as reflected in a little pocket mirror he always had
about him. Strange to say he was not a suitor of either Serafina's or
Isabelle's; fortunately for them he aimed higher, and was alw