the scenes to search for Monsieur Morin. "The
Prophet" was being played, and the third act had just begun. On the
stage the Anabaptists were singing forcibly:

"Du sang! que Judas succombe!
Du sang! Dansons sur leur tombe!
Du sang! Voila l'hecatombe
Que Dieu nous demande encor!"

Axes were raised over the heads of a crowd of hapless prisoners, who
were barons, bishops, monks, and grand ladies. In the wings, balanced on
their skates, all the ballet-girls were waiting the right moment to

"Effleurer la glace
Sans laisser de trace."

I respectfully begged one of the young Westphalian peasant-girls to
point out to me the man named Morin.

"Morin," she replied, "is not one of the skaters. Look, he is on the
stage. That's he over there, the one who is doing the bishop; that
bishop, you see, who is being pushed and pulled. Wait, he will be off
directly."

One of the Anabaptist leaders intervened, however, declaring that the
nobles and priests who could pay ransom should be spared. Morin escaped
with his life, and I had the honor of being presented to him by the
little Westphalian peasant-girl.

He had quite a venerable air, with his long gray beard and his fine
purple robe with his large pastoral cross. While he was arranging
somewhat his costume, which had been so roughly pulled by those violent
Anabaptists, I asked him if he would be willing to give lessons to two
young girls of good family.

The pious bishop accepted with alacrity. His price was ten francs an
hour.

The little skaters had gone on the stage, and were performing wonderful
feats. The wings had suddenly become calm and silent. We gave ourselves
up, his Reverence and myself, to a little friendly chat.

"Yes, sir," his Highness said to me, "I give dancing lessons. I have
many patrons among the aristocracy and the bankers. I have no reason to
complain; and yet one must admit things were better once, much better.
Dancing is going out, sir, dancing is going out."

"Is it possible?"

"It is as I have the honor of telling you. Women still learn to dance;
but no longer the young men, sir, no longer. Baccarat, races, and the
minor theatres--that's what they enjoy. It's a little the fault of the
Government."

"How can that be?"

"M. Jules Ferry has recently rearranged the curriculum of the
University. He has made certain studies obligatory--modern languages,
for instance. I don't blame him for that; the study of modern langua