from the usual _restaurants_ of the period. A large fireplace yawned
opposite the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard
displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles.
It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter
of ----, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to
the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity--that
Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific
mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of
blazing fagots.
It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or
twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to
its centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies
of the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully
the curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of
his _pâté_-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without,
exposed to the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a
moaning sound from its stanchions of solid oak.
It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his
chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a
perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity
of his meditations. In attempting _des oeufs à la Princesse_, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an _omelette à la Reine_; the discovery of a
principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew;
and last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable
bargains which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing
to a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these
unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some
degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is
so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate
vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and
settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a
wary and unquiet eye toward those distant recesses of the apartment
whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more
than partially succeed in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny
whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew
close to his seat a small table covered with books and papers, and
soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous
manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.
He had been thus occupied for some minutes, when "I am in no hurry,
Monsieur Bon-Bon," suddenly whispered a whining voice in the
apartment.
"The devil!" ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning
the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.
"Very true," calmly replied the voice.
"Very true!--what is very true?--how came you here?" vociferated the
metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at
full length upon the bed.
"I was saying," said the intruder, without attending to the
interrogatories,--"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for
time--that the business, upon which I took the liberty of calling, is
of no pressing importance--in short, that I can very well wait until
you have finished your Exposition."
"My Exposition!--there now!--how do _you_ know?--how came _you_ to
understand that I was writing an Exposition--good God!"
"Hush!" replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising
quickly from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an
iron lamp that depended overhead swung convulsively back from his
approach.
The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure,
exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered
minutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted
tight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a
century ago. These garments had evidently been intended for a much
shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were
left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very
brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the
other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald,
with the exception of the hinder-part, from which depended a _queue_
of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses,
protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same
time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their colour or their
conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a
shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme
precision around the throat, and the ends, hanging down formally side
by side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an
ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and
demeanour might have very well sustained a conception of that nature.
Over his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an
instrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket
of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with
clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned
outwardly from the person as to discover the words "_Rituel
Catholique_" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy
was interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was
lofty, and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The
corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most
submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he
stepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such
utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally
prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the
metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his
visitor's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted
him to a seat.
There would however be a radical error in attributing this
instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of
those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an
influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to
understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be
imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was
impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have
failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the
personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more,
the conformation of his visitor's feet was sufficiently remarkable--he
maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall hat--there was a
tremulous swelling about the hinder-part of his breeches--and the
vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge, then, with what
feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once
into the society of a person for whom he had at all times entertained
the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the
diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in
regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at
all conscious of the high honour he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by
leading his guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical
ideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated
publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time
immortalize himself--ideas which, I should have added, his visitor's
great age, and well-known proficiency in the science of morals, might
very well have enabled him to afford.
Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit
down, while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the
fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of
Mousseaux. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his
chair _vis-à-vis_ to his companion's, and waited until the latter
should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully
matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application--and
the _restaurateur_ found himself _nonplussed_ by the very first words
of his visitor's speech.
"I see you know me, Bon-Bon," said he; "ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hi!
hi! hi--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!"--and the Devil, dropping at once the
sanctity of his demeanour, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from
ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth, and,
throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,
joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off a tangent,
stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.
Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to
laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation
of the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see
the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel Catholique_" on the
book in his guest's pocket, momently changing both their colour and
their import, and in a few seconds, in place of the original title,
the words "_Registre des Condamnés_" blaze forth in characters of red.
This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor's
remark, imparted to his manner an air of embarrassment which probably
might not otherwise have been observed.
"Why, sir," said the philosopher, "why, sir, to speak sincerely--I
believe you are--upon my word--the d--dest--that is to say, I think--I
imagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the
remarkable honour--"
"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!" interrupted his Majesty; "say no more--I
see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he
wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited
them in his pocket.
If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his
amazement was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented
itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of
curiosity to ascertain the colour of his guest's, he found them by no
means black, as he had anticipated--nor grey, as might have been
imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow nor red--nor
purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other colour in the heavens
above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In
short, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no
eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their having
existed at any previous period--for the space where eyes should
naturally have been was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level
of flesh.
