"If I do not deceive myself," said Don Cleophas, "I hear some one laughing behind us." "It is no deception," replied the Devil; "it is a widow laughing in her sleep, a few paces from us. She is a woman who affects the prude, and who loves nothing so well as a little friendly scandal: she dreams that she is chatting with an ancient devotee, whose conversation could hardly fail to delight one of her taste.
"I cannot help laughing in my turn, to see, in the room under that of the widow, an honest cit, who lives with difficulty on the little he possesses, but who dreams that he is picking up pieces of gold and silver, and that the more he gathers the more remain to glean: he has already filled a large coffer." "Poor fellow!" said Leandro; "he will not enjoy his treasure long." "No!" replied the Cripple; "and when he awakes he will be like the really rich, when dying: he will see all his wealth disappear."
"If you are curious to know the dreams of two actresses who live near each other, I will relate them to you. One is dreaming that she is catching birds with a call; that she strips them as she takes them, and then throws them to be devoured by a large tom-cat in which she delights, and which has all the profit of her skill. The other dreams that she is driving from her house greyhounds and coach-dogs, which for a long time have sunned themselves in her presence, having resolved to confine her affections to a pretty little lap-dog, which has recently gained her favour."
"Two dreams absurd enough!" cried the Student; "I fancy that if at Madrid, as formerly in Rome, there were interpreters of dreams, they would be sadly puzzled to explain these." "Not so much as you think," replied the Devil: "a very small acquaintance with the domestic habits of your syrens of the stage, would enable them to render their sense perfectly intelligible."
[Illustration: the actress feeding birds to the tom-cat]
"Well! for myself," exclaimed Don Cleophas, "they are past my comprehension, and that troubles me little: I would rather be informed who is that lady sleeping in a bed with amber velvet hangings, bordered with silver fringe, and near which, upon a small table, I perceive a book and a wax-candle." "She is a lady of illustrious family," replied the Demon, "whose establishment is mounted in gallant style, and who loves to see her livery adorned by young and handsome men. She is accustomed to read in bed, and cannot sleep without her favourite author. Last night she was indulging in the Metamorphoses of Ovid: in consequence, she is at this moment dreaming, extravagantly enough, that Jupiter has become amorous of her charms, and has entered her service in the form of a favourite page.