University of Virginia Library

BON-BON

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon
qualifications, no man who, during the
reign of—, frequented the little Câfe 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 littérateur
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 fricassaée, 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. 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 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 a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the
metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with
a canopyà 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
contemporary 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, 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 œufs à la Princesse he had unfortunately
perpetrated an omelette à la Reine—the discovery
of a principle in ethics had been frustrated by the
overturning of a stew—and last, not least, he had
been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains
which he at all times took such especial delight in
bringing to a successful termination. But in the
chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes,
there did not fail to be mingled some degree
of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous
night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling
to his more immediate vicinity the large black
water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling
himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help
casting a wary and unquiet eye 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, he 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 the interrogatories—“I was saying that I am
not at all pushed for time—that the business upon
which I took the liberty of calling is of no pressing
importance—in short that I can very well wait until
you have finished your Exposition.”

“My Exposition!—there now!—how do you know
—how came you to understand that I was writing
an Exposition?—good God!”

“Hush!”—replied the figure in a shrill 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 for a much

shorter person than their present owner. His ankles
and wrists were left naked for several inches. In
his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles
gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the
other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and
entirely bald, with the exception of the hinder part,
from which depended a queue of considerable length.
A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses, protected
his eyes from the influence of the light, and at
the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining
either their colour or their conformation. About
the entire person there was no evidence of a shirt;
but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied
with extreme precision around the throat, and the
ends, hanging down formally side by side, gave,
although I dare say unintentionally, the idea of an
ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his
appearance and 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 honour he thus unexpectedly
enjoyed, but by leading his guest into conversation,
to elicit some important ethical ideas which might,
in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication,
enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize
himself—ideas which, I should have added,
his 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, momently 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 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 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 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
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 'ο νους εςτιν αυγος.' 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 `αυγος.'
Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it
upside down. So the sentence now reads 'ο νους εςτιν
αυλος,' 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 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.”[2]

“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 outŕe 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 Nœvius, 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 asafœtida
—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...[3] (Here his majesty
repeated a name which I do not feel myself justifiable
in indicating more unequivocally.)

“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 fricasséed shadow!!”
echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming
gloriously illuminated by the profundity of his majesty's
discourse.

“Only think of a—hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!!!

Now, damme!—hiccup!—humph!—if I would
have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop. My
soul, Mr.—humph!”

“Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”

“Yes, sir—hiccup!—my soul is”—

“What, sir?”

“No shadow, damme!”

“Did 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 see here!—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.