"Notre Gulliver"--dit le Lord Bolingbroke--"a de telles
fables."--_Voltaire_.
That Pierre Bon-Bon was a Restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no
man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little Câfé in the
Cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree,
skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more
especially undeniable. His _Patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt
immaculate--but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la
Nature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If
his _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what
_literateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an
'_Idée de Bon-Bon_' as for all the trash of all the '_Idées_' of all
the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have
entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other
would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although,
while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen, to
assert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy,
nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by
no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that
they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of
their entire self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them
abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no farther--it is to
Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The
former was not indeed a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an
Aristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those
precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a
_fricassée_, or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of a sensation, in
frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of
ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic. Bon-Bon was equally
Italic. He reasoned _a priori_. He reasoned also _a posteriori_. His
ideas were innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond.
He believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.
I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of Restaurateur. I
would not however have any friend of mine imagine that in fulfilling
his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper
estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was
impossible to say in which branch of his duplicate profession he took
the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate
connection with the capabilities of the stomach. By this I do not mean
to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge
to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his
failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I
say, had his failings, they were failings of very little
importance--faults indeed which in other tempers have often been
looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these
foibles I should not have mentioned it in this history but for the
remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto relievo_ in which it jutted
out from the plane of his general disposition. Bon-Bon could never let
slip an opportunity of making a bargain.
Not that Bon-Bon was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to
the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his
own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of
any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances, a triumphant
smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance,
and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.
At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as
the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At
the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted
observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon
reported that upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was
wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which that
Restaurateur would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance.
Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature--stories were told of
perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure--and
instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings,
and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for
wise purposes of his own.
The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy of
our serious examination. For example, there are few men of
extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for
the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a
valid proof of such profundity, it is impossible to say. Bon-Bon, as
far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute
investigation--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so
truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the _Restaurateur_
would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to
characterize, at one and the same time, his _Essais_ and his
_Omelettes_. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to
Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but
unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a
torrent of Chambertin. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its
allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du
Rhone. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had
attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly
alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed, to say the truth,
_that_ trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length
to assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and, however
singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured with the grotesque
_diablerie_ of his favorite German studies.
To enter the little _Café_ in the _Cul de Sac_ Le Febvre was, at the
period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon
was a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen, who
could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat
knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of
genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the
approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a
sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of
the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true
that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the
personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior
will, I am constrained to say, have its weight even with a beast; and
I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the _Restaurateur_
calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a
peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great--if I may be
permitted so equivocal an expression--which mere physical bulk alone
will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however,
Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was
diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity of
his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon the
sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of his
acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation for his immortal
soul.
I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of
habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external
metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,
combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped
white flannel cap and tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after
the fashion of those worn by the common class of _Restaurateurs_ at
that day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning
costume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that
barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and color as the
garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particolored
velvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of a bright purple, curiously
filagreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the
exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding
and embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like
material called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak resembling in form
a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson
devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the
morning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable
words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was
difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
or the rather a very Paradise of perfection."
I have said that "to enter the _Café_ in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre
was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the
man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A
sign consisting of a vast folio swung before the entrance. On one side
of the volume was painted a bottle--on the reverse a _Paté_. On the
back were visible in large letters the words _Æuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus
was delicately shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the
proprietor.
Upon stepping over the threshold the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room of antique
construction was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _Café_
in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre. In a corner of the apartment stood the
bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy
_à la Gréque_ gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the
corner diagonally opposite appeared, in direct and friendly communion,
the properties of the kitchen and the _bibliothéque_. A dish of
polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of
the latest ethics--there a kettle of duodecimo _melanges_. Volumes of
German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron--a toasting fork
might be discovered by the side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his
ease in the frying pan--and cotemporary manuscripts were filed away
upon the spit.
In other respects the _Café_ de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little
from the _Cafés_ of the period. A gigantic fire-place yawned opposite
the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a
formidable array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St.
George, Richbourg, Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc,
Sauterne, Bârac, Preignac, Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray contended
with many other names of lesser celebrity for the honor of being
quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended by a chain of very long slender
links, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the
room, and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene.
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 neighbors upon his singular propensity--that
Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
the door upon them with a _sacre Dieu_, and betook himself in no very
pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a
fire of blazing faggots.
It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or
twice during a century. The snow drifted down bodily in enormous
masses, and the _Café_ de Bon-Bon tottered to its very centre, with
the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall, and
pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of
the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his Paté-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.
