A few days after the scenes just described, Dr. Petetin’s patient had another attack of catalepsy. She still heard at the pit of her stomach, but the manner of hearing was modified. In the mean time her countenance expressed astonishment. Dr. Petetin inquired the cause. “It is not difficult,” she answered, “to explain to you why I look astonished. I am singing, doctor, to divert my attention from a sight which appals me. I see my inside, and the strange forms of the organs, surrounded with a network of light. My countenance must express what I feel—astonishment and fear. A physician who should have my complaint for a quarter of an hour would think himself fortunate, as nature would reveal all her secrets to him. If he was devoted to his profession, he would not, as I do, desire to be quickly well.” “Do you see your heart?” asked Dr. Petetin. “Yes, there it is; it beats at twice, the two sides in agreement; when the upper part contracts, the lower part swells, and immediately after that contracts. The blood rushes out all luminous, and issues by two great vessels, which are but a little apart.” One morning (to quote from the latter part of this case) the access of the fit took place, according to custom, at eight o’clock. Petetin arrived later than usual; he announced himself by speaking to the fingers of the patient, (by which he was heard.) “You are a very lazy person this morning, doctor,” said she. “It is true, madam; but if you knew the reason, you would not reproach me.” “Ah,” said she, “I perceive you have had a headache for the last four hours: it will not leave you till six in the evening. You are right to take nothing; no human means can prevent it running its course.” “Can you tell me on which side is the pain?” said Petetin. “On the right side; it occupies the temple, the eye, the teeth: I warn you that it will invade the left eye, and that you will suffer considerably between three and four o’clock; at six you will be free from pain.” The prediction came out literally true. “If you wish me to believe you, you must tell me what I hold in my hand.” “I see through your hand an antique medal.” Petetin inquired of his patient at what hour her own fit would cease: “At eleven.” “And the evening accession—when will it come on?” “At seven o’clock.” “In that case it will be later than usual.” “It is true; the periods of its recurrence are going to change to so and so.” During this conversation, the patient’s countenance expressed annoyance. She then said to M. Petetin, “My uncle has just entered; he is conversing with my husband behind the screen; his visit will fatigue me; beg him to go away.” The uncle, leaving, took with him by mistake her husband’s cloak, which she perceived, and sent her sister-in-law to reclaim it.