d the Doctor. 'I fancy
not.'

'Never,' replied the boy.

'It is ruin in a gorge,' continued Desprez, adopting his expository
voice; 'the ruin of a hermitage and chapel. History tells us much of
Franchard; how the recluse was often slain by robbers; how he lived on a
most insufficient diet; how he was expected to pass his days in prayer. A
letter is preserved, addressed to one of these solitaries by the superior
of his order, full of admirable hygienic advice; bidding him go from his
book to praying, and so back again, for variety's sake, and when he was
weary of both to stroll about his garden and observe the honey bees. It
is to this day my own system. You must often have remarked me leaving
the "Pharmacopoeia"--often even in the middle of a phrase--to come forth
into the sun and air. I admire the writer of that letter from my heart;
he was a man of thought on the most important subjects. But, indeed, had
I lived in the Middle Ages (I am heartily glad that I did not) I should
have been an eremite myself--if I had not been a professed buffoon, that
is. These were the only philosophical lives yet open: laughter or
prayer; sneers, we might say, and tears. Until the sun of the Positive
arose, the wise man had to make his choice between these two.'

'I have been a buffoon, of course,' observed Jean-Marie.

'I cannot imagine you to have excelled in your profession,' said the
Doctor, admiring the boy's gravity. 'Do you ever laugh?'

'Oh, yes,' replied the other. 'I laugh often. I am very fond of jokes.'

'Singular being!' said Desprez. 'But I divagate (I perceive in a
thousand ways that I grow old). Franchard was at length destroyed in the
English wars, the same that levelled Gretz. But--here is the point--the
hermits (for there were already more than one) had foreseen the danger
and carefully concealed the sacrificial vessels. These vessels were of
monstrous value, Jean-Marie--monstrous value--priceless, we may say;
exquisitely worked, of exquisite material. And now, mark me, they have
never been found. In the reign of Louis Quatorze some fellows were
digging hard by the ruins. Suddenly--tock!--the spade hit upon an
obstacle. Imagine the men fooling one to another; imagine how their
hearts bounded, how their colour came and went. It was a coffer, and in
Franchard the place of buried treasure! They tore it open like famished
beasts. Alas! it was not the treasure; only some priestly robes, which,
a