Thus urged, Desmarais modestly brought me the book. Judge of my surprise when I found it was a volume of Leibnitz, a philosopher then very much the rage,--because one might talk of him very safely, without having read him.* Despite of my surprise, I could not help smiling when my eye turned from the book to the student. It is impossible to conceive an appearance less like a philosopher’s than that of Jean Desmarais. His wig was of a nicety that would not have brooked the irregularity of a single hair; his dress was not preposterous, for I do not remember, among gentles or valets, a more really exquisite taste than that of Desmarais; but it evinced, in every particular, the arts of the toilet. A perpetual smile sat upon his lips,--sometimes it deepened into a sneer, but that was the only change it ever experienced; an irresistible air of self-conceit gave piquancy to his long, marked features, small glittering eye, and withered cheeks, on which a delicate and soft bloom excited suspicion of artificial embellishment. A very fit frame of body this for a valet; but I humbly opine a very unseemly one for a student of Leibnitz. * Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disciples of Kant at the present moment.--ED. “And what,” said I, after a short pause, “is your opinion of this philosopher? I understand that he has just written a work* above all praise and comprehension.” * The “Theodicaea.” “It is true, Monsieur, that it is above his own understanding. He knows not what sly conclusions may be drawn from his premises; but I beg Monsieur’s pardon, I shall be tedious and intrusive.” “Not a whit! speak out, and at length. So you conceive that Leibnitz makes ropes which _others_ will make into ladders?” “Exactly so,” said Desmarais; “all his arguments go to swell the sails of the great philosophical truth,--‘Necessity!’ We are the things and toys of Fate, and its everlasting chain compels even the Power that creates as well as the things created.” “Ha!” said I, who, though little versed at that time in these metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often speak of the strange doctrine to which Desmarais referred, “you are, then, a believer in the fatalism of Spinoza?” “No, Monsieur,” said Desmarais, with a complacent smile, “my system is my own: it is composed of the thoughts of others; but my thoughts are the cords which bind the various sticks into a fagot.” “Well,” said I, smiling at the man’s conceited air, “and what is your main dogma?” “Our utter impotence.” “Pleasing! Mean you that we have no free will?” “None.” “Why, then, you take away the very existence of vice and virtue; and, according to you, we sin or act well, not from our own accord, but because we are compelled and preordained to it.” Desmarais’ smile withered into the grim sneer with which, as I have said, it was sometimes varied. “Monsieur’s penetration is extreme; but shall I not prepare his nightly draught?”