by Edgar Allan Poe
(1850)
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac
Je suis plus savant que Balzac-
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque
De la nation Coseaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le lac
En dormant dans son bac,
J'irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,
Premmer du tabac.French Vaudeville
THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of
uncommon qualifications, 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 pates a 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
litterateur of that day would not have given twice as much for
an "Idee de Bon-Bon" as for all the trash of "Idees" of all the
rest of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked- had 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
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 indeed not 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 fricasee 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 Trebizonde- 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 profession he took the greater pride. In his
opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection
with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed,
that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who held that the
soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were right,
he thought, who employed the same words for the mind and the
diaphragm. 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 even 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.
He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.
Not that he 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 he 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 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 a nice thing 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. In his
seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and
there were appropriate moments for the Cotes du Rhone. 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. 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 appeared deeply tinctured with the
diablerie of his favorite German studies.
To enter the little Cafe 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-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have told you that
Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore
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 way 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 filigreed, 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 rather a very Paradise of perfection." I
might, I say, expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,-
but I forbear, merely personal details may be left to
historical novelists,- they are beneath the moral dignity of
matter-of-fact.
I have said that "to enter the Cafe 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 pate. On the back
were visible in large letters Oeuvres 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 Cafe. In a corner of the
apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of
curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, gave it an air
at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary
opposite, appeared, in direct family communion, the properties
of the kitchen and the bibliotheque. A dish of polemics stood
peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of the latest
ethics- there a kettle of dudecimo 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 contemporary manuscripts were
filed away upon the spit.
In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be
said to differ little from the usual restaurants of the period.
A 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 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 in the wall, and pouring
impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of the
philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his
pate-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 a la Princesse, he had unfortunately
perpetrated an omelette a 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 firelight 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 interrogatives,- "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 over-head 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 a 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 toward our
hero- a deep sigh- and altogether a look of such utter sanctity
as could not have failed to be unequivocally preposessing.
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-
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 honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but,
by leading his guest into the 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 Mousseux. Having quickly
completed these operations, he drew his chair vis-a-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 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, loudly, 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, 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 color and their import,
and in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words
Regitre des Condamnes blazed 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
probably might, not otherwise have been observed.
"Why sir," said the philosopher, "why sir, to
speak sincerely- I 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 much increased 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 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.
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 put down his glass after a thorough compliance with his
visiter's injunction. "A clever book that of yours, upon my
honor. 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 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 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 o 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 . "Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned
it upside down. So the sentence now read , and is, you perceive, the fundamental
doctrines in 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 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."*
*Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais c'etait 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 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, 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
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 outre 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- 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 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 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 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 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 Livius 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- hic-cup!- physician?"
"Don't mention them!- ugh! 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!- absorption 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 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
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!"
"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
possession of 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...."* (Here His Majesty repeated a
name which I did not feel justified in indicating more
unequivocally.)
*Quere-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 fricasseed shadow!"
"Only think- hiccup!- of a fricasseed shadow!"
exclaimed our hero, whose faculties were becoming much
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 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!"
"Soufflee."
"Eh!"
"Fricassee."
"Indeed!"
"Ragout 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.
"Hiccup- e-h?" said the philosopher.
"Have no funds on hand."
"What?"
"Besides, very unhandsome in me-"
"Sir!"
"To take advantage of-"
"Hiccup!"
"Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly
situation."
Here the visiter 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.