thinking of priestcraft, not philosophy, Cazotte," said
Champfort.

(Champfort, one of those men of letters who, though misled by the first
fair show of the Revolution, refused to follow the baser men of action
into its horrible excesses, lived to express the murderous philanthropy
of its agents by the best bon mot of the time. Seeing written on the
walls, "Fraternite ou la Mort," he observed that the sentiment should be
translated thus, "Sois mon frere, ou je te tue." ("Be my brother, or I
kill thee.")) "And what of me?"

"You will open your own veins to escape the fraternity of Cain. Be
comforted; the last drops will not follow the razor. For you, venerable
Malesherbes; for you, Aimar Nicolai; for you, learned Bailly,--I see
them dress the scaffold! And all the while, O great philosophers, your
murderers will have no word but philosophy on their lips!"

The hush was complete and universal when the pupil of Voltaire--the
prince of the academic sceptics, hot La Harpe--cried with a sarcastic
laugh, "Do not flatter me, O prophet, by exemption from the fate of
my companions. Shall _I_ have no part to play in this drama of your
fantasies."

At this question, Cazotte's countenance lost its unnatural expression of
awe and sternness; the sardonic humour most common to it came back and
played in his brightening eyes.

"Yes, La Harpe, the most wonderful part of all! YOU will become--a
Christian!"

This was too much for the audience that a moment before seemed grave
and thoughtful, and they burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, while
Cazotte, as if exhausted by his predictions, sank back in his chair, and
breathed hard and heavily.

"Nay," said Madame de G--, "you who have predicted such grave things
concerning us, must prophesy something also about yourself."

A convulsive tremor shook the involuntary prophet,--it passed, and
left his countenance elevated by an expression of resignation and calm.
"Madame," said he, after a long pause, "during the siege of Jerusalem,
we are told by its historian that a man, for seven successive days,
went round the ramparts, exclaiming, 'Woe to thee, Jerusalem,--woe to
myself!'"

"Well, Cazotte, well?"

"And on the seventh day, while he thus spoke, a stone from the machines
of the Romans dashed him into atoms!"

With these words, Cazotte rose; and the guests, awed in spite of
themselves, shortly afterwards broke up and retired.

CHAPTER 1.VII.

Qui donc t'a donne l