Jean Baptiste, as he lay there in the gloom of night, was wandering, in thought, away from the realities of daily life, far from the trodden paths, beyond all landmarks, into the confused and misty regions where no reason dwells, but doubt, madness, and fell despair, and where there is a downward path that plunges the lost soul into the abyss. From these evil dreams he was awakened by the rumbling of thunder, and the falling of great drops of rain from a black cloud that passed, like a curtain, across the sky. Flashes of lightning lit up the valley, showing the trees of the forest bending before the wind, while here and there a broken trunk stood erect with naked limbs from which the branches had been torn by the fury of the gale. Presently the storm arrived, shaking the house to its foundations; the rain came down in torrents; and from the inky sky there fell lurid forks of lightning followed by crashing thunder, the sound of falling trees, and the cries of terrified beasts and men. It was a terrific, a sublime spectacle, a display of power before which the timid soul cowers and shrinks and seeks a place of refuge, a hole wherein to creep, if by any chance it may escape the vengeance of the awful power against which it cannot contend. Not so Jean Baptiste, who enjoyed the refreshing bath of rain and the brilliant display of colour, and to whom thunder claps were reassuring, since he knew that he who hears the thunder has not yet been touched by the lightning. But suddenly there appeared a great blaze of violet light, with a little crackling noise, and for Jean Baptiste the show was ended. The bolt of God had fallen upon La Folie, and the master of the house was very close to death. Immediately after this, as it seemed to Jean--it was more than an hour--he felt himself roughly shaken, and heard a voice calling, as from a great distance. "Wake up! Wake up, Jean! _Mon Dieu_, will he never hear? Wake up, I say. We must get down out of this." "Get down?" said Jean, drowsily, without opening his eyes. "Get down? But no, it is comfortable here. Let me alone, please. I am sleepy, sleepy." "There, you are all right, I see," said the voice, louder now. "But get up, quick, quick! Get up, or I will throw you down. _Sacré fou_! Take that!" "Don’t kick me," said Jean. Then, opening his eyes, he stared at his assailant. "Oh, it is you, Pamphile, and you kick me? Well, I don’t wonder. Do it again, my friend, and after that I will throw you off the roof. But how black your face is! And where is your hair? _Mon Dieu_! What has happened?" "Happened? _Sacré bleu_! Your house is on fire. I tell you. Fire! Fire! Get up, you cursed idiot, and save yourself. For the last time--get up!" As Jean rose to his feet black volumes of smoke were rolling up from the stairway, and he could hear the roar of flames below. He started down the stairs.