BY H. J. BEYERLE, M.D.
It seems to me as if it had been but yesterday, and yet it happened in the beginning of the year 1788. We were at table with one of our colleagues of the Academy, a respectable and lively gentleman. The company was numerous, and selected from all ranks: nobles, judges, professional men, academicians, &c. We had enjoyed ourselves as is customary at a well-loaded table. At the desert, the malvasier and Cape wine exalted the pleasure and increased in a good company that kind of liberty which does not remain within precise limits.
People in the world had then arrived at the point where it was allowed to say every thing, if it was the object to excite laughter. Chamfort had read to us some of his blasphemous and unchaste tales, and the noble ladies heard them without even taking for refuge to the fan. Then followed a whole volley of mockery on religion. One mentioned a tirade from the Pucelle; the other reminded us of those philosophical stanzas of Diderot, wherein he says: "With the intestines of the last priest tie up the throat of the last king;" and all clapped approbation. Another rises, holds up the full tumbler, and cries: "Yes, gentlemen, I am just as certain that there is no God, as I am certain that Homer was a fool!" and really, he was of the one as certain as he was of the other: we had just spoken of Homer and of God, and there were guests present, too, who had said something good of the one and of the other.
The conversation now became more serious. We spoke with astonishment of the revolution Voltaire had effected, and we agreed that it is the most distinguished foundation of his fame. He had given the term to his half-century; he had written in such a manner, that he is read in the anteroom as well as in the hall.
One of the guests told us with great laughter, that his hairdresser, as he powdered him, said, "You see, sir, though I am only a miserable fellow, I yet have not more religion than others." We concluded that the revolution would soon be completed, and that superstition and fanaticism must absolutely yield to philosophy; we calculated the probability of the time, and who of this company may have the happiness to live to see the reign of reason. The older ones were sorry that they could not flatter themselves to see this; those younger rejoiced with the hope that they shall live to the time, and we particularly congratulated the Academy for having introduced the great work, and that they have been the chief source, the centre, the mainspring of freedom of thought.
One of the guests had taken no part in this gay conversation, and had even scattered a few jokes in regard to our beautiful enthusiasm. It was M. Cazotte, an agreeable and original gentleman; but who, unfortunately, was prepossessed by the idle imaginations of those who believe in a higher inspiration. He took the word, and said, in the most serious manner: "Sirs, rejoice; you all will be witnesses of that great and sublime revolution for which you wish so much. You are aware that I make some pretensions to prophecy. I repeat it to you, you will all see it!"
"For this a man needs no prophetic gifts," was answered him.
"This is true," he replied, "but probably a little more for what I have to tell you yet. Do you know what will arise from this revolution (where, namely, reason will triumph in opposition to religion)? what her immediate consequence, her undeniable and acknowledged effects will be?"
"Let us see," said Condorcet, with his affected look of simplicity, "a philosopher is not sorry to meet a prophet."
"You, M. Condorcet," continued M. Cazotte, "you will be stretched out upon the floor of a dungeon, there to yield up your ghost. You will die of poison, which you will swallow to save yourself from the hangman—of the poison which the good luck of the times, which then will be, will have compelled you always to have carried with you."