“Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither prudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes. I propose a toast to mirth; be merry. Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating! Indigestion and the digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting, the female! Joy in the depths! Live, O creation! The world is a great diamond. I am happy. The birds are astonishing. What a festival everywhere! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute thee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of the Rue Madame, and of the Allée 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 Odéon. 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 Édon’s than at Bombarda’s,” exclaimed Zéphine. “I prefer Bombarda to Édon,” 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 Édon’s. Now, silver is more valuable than bone.” “Except for those who have a silver chin,” observed Tholomyès. He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from Bombarda’s windows. A pause ensued. “Tholomyès,” exclaimed Fameuil, “Listolier and I were having a discussion just now.” “A discussion is a good thing,” replied Tholomyès; “a quarrel is better.” “We were disputing about philosophy.” “Well?” “Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?” “Désaugiers,” said Tholomyès. 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:— “Tholomyès, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?” “Ber—” “Quin?” “No; Choux.” And Tholomyès continued:—