"No matter. I'm right. Mérimée, your pupil, is your master at every point."
I could no longer contain myself, and, bursting with curiosity, I cried:
"Pardon me, dear masters, for interrupting such a luminous altercation, but, notwithstanding the queerness of the situation, may I not say that I meet in the flesh, Jonathan Swift and Henry Beyle-Stendhal?"
"Discovered, by the eternal Jehovah!" roared Swift, adding an obscene phrase, which I discreetly omit. Stendhal took the incident coolly.
"As I am rediscovered about every decade by ambitious young critics anxious to achieve reputations, I am not disturbed by our young friend here. Your apology, monsieur, is accepted. Pray, join us in a fresh drink and conversation." But I was only thirsty for more talk, oceans of talk. I eagerly asked Stendhal, who regarded me with cynical eyes, all the while fingering his little whisker: "Did you ever hear Chopin play?"
"Who," he solemnly asked in turn, "is Chopin?"
"He was at his best in the forties, and as you didn't die till——"
"Pardon me, monsieur. I never died. Your Chopin may have died, but I am immortal."
"You venerable Struldbrug," giggled Swift. I was disagreeably impressed, yet held my ground:
"You must have met him. He was a friend of Balzac—his music was then in vogue at Paris—" I stumbled in my speech.