He
      grew deranged through love, and fancied himself possessed of two
      heads. One of these he maintained to be the head of Cicero; the
      other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the
      top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the
      mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was wrong; but he
      would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a
      man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory,
      and could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap
      upon the dinner-table thus, and—and—”

      Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his
      shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear; upon which he
      ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank back within his
      chair. “And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was
      Boullard, the tee-totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in
      fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether
      irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a
      tee-totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin. He would turn round upon one heel by the hour, in this
      manner—so—”

      Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper,
      performed an exactly similar office for himself. “But then,” cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, “your
      Monsieur Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best;
      for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum? The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person,
      as you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common
      sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor of her
      acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some
      accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such,
      she behaved with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious
      effect—so—so—so—and, as for her crow, it was delicious! Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo
      dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”

      “Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
      interrupted our host, very angrily. “You can either conduct
      yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the table
      forthwith—take your choice.”

      The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame
      Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just
      given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed
      at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable
      in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was
      my beautiful girl of the little parlor. “Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was
      really much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie
      Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young
      lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and
      wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of
      inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all. You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and
      then so—so—and then—”

      “Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at
      once. “What are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see,
      very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!” and several persons
      were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle
      Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean
      Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly
      accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some
      portion of the main body of the _château_. My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but
      the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of
      reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in my life. They all
      grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their
      seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for
      a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly
      nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time
      with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of
      the noise, the spirits of the company were immediately regained,
      and all was life and anecdote as before. I now ventured to
      inquire the cause of the disturbance. “A mere _bagatelle_,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to
      these things, and care really very little about them. The
      lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert; one
      starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at
      night. It occasionally happens, however, that the _concerto_
      yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose;
      when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”

      “And how many have you in charge?”

      “At present we have not more than ten, altogether.”

      “Principally females, I presume?”

      “Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell
      you.”

      “Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics
      were of the gentler sex.”

      “It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were
      about twenty-seven patients here; and, of that number, no less
      than eighteen were women; but, lately, matters have changed very
      much, as you see.”

      “Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the
      gentleman who had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace. “Yes—have changed very much, as you see!” chimed in the whole
      company at once. “Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great
      rage. Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for
      nearly a minute. As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to
      the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which was an
      excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands,
      until the end of the entertainment. “And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending
      over and addressing him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just
      spoken, and who gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume,
      is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”

      “Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what
      can you mean?”

      “Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for
      granted that she is not particularly not dangerously affected,
      eh?”

      “_Mon dieu!_ what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old
      friend Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself.