“That which I am about to relate to you,” said he, “will confound your reason; you will doubt, you will not believe me, perhaps; even I often doubt still. I tell myself it can not be; but the proofs are too real; and are there not in all that surrounds us, in our organization even, many other mysteries that we are obliged to submit to, without being able to comprehend?” He paused a moment, as if to gather together his thoughts, passed his hand over his brow, and continued: “I was born in this château. I had two elder brothers, to whom fell the wealth and honors of our house. I had nothing to expect, nothing to look forward to but an abbé’s mantle; nevertheless, ambitious dreams of glory and power fermented in my head and made my heart throb with anticipation. Miserable in my obscurity, eager for renown, I thought only of means to acquire it at any price, and these ideas made me insensible to all the pleasures and all the sweetness of life. To me the present was nothing; I only existed for the future, and this future presented itself to me under a most sombre aspect. I reached my thirtieth year without having accomplished anything;--then there arose in the capital literary lights whose brilliance penetrated even to our remote province. Ah! thought I, if I could at least make for myself a name in the world of letters, that might bring renown, and therein lies true happiness. I had for a confidant of my chagrins an old servant, an aged negro, who had served in my family many years before my birth; he was the oldest person on the estate, or for miles around, for no one could recall his first appearance, and the country folk said that he had known the Maréchal Fabert, was present at his death, and that he was an evil spirit.” At that name, I started with surprise; the unknown paused and asked me the cause of my embarrassment. “Nothing,” said I; but I could not help thinking that the black man must be the one spoken of by the old landlord of the “Armes de France” the previous evening. M. de C---- continued: “One day in Yago’s presence (that was the old negro’s name) I gave way to my feelings, bemoaned my obscurity, and bewailed my useless and monotonous life, and I cried aloud in my despair: ‘I would willingly give ten years of my life to be placed in the first rank of our authors!’ “‘Ten years,’ said Yago, coolly; ‘that is much, it is paying very dear for so little a thing; no matter, I accept your ten years; remember your promise, I will surely keep mine.’