follow the razor. For you, venerable Malesherbes — for you, Aimar Nicolaï — for you, learned Bailly — I see them dress the scaffold! And all the while, 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, prophet, by exemption from the fate of my companions. Shall I have no part to play in this drama of your phantasies?"
At this question, Cazotte's countenance lost its un-natural 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 suc-
