to tell him."
"Venture!" said the young man; "then is your master a prince?"

"I don't know what he is," the other answered. Equally astonished,
each looked for a moment at the other. Then construing the stranger's

silence as an order, the apprentice left him alone in the closet.
Have you never launched into the immensity of time and space as you

read the geological writings of Cuvier? Carried by his fancy, have you
hung as if suspended by a magician's wand over the illimitable abyss

of the past? When the fossil bones of animals belonging to
civilizations before the Flood are turned up in bed after bed and

layer upon layer of the quarries of Montmartre or among the schists of
the Ural range, the soul receives with dismay a glimpse of millions of

peoples forgotten by feeble human memory and unrecognized by permanent
divinetradition, peoples whose ashes cover our globe with two feet of

earth that yields bread to us and flowers.
Is not Cuvier the great poet of our era? Byron has given admirable

expression to certain moral conflicts, but our immortalnaturalist has
reconstructed past worlds from a few bleached bones; has rebuilt

cities, like Cadmus, with monsters' teeth; has animated forests with
all the secrets of zoology gleaned from a piece of coal; has

discovered a giant population from the footprints of a mammoth. These
forms stand erect, grow large, and fill regions commensurate with

their giant size. He treats figures like a poet; a naught set beside a
seven by him produces awe.

He can call up nothingness before you without the phrases of a
charlatan. He searches a lump of gypsum, finds an impression in it,

says to you, "Behold!" All at once marble takes an animal shape, the
dead come to life, the history of the world is laid open before you.

After countless dynasties of giant creatures, races of fish and clans
of mollusks, the race of man appears at last as the degenerate copy of

a splendid model, which the Creator has perchance destroyed.
Emboldened by his gaze into the past, this petty race, children of

yesterday, can overstep chaos, can raise a psalm without end, and
outline for themselves the story of the Universe in an Apocalypse that

reveals the past. After the tremendous resurrection that took place at
the voice of this man, the little drop in the nameless Infinite,

common to all spheres, that is ours to use, and that we call Time,
seems to us a pitiable moment of life. We ask ourselves the purpose of

our triumphs, our hatreds, our loves, overwhelmed as we are by the
destruction of so many past universes, and whether it is worth while

to accept the pain of life in order that hereafter we may become an
intangible speck. Then we remain as if dead, completely torn away from

the present till the valet de chambre comes in and says, "Madame la
comtesse answers that she is expecting monsieur."

All the wonders which had brought the known world before the young
man's mind wrought in his soul much the same feeling of dejection that

besets the philosopher investigating unknown creatures. He longed more
than ever for death as he flung himself back in a curule chair and let

his eyes wander across the illusions composing a panorama of the past.
The pictures seemed to light up, the Virgin's heads smiled on him, the

statues seemed alive. Everything danced and swayed around him, with a
motion due to the gloom and the tormenting fever that racked his

brain; each monstrosity grimaced at him, while the portraits on the
canvas closed their eyes for a little relief. Every shape seemed to

tremble and start, and to leave its place gravely or flippantly,
gracefully or awkwardly, according to its fashion, character, and

surroundings.
A mysterious Sabbath began, rivaling the fantastic scenes witnessed by

Faust upon the Brocken. But these optical illusions, produced by
weariness, overstrained eyesight, or the accidents of twilight, could

not alarm the stranger. The terrors of life had no power over a soul
grown familiar with the terrors of death. He even gave himself up,

half amused by its bizarre eccentricities, to the influence of this
moral galvanism; its phenomena, closely connected with his last

thoughts, assured him that he was still alive. The silence about him
was so deep that he embarked once more in dreams that grew gradually

darker and darker as if by magic, as the light slowly faded. A last
struggling ray from the sun lit up rosy answering lights. He raised

his head and saw a skeleton dimly visible, with its skull bent
doubtfully to one side, as if to say, "The dead will none of thee as

yet."
He passed his hand over his forehead to shake off the drowsiness, and

felt a cold breath of air as an unknown furry something swept past his
cheeks. He shivered. A muffled clatter of the windows followed; it was

a bat, he fancied, that had given him this chilly sepulchral caress.
He could yet dimly see for a moment the shapes that surrounded him, by

the vague light in the west; then all these inanimate objects were
blotted out in uniform darkness. Night and the hour of death had

suddenly come. Thenceforward, for a while, he lost consciousness of
the things about him; he was either buried in deep meditation or sleep

overcame him, brought on by weariness or by the stress of those many
thoughts that lacerated his heart.

