It is necessary to enumerate all the accomplishments of M. Eliphaste, for it gives Adolphe a chance of refuting in advance the reproach put upon him for letting him treat his best friend with the utmost severity. The criminal eccentricities of M. Longuet, of which Signor Petito was the first victim, made him dread the most irremediable catastrophes, and it was for this reason that he was led to consider the operation of Cartouche as a benefit, not only possible, but probable, without too great a risk to Théophraste. As to Mme. Longuet, her faith in M. Eliphaste was so great that at first she only made a few remarks, so as to relieve her of any responsibility, and then the terror that she had of sleeping with Cartouche made her, over and above everything, desire his death. M. Eliphaste told Adolphe to take Théophraste’s heels, and he took and held him under the armpits, and they carried him into the sub-cellar, where a laboratory had been fitted up, which was lighted in the day by gas, with large, red, hissing flames. Mme. Longuet followed. They placed Théophraste on a bed, and bound him down with straps. He was still under the mesmeric influence. M. Eliphaste stood over him, watching him closely, for a quarter of an hour, during which time there was a deep silence in the room. At length a voice was heard. It was M. Eliphaste praying. The prayer began in this way: “In the beginning there was silence. Oh, age Eternal, source of all ages------” When the prayer was ended, M. Eliphaste took Théophraste by the hand and seemed to command him without speaking. He questioned Théophraste by the strength of his domineering spirit —only by the answers Théophraste made could they understand what he had been commanded to tell. Théophraste said, without effort, “Yes, I see. Yes, I am. I am M. Théophraste Longuet; in an apartment of the Rue Gerondeau.” M. Eliphaste turned toward Adolphe and Marceline. “The operation is a bad one,” he said in a deep voice. “I have put Cartouche to sleep, and Théophraste answers me. He is sleeping in the present. We must not precipitate matters. It will be dangerous.” “I am in the Rue Gerondeau—in the apartment under mine—and I see stretched on the bed a man without ears. In front of him a woman; a dark woman—she is pretty—she is young—her name is Regina—the woman is saying to the man, ‘Signor Petito, as true as I am called Regina, and that you have lost your ears, you will cease to see me in forty-eight hours if you have not found the means to give me a little comfort, to which I have a right. When I married you, you basely deceived me, both as to your fortune and as to your intelligence. Your fortune rested only in hopes which have not been realized. What are you going to do?’ “Signor Petito replies, ‘My dear Regina, you puzzle me. Leave me in peace to find a trace of the treasures that the imbecile above is incapable of snatching from the profound depths of the earth.’”