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