Théophraste found himself in a large, dark room, where his attention was attracted by a great light which fell on the figure of a man. But strange to say, the light did not seem to fall on the man, but rather to radiate from him. In fact, when the figure moved it seemed to carry the light with it. Before the flambeau a woman was standing in a humble attitude, with clasped hands and bowed head. Then Théophraste heard a voice, a friendly voice, a manly voice, a voice sweeter than the sweetest voice of woman, which said to him: “Come to me without fear.” That which astonished M. Longuet above all else was the astral light which showed up the noble features of M. Eliphaste de St. Elm. He was a person of divine elegance, as elegant as a Christ on the Tripoli. “I do not know where I am,” said Théophraste, “but it gives me confidence to see my friend Adolphe, and my wife, Marceline, at your side. However, I should like to know your name.” “My dear sir,” said the harmonious voice, “I am called M. Eliphaste de St. Elm.” “Well,” said Théophraste, “my name is Cartouche. But it has been believed for a long, long time that this name was given to me as a nickname.” “You are not Cartouche,” said Eliphaste. “Your name is Théophraste Longuet. You will pardon me, but there is no longer any need for confusion; you were formerly called Cartouche, but now you are called Théophraste Longuet.” M. Théophraste then recalled a number of personages with whom he had, in the spirit of Cartouche, been speaking. They were all of the eighteenth century—Gatelard, Marie Antoinette Neron, and others, and it was evident that his mind was dwelling on that period, and he was living in the present a life of the past. Théophraste was still talking of these times, when the half shadows which seemed to envelop him were suddenly dissipated, and the room appeared in the splendid brightness of day. He looked around with evident satisfaction, first at his wife, and then at Adolphe, and finally at M. Eliphaste. Eliphaste had entirely lost his supernatural aspect, his astral mantle had disappeared, and if his features had still their sublime and unusual pallor, he seemed, nevertheless, a man like other men. “Ah, this is better,” said Théophraste, sighing. “It is not necessary for you to think any more of old Paris,” said M. Eliphaste. “You have nothing more to do with it. You are Théophraste, and it is the year of grace, 1899.” “Possibly,” replied Théophraste, who was obstinate; “but the question is, what about my treasure? I have a perfect right to look at a plan of old Paris, for I can follow the place where I buried it formerly, and find the place where I must look.” Eliphaste, speaking to Lecamus, said, “I have often witnessed the crises of Karma, but never has it been given to me to study one of such strength.”