It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon; and the reply of
his Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.
"Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon--eyes! did you say?--oh!--ah!--I perceive! The
ridiculous prints, eh, which are in circulation, have given you a
false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!--true. Eyes, Pierre
Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place--_that_, you would say,
is the head?--right--the head of a worm. To _you_, likewise, these
optics are indispensable--yet I will convince you that my vision is
more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner--a
pretty cat--look at her--observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold
the thoughts--the thoughts, I say--the ideas--the reflections--which
are being engendered in her pericranium? There it is now--you do not!
She is thinking we admire the length of her tail and the profundity of
her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of
ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of
metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of
my profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance,
liable at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron or a pitchfork. To
you, I allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavour,
Bon-Bon, to use them well; _my_ vision is the soul."
Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and
pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without
scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.
"A clever book that of yours, Pierre," resumed his Majesty, tapping
our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his
glass after a thorough compliance with his visitor's injunction. "A
clever book that of yours, upon my honour. It's a work after my own
heart. Your arrangement of the matter, I think, however, might be
improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That
philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as
much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a
blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and
for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity.
I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral
truth I am alluding?"
"Cannot say that I--"
"Indeed!--why it was I who told Aristotle that, by sneezing, men
expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis."
"Which is--hiccup!--undoubtedly the case," said the metaphysician,
while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseaux, and
offering his snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor.
"There was Plato, too," continued his Majesty, modestly declining the
snuff-box and the compliment it implied--"there was Plato, too, for
whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew
Plato, Bon-Bon?--ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at
Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for
an idea. I bade him write down that '[Greek: ho nous estin aulos].' He
said that he would do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the
pyramids. But my conscience smote me for having uttered a truth, even
to aid a friend, and hastening back to Athens, I arrived behind the
philosopher's chair as he was inditing the '[Greek: aulos].'
"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down.
So the sentence now reads '[Greek: ho nous estin augos],' and is, you
perceive, the fundamental doctrine in his metaphysics."
"Were you ever at Rome?" asked the _restaurateur_, as he finished his
second bottle of Mousseaux, and drew from the closet a larger supply
of Chambertin.
"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time," said the
Devil, as if reciting some passage from a book--"there was a time when
occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft
of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the
people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive
power--at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon--at that time _only_ I was in
Rome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of
its philosophy."[14]
[14] Ils écrivaient sur la philosophie (_Cicero_,
_Lucretius_, _Seneca_), mais c'était la philosophie
grecque.--_Condorcet._
"What do you think of--what do you think of--hiccup!--Epicurus?"
"What do I think of _whom_?" said the Devil, in astonishment; "you
surely do not mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of
Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?--I am Epicurus! I am the same
philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated
by Diogenes Laertes."
"That's a lie!" said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a
little into his head.
"Very well!--very well, sir!--very well, indeed, sir!" said his
Majesty, apparently much flattered.
"That's a lie!" repeated the _restaurateur_, dogmatically; "that's
a--hiccup!--a lie!"
"Well, well, have it your own way!" said the Devil, pacifically, and
Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at an argument, thought it his duty
to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.
"As I was saying," resumed the visitor--"as I was observing a little
while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of yours,
Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug
about the soul? Pray, sir, what _is_ the soul?"
"The--hiccup!--soul," replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS.,
"is undoubtedly--"
"No, sir!"
"Indubitably--"
"No, sir!"
"Indisputably--"
"No, sir!"
"Evidently--"
"No, sir!"
"Incontrovertibly--"
"No, sir!"
"Hiccup!--"
"No, sir!"
"And beyond all question, a--"
"No, sir, the soul is no such thing!" (Here the philosopher, looking
daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third
bottle of Chambertin.)
"Then--hiccup!--pray, sir--what--what is it?"
"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his
Majesty, musingly. "I have tasted--that is to say, I have known some
very bad souls, and some too--pretty good ones." Here he smacked his
lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in
his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.
He continued:
"There was the soul of Cratinus--passable: Aristophanes--racy:
Plato--exquisite--not _your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your
Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus--faugh! Then let me
see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius.
Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus
Flaccus,--dear Quinty! as I called him when he sang a _saeculare_ for
my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humour, on a fork. But
they want _flavour_, these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of
them, and besides will _keep_, which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let
us taste your Sauterne."
Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_, and
endeavoured to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,
conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail.
Of this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher
took no notice:--simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be
quiet. The visitor continued:
"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;--you know I am
fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso,
to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong
twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus--and
Titus Livius was positively Polybius and none other."
"Hiccup!" here replied Bon-Bon, and his Majesty proceeded:
"But if I _have_ a _penchant_, Monsieur Bon-Bon--if I _have_ a
_penchant_, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is
not every dev--I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to
_choose_ a philosopher. Long ones are _not_ good; and the best, if not
carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the
gall."
"Shelled!!"
"I mean taken out of the carcass."
"What do you think of a--hiccup!--physician?"
"_Don't_ mention them!--ugh! ugh!" (Here his Majesty retched
violently.) "I never tasted but one--that rascal Hippocrates!--smelt
of asafoetida--ugh! ugh! ugh!--caught a wretched cold washing him in
the Styx--and after all he gave me the cholera-morbus."
"The--hiccup!--wretch!" ejaculated Bon-Bon, "the--hiccup!--abortion of
a pill-box!"--and the philosopher dropped a tear.
"After all," continued the visitor, "after all, if a dev--if a
gentleman wishes to _live_, he must have more talents than one or two;
and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."
"How so?"
"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know
that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to
keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death,
unless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is _not_ good), they
will--smell--you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be
apprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way."
"Hiccup!--hiccup!--good God! how _do_ you manage?"
Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the
Devil half started from his seat;--however, with a slight sigh, he
recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: "I
tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we _must_ have no more swearing."
The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough
comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued:
"Why, there are _several_ ways of managing. The most of us starve:
some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits
_vivente corpore_, in which case I find they keep very well."
"But the body!--hiccup!--the body!!"
"The body, the body--well, what of the body?--oh! ah! I perceive. Why,
sir, the body is not _at all_ affected by the transaction. I have made
innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never
experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero,
and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and--and a thousand
others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter
part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why isn't
there A--, now, whom you know as well as I? Is _he_ not in possession
of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener
epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who--but, stay! I have his
agreement in my pocket-book."
Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a
number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the
letters _Machi_--_Maza_--_Robesp_--with the words _Caligula_,
_George_, _Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of
parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:
"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary
to specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d'or,
I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the
bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the
shadow called my soul. (Signed) A...."[15] (Here His Majesty repeated
a name which I do not feel myself justified in indicating more
unequivocally.)
[15] Query.--_Arouet?_
"A clever fellow that," resumed he; "but, like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon,
he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a
shadow! Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a
_fricasséed_ shadow!"
"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a _fricasséed_ shadow!" exclaimed our hero,
whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of
His Majesty's discourse. "Only think of a--hiccup!--_fricasséed_
shadow!! Now, damme!--hiccup!--humph! If _I_ would have been such
a--hiccup!--nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!"
"_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"
"Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is--"
"What, sir?"
"_No_ shadow, damme!"
"Did you mean to say--"
"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir."
"Did you not intend to assert--"
"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a--"
"What, sir?"
"Stew."
"Ha!"
"_Soufflée._"
"Eh!"
"_Fricassée._"
"Indeed!"
"_Ragoût_ and _fricandeau_--and see here, my good fellow! I'll let you
have it--hiccup!--a bargain." Here the philosopher slapped His Majesty
upon the back.
"Couldn't think of such a thing," said the latter calmly, at the same
time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.
"Am supplied at present," said His Majesty.
"Hic-cup!--e-h?" said the philosopher.
"Have no funds on hand."
"What?"
"Besides, very unhandsome in me--"
"Sir!"
"To take advantage of--"
"Hic-cup!"
"Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation."
Here the visitor bowed and withdrew--in what manner could not
precisely be ascertained--but in a well-concerted effort to discharge
a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended
from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of
the lamp.
THE PRINTER'S DEVIL