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 visitor—“as I was observing a little
      while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of yours
      Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about
      the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?”


      “The—hiccup!—soul,” replied the metaphysician, referring to
      his MS., “is undoubtedly—”


      “No, sir!”


      “Indubitably—”


      “No, sir!”


      “Indisputably—”


      “No, sir!”


      “Evidently—”


      “No, sir!”


      “Incontrovertibly—”


      “No, sir!”


      “Hiccup!—”


      “No, sir!”


      “And beyond all question, a—”


      “No sir, the soul is no such thing!” (Here the philosopher, 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 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 dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor 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!—abortion
      of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear. “After all,” continued the visitor, “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 visitor 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
      isn’t there A——, now, who you know as well as I? Is
      _he_ not in 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_.