I see the two enemy races face to face--the victors and the vanquished.
Monsieur Gozlan looks like a master of masters--an aged collector of fortune, whose speculations are famous, whose wealth increases unaided, who makes as much profit as he likes and holds the district in the hollow of his hand.

His vulgar movements flash with diamonds, and a bulky golden trinket hangs on his belly like a phallus.

The generals beside him--those glorious potentates whose smiles are made of so many souls--and the administrators and the honorables only look like secondary actors.
Fontan occupies considerable space on the rostrum.

He drowses there, with his two spherical hands planted in front of him.

The voluminous trencherman digests and blows forth with his buttered mouth; and what he has eaten purrs within him.