O Georgics of the Rue Madame, and of the Allee de l’Observatoire!
O pensive infantry soldiers!
O all those charming nurses who, while they guard the children, amuse themselves!
The pampas of America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Odeon.
My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas.
All is beautiful.
The flies buzz in the sun.
The sun has sneezed out the humming bird.
Embrace me, Fantine!”
He made a mistake and embraced Favourite.
CHAPTER VIII—THE DEATH OF A HORSE
“The dinners are better at Edon’s than at Bombarda’s,” exclaimed Zephine.
“I prefer Bombarda to Edon,” declared Blachevelle. “There is more luxury.
It is more Asiatic.
Look at the room downstairs; there are mirrors [glaces] on the walls.”
“I prefer them [glaces, ices] on my plate,” said Favourite.
Blachevelle persisted:—
“Look at the knives.
The handles are of silver at Bombarda’s and of bone at Edon’s.
Now, silver is more valuable than bone.”
“Except for those who have a silver chin,” observed Tholomyes.
He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from Bombarda’s windows.
A pause ensued.
“Tholomyes,” exclaimed Fameuil,
“Listolier and I were having a discussion just now.”
“A discussion is a good thing,” replied Tholomyes; “a quarrel is better.”
“We were disputing about philosophy.”
“Well?”
“Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?”
“Desaugiers,” said Tholomyes.
This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on:—
“I consent to live.
All is not at an end on earth since we can still talk nonsense.
For that I return thanks to the immortal gods.
We lie. One lies, but one laughs.
One affirms, but one doubts.
The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine.
There are still human beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of the paradox merrily.
This, ladies, which you are drinking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea.
Attention while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes.”
Again Fameuil interrupted him:—
“Tholomyes, your opinions fix the law.
Who is your favorite author?”
“Ber—”
“Quin?”
“No; Choux.”
And Tholomyes continued:—
“Honor to Bombarda!
He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Ch?ronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt.
Apuleius tells us of them.