So saying, she took them and distributed them among her erudite visitors.  The company seated themselves, and were silent.  It took some time to persuade the young foreigner to speak or to quit the recess of the window, where he seemed to have come to a very good understanding with Corneille.  He at last advanced to an armchair placed near the table; he seemed of feeble health, and fell into, rather than seated himself in, the chair.  He rested his elbow on the table, and with his hand covered his large and beautiful eyes, which were half closed, and reddened with nightwatches or tears.  He repeated his fragments from memory.  His doubting auditors looked at him haughtily, or at least patronizingly; others carelessly glanced over the translation of his verses.

His voice, at first suppressed, grew clearer by the very flow of his harmonious recital; the breath of poetic inspiration soon elevated him to himself; and his look, raised to heaven, became sublime as that of the young evangelist, conceived by Raffaello, for the light still shone on it.  He narrated in his verses the first disobedience of man, and invoked the Holy Spirit, who prefers before all other temples a pure and simple heart, who knows all, and who was present at the birth of time.

This opening was received with a profound silence; and a slight murmur arose after the enunciation of the last idea.  He heard not; he saw only through a cloud; he was in the world of his own creation.  He continued.

He spoke of the infernal spirit, bound in avenging fire by adamantine chains, lying vanquished nine times the space that measures night and day to mortal men; of the darkness visible of the eternal prisons and the burning ocean where the fallen angels float.  Then, his voice, now powerful, began the address of the fallen angel.  “Art thou,” he said, “he who in the happy realms of light, clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine myriads?  From what height fallen?  What though the field be lost, all is not lost!  Unconquerable will and study of revenge, immortal hate and courage never to submit nor yield-what is else not to be overcome.”

Here a lackey in a loud voice announced mm. de Montresor and d’Entraigues.  They saluted, exchanged a few words, deranged the chairs, and then settled down.  The auditors availed themselves of the interruption to institute a dozen private conversations; scarcely anything was heard but expressions of censure, and imputations of bad taste.  Even some men of merit, dulled by a particular habit of thinking, cried out that they did not understand it; that it was above their comprehension (not thinking how truly they spoke); and from this feigned humility gained themselves a compliment, and for the poet an impertinent remark—­a double advantage.  Some voices even pronounced the word “profanation.”

The poet, interrupted, put his head between his hands and his elbows on the table, that he might not hear the noise either of praise or censure.  Three men only approached him, an officer, Poquelin, and Corneille; the latter whispered to Milton: