“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 ‘ὁ νοῦς ἐστιν αὐλός.’ 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 ‘αυλός.’ “Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So the sentence now reads ‘ὁ νοῦς ἐστιν αύγος,’ and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrine in his metaphysics.” “Were you ever at Rome?” asked the _restaurateur_, as he finished his second bottle of Mousseaux, 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.”[14] [14] Ils écrivaient sur la philosophie (_Cicero_, _Lucretius_, _Seneca_), mais c’était 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 surely do not 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 an 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--”