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 _Régitre des
      Condamnes_ blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
      when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor’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 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 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 visitor’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 visitor. “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 δ
      υοῦς εστιν
      αυλος. 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 ‘αυλος.’


      “Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
      the sentence now read ‘δ
      υοῦς εστιν
      αυγος’, 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.”
       (*2)

     {*2} 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!