“_Peste!_” replied the illustrious nobleman, “what the deuce do we care for the opinions of Monsieur Tonson, or any of your low manufacturers? By my honour, Dunshunner, I am afraid you are losing your head. Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that all great revolutions spring from us, the men of genius? It is we who are the true rousers of the people; we, the poets and romancers, who are the source of all legitimate power. Witness Voltaire, Rousseau, De Beranger, and—I may say it without any imputation of vanity—the Marquis Davy de la Pailleterie!” “Yours is a new theory!” said I, musingly. “New! Pray pardon me—it is as old as literature itself! No revolution can be effectual unless it has the fine arts for its basis. Simple as I stand here, I demand no more time than a month to wrap Europe in universal war.” “You don’t say so seriously?” “On my honour.” “Give me leave to doubt it.” “Should you like a proof?” “Not on so great a scale, certainly. I am afraid the results would be too serious to justify the experiment.” “Ah, bah! You are a philanthropist. What are a few thousand lives compared with the triumph of mind?” “Not much to you, perhaps, but certainly something to the owners. But come, my dear friend, you are jesting. You don’t mean to insinuate that you possess any such power?” “I do indeed.” “But the means? Granting that you have the power—and all Europe acknowledges the extraordinary faculties of the author of Monte-Christo—some time would be required for their development. You cannot hope to inoculate the mind of a nation in a moment.” “I did not say a moment—I said a month. “And dare I ask your recipe?” “A very simple one. Two romances, each in ten volumes, and a couple of melodramas.” “What! of your own?” “Of mine,” replied the Marquis de la Pailleterie. “I wish to heaven that I knew how you set about it. I have heard G. P. R. James backed for a volume a month, but this sinks him into utter insignificance.” “There is no difficulty in explaining it. He writes,—I never do. “You never write?” “Never.” “Then how the mischief do you manage?” “I compose. Since I met you, I have composed and dictated a whole chapter of the Memoirs of a Physician.” “Dictated?” “To be sure. It is already written down, and will be circulated throughout Paris to-morrow.” “Monsieur le Marquis—have I the honour to hold an interview with Satan?” “_Mon cher, vous me flattez beaucoup!_ I have not thought it necessary to intrust my experiences to the sympathising bosom of M. Frédéric Soulié.” “Have you a familiar spirit, then?” said I, casting a suspicious glance towards the poodle, then vigorously engaged in hunting through its woolly fleece. The Marquis smiled.