“A poodle-dog,” replied the voice. “What a pretty creature! he is just snapping at a fly. Come here, poor fellow!” The poodle gave an unearthly yell, and rushed between the legs of Monte-Christo, thereby nearly capsizing that extraordinary magician. “Who else?” asked the Marquis. “A tall man, with sandy-coloured hair. La, how funny!” “What now?” “I am laughing.” “At what?” “At his dress.” “How is he dressed?” “In a blue coat with gilt buttons, a white hat, and such odd scarlet-and-yellow trowsers!” I stood petrified. It was quite true. In a moment of abstraction I had that morning donned a pair of integuments of the M’Tavish tartan, and my legs were of the colour of the flamingo. “Is he handsome?” I did not exactly catch the response. “That will do, my dear Marquis,” said I, returning him the trumpet. “I am now perfectly convinced of the truth of your assertions, and can no longer wonder at the marvellous fertility of your pen—I beg pardon—of your invention. Pray, do not trouble your fair friend any further upon my account. I have heard quite enough to satisfy me that I am in the presence of the most remarkable man in Europe.” “Pooh! this is a mere bagatelle. Any man might do the same, with a slight smattering of the occult sciences. But we were talking, if I recollect right, about moral influence and power. I maintain that the authors of romance and melodrama are the true masters of the age: you, on the contrary, believe in free-trade and the jargon of political economy. Is it not so?” “True. We started from that point.” “Well, then, would you like to see a revolution?” “Not on my account, my dear Marquis. I own the interest of the spectacle, but it demands too great a sacrifice.” “Not at all. In fact, I have made up my mind for a _bouleversement_ this spring, as I seriously believe it would tend very much to the respectability of France. It must come sooner or later. Louis Philippe is well up in years, and it cannot make much difference to him. Besides, I am tired of Guizot. He gives himself airs as an historian which are absolutely insufferable, and France can submit to it no longer. The only doubt I entertain is, whether this ought to be a new ministry, or an entire dynastical change.” “You are the best judge. For my own part, having no interest in the matter further than curiosity, a change of ministers would satisfy me.” “Ay, but there are considerations beyond that. Much may be said upon both sides. There is danger certainly in organic changes, at the same time we must work out by all means our full and legitimate freedom. What would you do in such a case of perplexity?” Victor Hugo’s simple and romantic method of deciding between hostile opinions, as exemplified in his valuable drama of Lucrèce Borgia, at once occurred to me. “Are you quite serious,” said I, “in wishing to effect a change of some kind?” “I am,” said the Marquis, “as resolute as Prometheus on the Caucasus.”