ance of fire--

"Monseigneur, you should remember, that you are not in our diocese,
haranguing your chaplains. You forget also, that in France the age of
quackery is over. There are no more dupes--have _you_ your passports
ready?"

This produced not even a sneer on the marble countenance of the
adversary.

"Monsieur de Sieyes," was the ready reply, "let me not hear _you_ talk
of despair. Quackery will never be at an end in France. The true quack
is a polypus; cut him into a thousand pieces, he only grows the
faster;--he is a fungus, give him only a stone to cling to, and he
covers it;--he is the viper, even while he hides in his hole, he is only
preparing to bite in the sunshine; and when all the world think him
frozen for life, he is only concocting venom for his summer exploits.
Quacks will live, as long as there are dupes--as leeches will live, as
long as there are asses' heels to hang on." He then rose, making a
profound bow, with "Bon soir, Monsieur l'Abbe--never fear--dupes will be
eternal."

This produced some confusion and consternation among the friends of
Sieyes. But a new scene of the night was announced, and all flowed
towards the private theatre.

I was yet to see more of this daring talker; but I was not surprised to
hear next day, that he had left Paris at midnight, and was gone, no one
knew whither. The capital might have been hazardous for him. Sieyes was
probably above revenge; but there were those who would have readily
taken the part upon themselves, and a _cidevant_ bishop would have made
a showy victim. How he escaped even so far, is among the wonders of a
life of wonder. I afterwards saw the fugitive, at the head of European
councils, a prince and a prime minister; the restorer of the dynasty
under which he fell, the overthrower of the dynasty under which he rose;
bearing a charmed life, and passing among the havoc of factions, and
even escaping from the wrecks of empire, more like an impalpable spirit
than a man.

But the change of his style was scarcely less remarkable than the change
of his fortunes. He was then no longer the hot and heady satirist; he
had become the sly and subtle scorner. No man said so many cutting
things, yet so few of which any one could take advantage: he anatomized
human character without the appearance of inflicting a wound; he had all
the pungency of wit without its peril, and reigned supreme by a terror
which every one pretended _not_ to feel. The change, afte