in all the splendor of its infinite littleness。 An ebony table that an
artist might worship； carved after Jean Goujon's designs； in years of
toil； had been purchased perhaps at the price of firewood。 Precious
caskets； and things that fairy hands might have fashioned； lay there
in heaps like rubbish。
〃You must have the worth of millions here！〃 cried the young man as he
entered the last of an immense suite of rooms； all decorated and gilt
by eighteenth century artists。
〃Thousands of millions； you might say；〃 said the florid shopman； 〃but
you have seen nothing as yet。 Go up to the third floor； and you shall
see！〃
The stranger followed his guide to a fourth gallery； where one by one
there passed before his wearied eyes several pictures by Poussin； a
magnificent statue by Michael Angelo； enchanting landscapes by Claude
Lorraine； a Gerard Dow （like a stray page from Sterne）； Rembrandts；
Murillos； and pictures by Velasquez； as dark and full of color as a
poem of Byron's； then came classic bas…reliefs； finely…cut agates；
wonderful cameos！ Works of art upon works of art； till the craftsman's
skill palled on the mind； masterpiece after masterpiece till art
itself became hateful at last and enthusiasm died。 He came upon a
Madonna by Raphael； but he was tired of Raphael； a figure by Correggio
never received the glance it demanded of him。 A priceless vase of
antique porphyry carved round about with pictures of the most
grotesquely wanton of Roman divinities； the pride of some Corinna；
scarcely drew a smile from him。
The ruins of fifteen hundred vanished years oppressed him； he sickened
under all this human thought； felt bored by all this luxury and art。
He struggled in vain against the constantly renewed fantastic shapes
that sprang up from under his feet； like children of some sportive
demon。
Are not fearful poisons set up in the soul by a swift concentration of
all her energies； her enjoyments； or ideas； as modern chemistry； in
its caprice； repeats the action of creation by some gas or other？ Do
not many men perish under the shock of the sudden expansion of some
moral acid within them？
〃What is there in that box？〃 he inquired； as he reached a large closet
final triumph of human skill； originality； wealth； and splendor； in
which there hung a large； square mahogany coffer； suspended from a
nail by a silver chain。
〃Ah； monsieur keeps the key of it；〃 said the stout assistant
mysteriously。 〃If you wish to see the portrait； I will gladly venture
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
divine tradition； 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 immortal naturalist 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 feverish nightmare； 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 curiously youthful 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 formal setting for his countenance。 His
gown enveloped his body lik