It was
neither antique nor Roman, nor classic nor romantic, nor good nor bad
nor indifferent; it was a tragical wager won by a smart woman at the
expense of her audience. The latter, nevertheless, bravely did their
duty. Neither "Le Cid," nor "Polyeucte," nor "Andromaque," nor
"Athalie"--Corneille and Racine's masterpieces--ever produced such
rapturous enthusiasm. Monsieur Mery dashed off extemporaneously, in
Marseillais accent, admiring paradoxes which lacked nothing but splendid
rhyme. Monsieur Theophile Gautier, who looked like an obese Turk habited
in European clothes, laid aside his Moslem placidity to cry that the
tragedy was marvellous. Monsieur Alfred de Musset, lolling in his
arm-chair in an attitude which seemed a compromise between sleep and
_Kief_, smiled beatifically. Monsieur Victor Hugo vowed that nothing
half so fine had ever before been written in any age or in any country
or in any language--except (_aside_) "my own 'Burgraves'"! Monsieur de
Lamartine, like a god descended upon earth and astounded to find himself
at home, let fall from his divine lips compliments perfumed with
ambrosia, sparkling with poetry, and glittering with indifference.
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