over the court, he presently observed, " We regret that our good friend Raoul Spifame, of whom we wished to speak, is not pres ent," and he made earnest inquiries after the advocate's health. Of course there was but one way of dealing with a case of this sort, and Spifame was turned over to the guard, to be conveyed to a mad-house. When Henry was informed of the matter, and told how well the poor mad advocate had played the king, he said, " So much the better that he does not dishonor his likeness, who has the honor to be made in our image." As in most cases of the kind, Spifame's aberration during the early days of his con finement was intermittent. During the day he seemed perfectly sane and properly con scious of his own identity, but as soon as darkness fell he was Spifame no longer, but Henry the Second, and those about him were his subjects. His cheerless prison vanished, and he sat in the Louvre holding councils, presiding at splendid banquets, or enjoying the society of his beautiful mis tress, Diana of Poitiers. This seemed to him his real life; the sad experiences of the day nothing but a troublesome dream. While he was king he never tired of speak ing of his favorite councillor, Raoul Spifame, and he bestowed upon his other self many honors, among them the high office of Keeper of the Royal Seal. After he had been in this asylum for some months it was thought wise to remove him to another, on the ground that a change of surroundings might improve his mental con dition. Unfortunately the change only re sulted in an intensification of his monoma nia, for here he met a fellow-sufferer who at once fell in with and fostered his illusion. This was Paul Vignet, a man of some cul ture, who, though sane on other points, imagined himself to be the royal poet of France. The historian records their initial interview as follows : — "When Vignet cast his eyes upon Spi
fame he appeared confounded, and in utter astonishment took a step forward, and, fall ing on his knees, cried out, ' His Majesty! ' "' Rise, my friend,' said Spifame. ' Who are you? ' "' Do you not recognize the humblest of your subjects and the greatest of your po ets, O great king? I am Claudius Vignetus, the illustrious author of the " Sonnet to Star-studded Space." Sire, avenge me on a traitor, the despoiler of my honor, Mellin de Saint Gelais.' "' What! my favorite poet — the keeper of my library? ' "' He has robbed me, sire; he has stolen my sonnet; he has misused your goodness.' "' Is he really a plagiarist? Then I shall give his post to my brave Spifame, at pres ent travelling in the interests of the king dom,' "' Rather give it to me, and I will spread your renown from east to west, all over the earth.' "'You shall have a pension of a thousand crowns, and my old doublet, as yours is very ragged.' "' Sire, I perceive my sonnets and epis tles have been until now withheld from your knowledge, though all addressed to you. Thus 'tis done in courts, "That hateful place of shady knaves."
"' Claudius Vignetus, you leave me no more; you shall be my minister, and you shall put in verse my decrees and ordi nances, and thus shall they be immortalized. And now 'tis the hour when our friend Diana visits us, and 'tis fitting we be left alone.'" In a short time the two had become in separable companions. Each fostered the illusion of the other, and the fancy grew stronger than ever that they were king and poet-subject, that their prison was a palace, their rags costly robes, and their simple re pasts sumptuous banquets. Vignet, in his lucid moments, hearing the clank of chains and noticing the iron bars
