“It appears as but yesterday, and yet, nevertheless, it was at the beginning of the year 1788.  We were dining with one of our brethren at the Academy—­a man of considerable wealth and genius.  The conversation became serious; much admiration was expressed on the revolution in thought which Voltaire had effected, and it was agreed that it was his first claim to the reputation he enjoyed.  We concluded that the revolution must soon be consummated; that it was indispensible that superstition and fanaticism should give way to philosophy, and we began to calculate the probability of the period when this should be, and which of the present company should live to see it.  The oldest complained that they could scarcely flatter themselves with the hope; the younger rejoiced that they might entertain this very probable expectation; and they congratulated the Academy especially for having prepared this great work, and for having been the rallying point, the centre, and the prime mover of the liberty of thought.

“One only of the guests had not taken part in all the joyousness of this conversation, and had even gently and cheerfully checked our splendid enthusiasm.  This was Cazotte, an amiable and original man, but unhappily infatuated with the reveries of the illumaniti.  He spoke, and with the most serious tone, saying:  ’Gentleman, be satisfied; you will all see this great and sublime revolution, which you so much desire.  You know that I am a little inclined to prophesy; I repeat, you will see it,’ He was answered by the common rejoinder:  ‘One need not be a conjuror to see that.’  He answered:  ’Be it so; but perhaps one must be a little more than conjuror for what remains for me to tell you.  Do you know what will be the consequences of this revolution—­what will be the consequence to all of you, and what will be the immediate result—­the well-established effect—­the thoroughly recognized consequences to all of you who are here present?’

“‘Ah’ said Condorcet, with his insolent and half-suppressed smile, ’let us hear—­a philosopher is not sorry to encounter a prophet—­let us hear!’ Cazotte replied:  ’You, Monsier de Condorcet—­you will yield up your last breath on the floor of a dungeon; you will die from poison, which you will have taken in order to escape from execution—­from poison which the happiness of that time will oblige you to carry about your person.  You, Monsieur de Chamfort, you will open your veins with twenty-two cuts of a razor, and yet will not die till some months afterward.’  These personages looked at each other, and laughed again.  Cazotte continued:  ’You, Monsieur Vicq d’Azir, you will not open your own veins, but you will cause yourself to be bled six times in one day, during a paroxysm of the gout, in order to make more sure of your end, and you will die in the night.’