The day I left I dined with M——­ I——­, and was severely taken to task by pretty Sara for having sent her little wife away before me.  The reader will see how I met her again at London three years later.  Le Duc was still in the doctor’s hands, and very weak; but I made him go with me, as I had a good deal of property, and I could not trust it to anybody else.

I left Berne feeling naturally very sad.  I had been happy there, and to this day the thought of it is a pleasant one.

I had to consult Dr. Herrenschwand about Madame d’Urfe, so I stopped at Morat, where he lived, and which is only four leagues from Berne.  The doctor made me dine with him that I might try the fish of the lake, which I found delicious.  I had intended to go on directly after dinner, but I was delayed by a curiosity of which I shall inform the reader.

After I had given the doctor a fee of two Louis for his advice, in writing, on a case of tapeworm, he made me walk with him by the Avanches road, and we went as far as the famous mortuary of Morat.

“This mortuary,” said the doctor, “was constructed with part of the bones of the Burgundians, who perished here at the well-known battle lost by Charles the Bold.”

The Latin inscription made me laugh.

“This inscription,” said I, “contains an insulting jest; it is almost burlesque, for the gravity of an inscription should not allow of laughter.”

The doctor, like a patriotic Swiss, would not allow it, but I think it was false shame on his part.  The inscription ran as follows, and the impartial reader can judge of its nature: 

   “Deo. opt.  Max.  Caroli inclyti et fortisimi Burgundie duds
   exercitus Muratum obsidens, ab Helvetiis cesus, hoc sui
   monumentum reliquit anno MCDLXXVI.”

Till then I had had a great idea of Morat.  Its fame of seven centuries, three sieges sustained and repulsed, all had given me a sublime notion of it; I expected to see something and saw nothing.

“Then Morat has been razed to the ground?” said I to the doctor.

“Not at all, it is as it always has been, or nearly so.”

I concluded that a man who wants to be well informed should read first and then correct his knowledge by travel.  To know ill is worse than not to know at all, and Montaigne says that we ought to know things well.

But it was the following comic adventure which made me spend the night at Morat: 

I found at the inn a young maid who spoke a sort of rustic Italian.  She struck me by her great likeness to my fair stocking-seller at Paris.  She was called Raton, a name which my memory has happily preserved.  I offered her six francs for her favours, but she refused the money with a sort of pride, telling me that I had made a mistake and that she was an honest girl.

“It may be so,” said I, and I ordered my horses to be put in.  When the honest Raton saw me on the point of leaving, she said, with an air that was at once gay and timid, that she wanted two louis, and if I liked to give her them and pass the night with her I should be well content.