“‘Cannot nations, some day or other, obtain happiness on easier terms?’ I asked, with tears in my eyes.

“’Truths never leave their well unless to be bathed in blood.  Christianity itself—­the essence of all truth, since it came from God—­was not established without its martyrs.  Blood flowed in torrents.’

“Blood! blood! the word sounded in my ear like a bell.

“‘You think, then,’ I said, ’that Protestantism would have a right to reason as you do.’

“But Catharine had disappeared, and I awoke, trembling and in tears, till reason resumed her sway, and told me that the doctrines of that proud Italian were detestable, and that neither king nor people had a right to act on the principles she had enounced, which I felt were only worthy of a nation of atheists.”

When the unknown ceased to speak, the ladies made no remark.  M. Bodard was asleep.  The surgeon, who was half tipsy, Lavoisier Beaumarchais, and I, were the only ones who had listened.  M. de Calonne was flirting with his neighbour.  At that moment there was something solemn in the silence.  The candles themselves seemed to me to burn with a magic dimness.  A hidden power had riveted our attention, by some mysterious links, to the extraordinary narrator, who made me feel what might be the inexplicable influence of fanaticism.  It was only the deep hollow voice of Beaumarchais’ neighbour that awakened us from our surprise.

“I also had a dream,” he said.  I looked more attentively at the surgeon, and instinctively shuddered with horror.  His earthy colour—­his features, at once vulgar and imposing, presented the true expression of the canaille.  He had dark pimples spread over his face like patches of dirt, and his eyes beamed with a repulsive light.  His countenance was more horrid, perhaps, than it might otherwise have been, from his head being snow-white with powder.

“That fellow must have buried a host of patients,” I said to my neighbour the attorney.

“I would not trust him with my dog,” was the answer.

“I hate him—­I can’t help it,” I said.

“I despise him.”

“No—­you’re wrong there,” I replied.

“And did you also dream of a queen?” enquired Beaumarchais.

“No!  I dreamt of a people,” he answered with an emphasis that made us laugh.  “I had to cut off a patient’s leg on the following day, and”—­

“And you found the people in his leg?” asked M. de Calonne.

“Exactly,” replied the surgeon.

“He’s quite amusing,” tittered the Countess de G——.

“I was rather astonished, I assure you,” continued the man, without minding the sneers and interruptions he met with, “to find any thing to speak to in that leg.  I had the extraordinary faculty of entering into my patient.  When I found myself, for the first time, in his skin, I saw an immense quantity of little beings, which moved about, and thought, and reasoned.  Some lived in the