'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.'
