“No personalities!” interposed Monsieur de Calonne. “Speak for yourself and for your patient.”
“My patient, frightened by the cries of his animalcules, wanted to stop the operation; but I went on regardless of his remonstrances; telling him that those evil animals were already gnawing at his bones. He made a sudden movement of resistance, not understanding that what I did was for his good, and my knife slipped aside, entered my own body, and—”
“He is stupid,” said Lavoisier.
“No, he is drunk,” replied Beaumarchais.
“But, gentlemen, my dream has a meaning,” cried the surgeon.
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Bodard, waking up; “my leg is asleep!”
“Your animalcules must be dead,” said his wife.
“That man has a vocation,” announced my little neighbor, who had stared imperturbably at the surgeon while he was speaking.
“It is to yours,” said the ugly man, “what the action is to the word, the body to the soul.”
But his tongue grew thick, his words were indistinct, and he said no more. Fortunately for us the conversation took another turn. At the end of half an hour we had forgotten the surgeon of the king’s pages, who was fast asleep. Rain was falling in torrents as we left the supper-table.