“I can believe it, madame,” said my neighbor, “for I myself have spoken to Catherine de’ Medici.”

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Monsieur de Calonne.

The words uttered by the little provincial were said in a voice of strange sonorousness, if I may be permitted to borrow that expression from the science of physics.  This sudden clearness of intonation, coming from a man who had hitherto scarcely spoken, and then in a low and modulated tone, surprised all present exceedingly.

“Why, he is talking!” said the surgeon, who was now in a satisfactory state of drunkenness, addressing Beaumarchais.

“His neighbor must have pulled his wires,” replied the satirist.

My man flushed again as he overheard the words, though they were said in a low voice.

“And pray, how was the late queen?” asked Calonne, jestingly.

“I will not swear that the person with whom I supped last night at the house of the Cardinal de Rohan was Catherine de’ Medici in person.  That miracle would justly seem impossible to Christians as well as to philosophers,” said the little lawyer, resting the tips of his fingers on the table, and leaning back in his chair as if preparing to make a speech.  “Nevertheless, I do assert that the woman I saw resembled Catherine de’ Medici as closely as though they were twin-sisters.  She was dressed in a black velvet gown, precisely like that of the queen in the well-known portrait which belongs to the king; on her head was the pointed velvet coif, which is characteristic of her; and she had the wan complexion, and the features we all know well.  I could not help betraying my surprise to his Eminence.  The suddenness of the evocation seemed to me all the more amazing because Monsieur de Cagliostro had been unable to divine the name of the person with whom I wished to communicate.  I was confounded.  The magical spectacle of a supper, where one of the illustrious women of past times presented herself, took from me my presence of mind.  I listened without daring to question.  When I roused myself about midnight from the spell of that magic, I was inclined to doubt my senses.  But even this great marvel seemed natural in comparison with the singular hallucination to which I was presently subjected.  I don’t know in what words I can describe to you the state of my senses.  But I declare, in the sincerity of my heart, I no longer wonder that souls have been found weak enough, or strong enough, to believe in the mysteries of magic and in the power of demons.  For myself, until I am better informed, I regard as possible the apparitions which Cardan and other thaumaturgists describe.”

These words, said with indescribable eloquence of tone, were of a nature to rouse the curiosity of all present.  We looked at the speaker and kept silence; our eyes alone betrayed our interest, their pupils reflecting the light of the wax-candles in the sconces.  By dint of observing this unknown little man, I fancied I could see the pores of his skin, especially those of his forehead, emitting an inward sentiment with which he was saturated.  This man, apparently so cold and formal, seemed to contain within him a burning altar, the flames of which beat down upon us.