Again we rhapsodised, this time seeking new names for Wagner, eulogistic titles, such as history has reserved for her greatest men.
"The Eagle of the Righi," "The Swan of Lucerne"—"The Swan" appeared especially appropriate to us, because of Lohengrin; but Villiers thought the allusion too ingenuous. "The Swan of Cambrai, the Swan of Lucerne,"—he groped about for a synonym, and finally burst out triumphantly with,
"The Palmiped of Lucerne!"
An explosion of laughter relieved our nervous tension. But the train whistled, and again our hearts began to beat wildly. Leaning half through the window, dishevelled by the wind, Villiers looked eagerly. It was impossible that anyone could fail to see it—that glorious radiance directly above the city which held such an oracle. Without any doubt, even in the full light of day, a shining star marked, for pious pilgrims, the place of the new Oracle.
We entered the station.
Suddenly, Villiers, pale and with dilated eyes, drew back, and dropped upon the seat, exclaiming,
"The Palmiped!"
[1] In the introduction to the third act.