Hirsch never brings that Paris Bill; privately fixed, on that point.

Hirsch's claims, as we gradually unravel the intricate mule-mind of him, rise very high indeed.

"And as to the value of those Jewels, and what I allowed YOU for them, Monsieur Chasot; that is no rule: trade-profits, you know"-- Nay, the mule intimates, as a last shift, That perhaps they are not the same Jewels; that perhaps M.de Voltaire has changed some of them! Whereupon the matter catches fire, irretrievably explodes.

M.de Voltaire's patience flies quite done; and, fire-eyed fury now guiding, he springs upon the throat of Hirsch like a cat-o'-mountain; clutches Hirsch by the windpipe; tumbles him about the room: "Infamous canaille, do you know whom you have got to do with?
That it is in my power to stick you into a hole underground for the rest of your life?
Sirrah, I will ruin and annihilate you!"-- and "tossed me about the room with his fist on my throat," says Hirsch; "offering to have pity nevertheless, if I would take back the Jewels, and return all writings." [Narrative (in--Tantale--).] Eyes glancing like a rattlesnake's, as we perceive; and such a phenomenon as Hirsch had not expected, this Christmas! In short, the matter has here fairly exploded, and is blazing aloft, as a mass of intricate fuliginous ruin, not to be deciphered henceforth.

Such a scene for Chasot on the Christmas-day at Berlin! And we have got to.