Scum of
society, give me your benediction! I am the Pope."
Raphael's vociferations had been hitherto drowned by a thorough-bass
of snores, but now they became suddenly audible. Most of the sleepers
started up with a cry, saw the cause of the disturbance on his feet,
tottering uncertainly, and cursed him in concert for a drunken
brawler.
"Silence!" shouted Raphael. "Back to your kennels, you dogs! Emile, I
have riches, I will give you Havana cigars!"
"I am listening," the poet replied. "Death or Foedora! On with you!
That silky Foedora deceived you. Women are all daughters of Eve. There
is nothing dramatic about that rigmarole of yours."
"Ah, but you were sleeping, slyboots."
"No--'Death or Foedora!'--I have it!"
"Wake up!" Raphael shouted, beating Emile with the piece of shagreen
as if he meant to draw electric fluid out of it.
"_Tonnerre_!" said Emile, springing up and flinging his arms round
Raphael; "my friend, remember the sort of women you are with."
"I am a millionaire!"
"If you are not a millionaire, you are most certainly drunk."
"Drunk with power. I can kill you!--Silence! I am Nero! I am
Nebuchadnezzar!"
"But, Raphael, we are in queer company, and you ought to keep quiet
for the sake of your own dignity.
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