I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was seated at the right of Victor Hugo, and at his left was Mme. Lambquin, who was playing the Camerara Mayor. Duquesnel was next to Mme. Lambquin. Opposite the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile Gautier, with his lion’s head on an elephant’s body. He had a brilliant mind and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an Oriental nobility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection, the fond lover of the Beautiful.
It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with gems of all colors, and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips. I was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a word from my neighbor, Victor Hugo, made me turn toward him. What a difference! He was just himself, the great poet, the most ordinary of beings, except for his luminous forehead. He was heavy looking, although very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd, and his mouth without any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and charm. I liked to listen to him while looking at Théophile Gautier.
I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de Ste. Victor. His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil was oozing out. His nose was sharp and like a crow’s beak, his eyes evil looking and hard, his arms too short, and he was too stout. He had plenty of wit and talent, but he employed both in saying and writing more harm than good. I knew that this man hated me, and I promptly returned him hatred for hatred.
In the toast proposed by Victor Hugo in thanking everyone for such zealous help on the reappearance of his work, every person raised his glass and looked toward the poet, but the illustrious master turned toward me and continued: “As to you, madame——” Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor put his glass down so violently on the table that it broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I leaned across the table and held my glass out toward Paul de St. Victor.
“Take mine,” I said, “monsieur, and then when you drink you will know what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so clearly!”
The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!
Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers. Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell Chilly to reply, that it was his turn to speak.
“Come, get up,” I said to him. He gazed at me with a glassy look and in a far-away voice replied:
“My legs are being held.” I looked at him more attentively, while Duquesnel asked for silence for M. De Chilly’s speech. I saw that his fingers were grasping a fork desperately, the tips of his fingers were white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy cold, the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was silence and all eyes turned toward Chilly.
“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid, commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the waiters came and carried the body away, living, but inert, and placed it in a small drawing-room.