Adolphe continued: “Dreams have never been explained by science. Science attributes them all to the effects of the imagination, but it does not give us the reason for these clear, distinct visions which appear to us sometimes. Thus it explains a thing which is not known by another which is no better understood. It says that dreams are the recollection of things which took place in a former life. But even admitting this solution—which is a doubtful one—we still have to find out what is the magic mirror that serves so well to keep the imprint of things. Moreover, how can one explain visions of real things, events that one has never seen in a former state, and of which one has never even thought? Who can affirm that these are not visions of retrospective past events in a former life?” “That is right, my dear Adolphe,” said Théophraste, “and I ought to confess the things that I have dreamed. I have dreamed them three times as I said before, things that were perhaps true in the past, or will be in the future. I have never seen them in a waking state in my present life.” “You understand me,” said Adolphe. “Relate to me the things that you have dreamed of and have never seen.” “Oh, that will not take long. But so much the better, for it is not very cheerful: I dreamed that I was married to a woman named Marie Antoinette, and then----” “And then?” interrupted Adolphe, who had never taken his eyes off the document. “And then I cut her up in pieces.” “Oh, horrors!” cried Marceline. “It is horrible,” continued Théophraste, shaking his head. “Then I put the pieces in a basket and threw them into the Seine by the little bridge of the Hotel Dieu. I awoke then, and you may be sure I was not sorry.” Adolphe struck the table a hard blow with his fist. “It is frightful,” he cried in a harsh voice, looking at Théophraste. “Is it not?” said Marceline, shuddering. Adolphe read the first lines of the document. “Oh, how dreadful it is!” he continued, groaning. “Alas, alas! I understand all, now.” “What do you understand?” asked Théophraste in a frightened voice, following Adolphe’s finger as he traced the first two lines of the document. “This,” said Adolphe. “‘Moi et! I buried my, treasures.’ And you do not know what that ‘et’ means? Well, I won’t tell you until I am quite sure. I will know to-morrow. Théophraste, tomorrow at two o’clock be at the Rue Guinegaud and the Rue Mazarin. I am going to take these articles to M. Milfroid’s house. He will restore them to their owners, and we will prove to him that there are pickpockets even when the Commissioner is present. Adieu, my friend, adieu. Above all take courage. Take courage.” Adolphe shook Théophraste’s hand with the warmth of a comrade, and departed. Théophraste did not sleep that night. While Marceline reposed peacefully by his side, he lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. His respiration was irregular, and he sighed often. Anxiety lay heavy upon him. CHAPTER IX _The Portrait_