As to Scapin, he looked more like a fox than anything else, and had a most villainous countenance; yet he was a good enough fellow in reality.

The painter has a great advantage over the writer, in that he can so present the group on his canvas that one glance suffices to take in the whole picture, with the lights and shadows, attitudes, costumes, and details of every kind, which are sadly wanting in our description—­too long, though so imperfect—­of the party gathered thus unexpectedly round our young baron’s table.  The beginning of the repast was very silent, until the most urgent demands of hunger had been satisfied.  Poor de Sigognac, who had never perhaps at any one time had as much to eat as he wanted since he was weaned, attacked the tempting viands with an appetite and ardour quite new to him; and that too despite his great desire to appear interesting and romantic in the eyes of the beautiful young women between whom he was seated.  The pedant, very much amused at the boyish eagerness and enjoyment of his youthful host, quietly heaped choice bits upon his plate, and watched their rapid disappearance with beaming satisfaction.  Beelzebub had at last plucked up courage and crept softly under the table to his master, making his presence known by a quick tapping with his fore-paws upon the baron’s knees; his claims were at once recognised, and he feasted to his heart’s content on the savoury morsels quietly thrown down to him.  Poor old Miraut, who had followed Pierre into the room, was not neglected either, and had his full share of the good things that found their way to his master’s plate.

By this time there was a good deal of laughing and talking round the festive board.  The baron, though very timid, and much embarrassed, had ventured to enter into conversation with his fair neighbours.  The pedant and the tyrant were loudly discussing the respective merits of tragedy and comedy.  Leander, like Narcissus of old, was complacently admiring his own charms as reflected in a little pocket mirror he always had about him.  Strange to say he was not a suitor of either Serafina’s or Isabelle’s; fortunately for them he aimed higher, and was always hoping that some grand lady, who saw him on the stage, would fall violently in love with him, and shower all sorts of favours upon him.  He was in the habit of boasting that he had had many delightful adventures of the kind, which Scapin persistently denied, declaring that to his certain knowledge they had never taken place, save in the aspiring lover’s own vivid imagination.  The exasperating valet, malicious as a monkey, took the greatest delight in tormenting poor Leander, and never lost an opportunity; so now, seeing him absorbed in self-admiration, he immediately attacked him, and soon had made him furious.  The quarrel grew loud and violent, and Leander was heard declaring that he could produce a large chest crammed full of love letters, written to him by various high and titled ladies; whereupon everybody laughed uproariously,