APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/poe/bon_bon/BON_BON

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                        1850

                       BON-BON

                  by Edgar Allan Poe

          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 'aulos.'"

"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read 'o nous estin augos', 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.


                                  THE END