“Look here; while you others are fighting, he’s eating all the macaroni. Leave me a bit!”
“Well, embrace him all round and get it done with.”
“Oh, bother! Now it’s going to begin all over again.”
“I say, I’m not going to drink wine when there’s punch.”
“Not much! Break the bottles. Look out, Fleury!”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Don’t break the glasses, please! You will want them for the punch. You would not like to drink punch out of little glasses.”
“Perish the thought! You are a man of sense, Fleury. You were only just in time, though.”
Fleury was the prop of the house; a thoroughly good fellow, who well deserved the trust of the Academy directors. Nothing ruffled him; he was so used to our scenes that he kept the aspect of a graven image, which made it all the funnier for us.
When I had got over my tempestuous reception, I looked round the hall. On one wall were about fifty portraits of former students, on the other a series of the most outrageous life-sized caricatures, also of inmates of the Academy. Unluckily, for want of wall-space, these soon came to an end.
That evening, after an interview with M. Vernet, I followed my comrades to the Café Greco—the dirtiest, darkest, dampest hole imaginable. How it justifies its existence as the artist’s favourite café I cannot imagine. We smoked abominable cigars and drank coffee that was none the nicer for being served on dirty little wooden tables, as sticky and greasy as the walls.