Suddenly he thought that an awful voice called him by name; it was
like some feverishnightmare, when at a step the dreamer falls

headlong over into an abyss, and he trembled. He closed his eyes,
dazzled by bright rays from a red circle of light that shone out from

the shadows. In the midst of the circle stood a little old man who
turned the light of the lamp upon him, yet he had not heard him enter,

nor move, nor speak. There was something magical about the apparition.
The boldest man, awakened in such a sort, would have felt alarmed at

the sight of this figure, which might have issued from some
sarcophagus hard by.

A curiouslyyouthful look in the unmoving eyes of the spectre forbade
the idea of anything supernatural; but for all that, in the brief

space between his dreaming and waking life, the young man's judgment
remained philosophically suspended, as Descartes advises. He was, in

spite of himself, under the influence of an unaccountable
hallucination, a mystery that our pride rejects, and that our

imperfect science vainly tries to resolve.
Imagine a short old man, thin and spare, in a long black velvet gown

girded round him by a thick silk cord. His long white hair escaped on
either side of his face from under a black velvet cap which closely

fitted his head and made a formalsetting for his countenance. His
gown enveloped his body like a winding sheet, so that all that was

left visible was a narrow bleached human face. But for the wasted arm,
thin as a draper's wand, which held aloft the lamp that cast all its

light upon him, the face would have seemed to hang in mid air. A gray
pointed beard concealed the chin of this fantastical appearance, and

gave him the look of one of those Jewish types which serve artists as
models for Moses. His lips were so thin and colorless that it needed a

close inspection to find the lines of his mouth at all in the pallid
face. His great wrinkled brow and hollow bloodless cheeks, the

inexorably stern expression of his small green eyes that no longer
possessed eyebrows or lashes, might have convinced the stranger that

Gerard Dow's "Money Changer" had come down from his frame. The
craftiness of an inquisitor, revealed in those curving wrinkles and

creases that wound about his temples, indicated a profound knowledge
of life. There was no deceiving this man, who seemed to possess a

power of detecting the secrets of the wariest heart.
The wisdom and the moral codes of every people seemed gathered up in

his passive face, just as all the productions of the globe had been
heaped up in his dusty showrooms. He seemed to possess the tranquil

luminous vision of some god before whom all things are open, or the
haughty power of a man who knows all things.

With two strokes of the brush a painter could have so altered the
expression of this face, that what had been a serenerepresentation of

the Eternal Father should change to the sneering mask of a
Mephistopheles; for though sovereign power was revealed by the

forehead, mocking folds lurked about the mouth. He must have
sacrificed all the joys of earth, as he had crushed all human sorrows

beneath his potent will. The man at the brink of death shivered at the
thought of the life led by this spirit, so solitary and remote from

our world; joyless, since he had no one illusion left; painless,
because pleasure had ceased to exist for him. There he stood,

motionless and serene as a star in a bright mist. His lamp lit up the
obscure closet, just as his green eyes, with their quiet malevolence,

seemed to shed a light on the moral world.
This was the strange spectacle that startled the young man's returning

sight, as he shook off the dreamy fancies and thoughts of death that
had lulled him. An instant of dismay, a momentary return to belief in

nursery tales, may be forgiven him, seeing that his senses were
obscured. Much thought had wearied his mind, and his nerves were

exhausted with the strain of the tremendous drama within him, and by
the scenes that had heaped on him all the horrid pleasures that a