I soon found that nearly
      all the company were well educated; and my host was a world of
      good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to
      speak of his position as superintendent of a_Maison de Santé_;
      and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a
      favorite one with all present. A great many amusing stories were
      told, having reference to the _whims_ of the patients. “We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat
      at my right,—“a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the
      way, is it not especially singular how often this particular
      crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely
      an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human tea-pot. Our gentleman was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was careful to
      polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting.”

      “And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long
      ago, a person who had taken it into his head that he was a
      donkey—which allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite
      true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep
      him within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but
      thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting upon
      his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his
      heels—so—so—”

      “Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
      interrupted an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. “Please
      keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my brocade! Is it
      necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style? Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon
      my word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate
      imagined himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live.”

      “Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus
      addressed—“a thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending. Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of
      taking wine with you.”

      Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much
      ceremony, and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace. “Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing
      myself, “allow me to send you a morsel of this veal _à la St.
      Menehoult_—you will find it particularly fine.”

      At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in
      depositing safely upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher,
      containing what I supposed to be the “_monstrum, horrendum,
      informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_.” A closer scrutiny assured
      me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and set
      upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English
      fashion of dressing a hare. “Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not
      particularly partial to veal _à la St_.—what is it?—for I do not
      find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my plate,
      however, and try some of the rabbit.”

      There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what
      appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious
      morceau, which I can recommend. “Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and
      give him a side-piece of this rabbit au-chat.”

      “This what?” said I. “This rabbit _au-chat_.”

      “Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself
      to some of the ham.”

      There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the
      tables of these people of the province. I will have none of their
      rabbit _au-chat_—and, for the matter of that, none of their
      _cat-au-rabbit_ either. “And then,” said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of
      the table, taking up the thread of the conversation where it had
      been broken off,—“and then, among other oddities, we had a
      patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained
      himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in
      his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the
      middle of his leg.”

      “He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but
      not to be compared with a certain individual whom we all know,
      with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who
      took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off with
      a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”

      Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb
      in his left cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the
      popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous movement of the
      tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which
      lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of
      champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to
      Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the
      conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig. “And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself
      for a frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree. I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker addressed
      myself—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural
      airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only
      observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak
      thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B
      flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking
      a glass or two of wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled
      up his eyes, thus, and winked them with excessive rapidity, thus,
      why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that you
      would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”

      “I have no doubt of it,” I said. “And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard,
      who thought himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed
      because he could not take himself between his own finger and
      thumb.”

      “And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular
      genius, indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin. He persecuted the cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the
      cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I am by no means
      sure that a pumpkin pie _à la Desoulières_ would not have been
      very capital eating indeed!”

      “You astonish me!” said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur
      Maillard. “Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished,
      _mon ami;_ our friend here is a wit—a _drôle_—you must not
      understand him to the letter.”

      “And then,” said some other one of the party,—“then there was
      Bouffon Le Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way.