"Eighteen years. They don't remember very often to decorate my tomb with flowers." "Where?" "At Pere-Lachaise." "You are wrong, it was at Villequier that you were buried, and I went myself to visit your tomb. Your husband, Charles Vacquerie is also there, with the two other victims of the catastrophe. You don't know what you are talking about." At this point our hostess declares that she was not thinking at all of Pere-Lachaise, and that, in her opinion, Leopoldine Hugo and her husband remained at the bottom of the Seine. After luncheon we sit down again at the seance table. Various oscillations. Then a name is dictated. "Sivel." "The aeronaut?" "Yes." "In what year did you die?" "1875." (Correct.) "What month?" "March." (It was April 15.) "From what point did your balloon start?" "La Villette." (Correct.) "Where did you fall?" "In the river Indre." All these "elements" were more or less known to us. I ask for a more special proof of identity. "Where did you know me?" "With Admiral Mouchez." "It is impossible. I first knew Admiral Mouchez at the time of his appointment to the directorship of the Paris Observatory. He succeeded Le Verrier in 1877, two years after your death." The table is agitated and dictates as follows: "Give your name." "Witold. Marchioness, I love you still." "Are you happy?" "No, I behaved badly to you." "You know very well that I pardon you, and that I preserve the happiest recollection of you." "You are too good." These thoughts were evidently in the mind of the lady; so there was here no more proof of identity than in the other case. All of a sudden the table begins to move vigorously, and another name is dictated, "Ravachol."[46] "Oh, what is he going to say to us?" I will set down here what he said, though not without shame, and with all due apologies to my lady readers. Here it is in all its crudity: "_Bougres de cretins, votre sale gueule est encore plaine des odeurs du festin._" ("Nasty blackguards and idiots, your dirty throat is still full of the odors of the feast.") "Monsieur Ravachol, this language of yours is exquisite! Have you nothing more refined than this to say to us?" "You be blowed!" Certainly no one of us was capable of consciously composing such a sentence as that. But everybody knows the words that were used. Perhaps our conscious or sub-conscious thoughts spoke in them? Did they emanate from Mme. X., the medium? In the uncertainty into which we were plunged by these two seances, we asked M. and Mme. X. to come and pass a Sunday at Juvisy and try some new studies and tests.