I have said that it was in no very placid temper 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 Æufs 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 a 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 towards 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, Bon-Bon drew closer 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.
"I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon"--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 Bon-Bon's
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 under tone; and arising
quickly from the bed he made a single step towards our hero, while the
iron lamp 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 a 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 _a priori_ 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 color 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
demeanor 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
visiter'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 visiter's feet was sufficiently
remarkable--there was a tremulous swelling in 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--of a person for whom he had
at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however,
too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his
suspicions, or rather--I should say--his certainty in regard to the
true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious
of the high honor 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 visiter'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 faggots upon the
fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of the
powerful _Vin de Mousseux_. Having quickly completed these operations,
he drew his chair _vis a vis_ to his companion's, and waited until he
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 entirely _nonplused_ by the very first
words of his visiter'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 demeanor, 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, loud, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog crouching down upon his haunches
joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at 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, however, that he felt a little
astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel
Catholique_" on the book in his guest's pocket momentarily changing
both their color and their import, and in a few seconds in place of
the original title, the words _Regitre des Condamnés_ blaze forth in
characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied
to his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an air of
embarrassment which might not probably have otherwise been observable.
"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 honor----"
"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 increased to an intolerable degree by the spectacle
which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a
strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he
found them by no means black, as he had anticipated--nor gray, as
might have been imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow,
nor red--nor purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other color 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 cadaverous flesh.
It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and to his
surprise 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--engendering in her pericranium?
"There it is now!--you do not. She is thinking we admire the
profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superfluous
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 optics are indispensable. Endeavor, 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 set down his
glass after a thorough compliance with this injunction.
"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own
heart. Your arrangement of 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 I 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 Mousseux, and
offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.
"There was Plato too"--continued his majesty, modestly declining the
snuff-box and the compliment--"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 '_o nous estin augos_.' He said that he would
do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the Pyramids. But my
conscience smote me for the lie, and, hastening back to Athens, I
arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the
'_augos_.' Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it upside
down. So the sentence now reads '_o nous estin aulos_,' and is, you
perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics."
"Were you ever at Rome?"--asked the _Restaurateur_ as he finished his
second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of
Vin de 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 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."[1]
[Footnote 1: Ils ecrivalent sur la Philosophie (_Cicero_, _Lucretius_,
_Seneca_) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grécque.--_Condorcet_.]
"What do you think of Epicurus?--what do you think
of--hiccup!--Epicurus?"
"What do I think of _whom_?"--said the devil in astonishment--"you
cannot surely 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.
"That's a lie!"--repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically--"that's
a--hiccup!--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 visiter--"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 finished
his third bottle of Chambertin.)
"Then--hic-cup!--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 the devil licked
his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume
in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.
His majesty 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 Noevius,
and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius,
and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus--dear Quinty! as I called
him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I toasted him in
pure good humor on a fork. But they want _flavor_ 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
endeavored 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 black water dog and requesting him
to be quiet. The visiter 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 Livy was positively Polybius and none other."
"Hic--cup!"--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--hic-cup!--abortion
of a pill-box!"--and the philosopher dropped a tear.
"After all"--continued the visiter--"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 spirits 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."
Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, and his visiter 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!!!"--vociferated the philosopher, as
he finished a bottle of Sauterne.
"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 is'nt
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----, RICH----, and the words CALIGULA and
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 farther 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----[2] (Here his majesty repeated a
name which I do not feel myself justifiable in indicating more
unequivocally.)
[Footnote 2: Quære--Arouet?--_Editor_.]
"A clever fellow that A----"--resumed he; "but like you, Monsieur
Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow truly!--no
such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a shadow!! ha! ha! ha!--he!
he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!"
"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-d s-h-a-d-ow!!" echoed
our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the
profundity of his majesty's discourse.
"Only think of a--hiccup!--fricasseed 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 not mean to say"--
"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir."
"Did not intend to assert"--
"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a"--
"What, sir?"
"Stew."
"Ha!"
"Souflée."
"Eh?"
"Fricassée."
"Indeed!"
"Ragout or Fricandeau--and I'll let you have it--hiccup!--a bargain."
"Could'nt think of such a thing," said his majesty calmly, at the same
time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.
"Am supplied at present," said his majesty.
"Hiccup!--e-h?"--said the philosopher.
"Have no funds on hand."
"What!"
"Besides, very ungentlemanly in me"--
"Sir!"
"To take advantage of"--
"Hiccup!"
"Your present situation."
Here his majesty bowed and withdrew--in what manner the philosopher
could not precisely ascertain--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.