of his voice these
lines of Racine:

Peut-etre on t'a conte la fameuse disgrace
De l'altiere Vasthi dont j'occupe la place,
Lorsque le Roi, centre elle enflamme de depit,--

followed by--

Quel profane en ces lieux ose porter ses pas?
Hola, gardes!--

At this moment a reinforcement most luckily arrived; but as in this
access of fever he defended himself against all comers like a bear, and
boxed away like an Englishman, they had no little difficulty in
securing him; at length, in spite of his violence, he was replaced in
his bed, like a sword into its sheath. There, however, he would not lay
quiet; first he tore the satin curtains, then he hugged his
richly-worked pillow to his breast, calling it his best and dearest
friend, and performed fifty other such antics. He obtained, in short, no
repose, until his secretary, who entered at his bidding half-dressed and
with one eye half shut, had written the following note to my father,
under his dictation,--a letter evidently written in a paroxysm of high
fever:

"Friend of my heart, jessamine of my soul, bright party-coloured tulip
of my _souvenirs_, may the Creator pour upon your gray and venerable
head a stream from his flower-pot of blessings!

"Dear Friend,--Several atrocious doctors, with pale noses, the very
sight of which gives one the cholic, and with black searching eyes, that
make one tremble, say that I am very ill,--that I shall die. They say
too that there is only one mode of cure, and that is to take my valuable
body into your beautiful province. It is the east wind they say, and
blue-bottles, corn-flowers, field-poppies, and the green turf; the song
of the nightingale and the beautiful moonlight nights; the hum of bees
and the bleating of sheep, which will effect this marvellous cure. It is
amongst the rocks and streams of your mountains, in long walks in your
forests, and in your valleys; in the innocent candour of your pretty
peasant girls, the pure water of your fountains, and the cream cheeses
of your dairies that I am told resides the power to retain here below my
soul, just ready to fly away. Alas! yes, I am forced to admit the fact;
I must say I am very ill, and it is my own fault;--yes, my own undoubted
fault. I have drank too deeply of voluptuous ease; I have tasted too
often the luscious grapes of forbidden pleasures. I am no longer
virtuous enough to wish to see the sun rise, and hence it is that I am
suffering intensely in the capac