“An artist-pedicure,” replied Bixiou, “author of a ‘Treatise on Corporistics,’ who cuts your corns by subscription, and who, if the Republications triumph for six months, will assuredly become immortal.”
“Drives his carriage!” ejaculated Gazonal.
“But, my good Gazonal, it is only millionaires who have time to go afoot in Paris.”
“To the Chamber!” cried Leon to the coachman, getting back into the carriage.
“Which, monsieur?”
“Deputies,” replied Leon, exchanging a smile with Bixiou.
“Paris begins to confound me,” said Gazonal.
“To make you see its immensity,—moral, political, and literary,—we are now proceeding like the Roman cicerone, who shows you in Saint Peter’s the thumb of the statue you took to be life-size, and the thumb proves to be a foot long. You haven’t yet measured so much as a great toe of Paris.”
“And remark, cousin Gazonal, that we take things as they come; we haven’t selected.”
“This evening you shall sup as they feasted at Belshazzar’s; and there you shall see our Paris, our own particular Paris, playing lansquenet, and risking a hundred thousand francs at a throw without winking.”