He wrote in extraordinary French to the great Specialist at Nancy who had written to him in English. He wrote in English to the great Specialist of Leipsic who had written to him in a German he did not understand, but whose signature and European name warranted the nature of the reply. So passed all Saturday's leisure.
Then came Sunday morning—and a perfect ocean of post!
It was a mass of correspondence which no two secretaries could have dealt with in thirty-six hours, and which he left hopelessly upon his table until some expert friend might tell him how such heaps were cleared.
His immense work of the day and of the night before in answering the Great had left him weary and already disgusted with his new public position. His terrors returned.
He had overstrained himself. The room was blurred before him. He rose from his breakfast and thought to take the air—but the empty Sabbath streets brought him no relief.
The Sunday Popular Papers were hot on his trail. Their great flaring placards stood outside the news shops.
"Is there a Heaven?" in letters a foot
