“It is to be hoped you will, then, be able to give me ten in the month which follows.” “I pray that it may be so. In the meantime what am I to do that I may subsist?” “That is a matter which rests with the good God.” “Suing your pardon, I prefer to believe that it rests with me, Benoit.” “It is inferior! I remark that you already possess bread.” “It is the smaller part of my possessions.” “And the larger, m’sieur?” “Brains, Benoit—brains.” “For myself I had rather have of the bread, believing it to be the more substantial blessing.” “Which proves, Benoit, that you speak without consideration. A fool and his loaf are soon parted, but a wise man has that within his head which will stock a bakery.” “May it prove so with you, m’sieur.” “A thousand thanks. But, to return to our muttons, how am I to use my brains to best advantage?” “By considering the lives of the saints, m’sieur.” “A pious answer, Benoit, but I seek to use them to more profitable account. When I am relieved of the immediate anxiety of prematurely meeting these personages, I shall doubtless be better able to direct my thoughts toward them.” “I can only repeat, m’sieur, that in divine consideration lies the province of the brain. If it be the body you desire to profit, then, beyond doubt, it is your hands must seek employment.” “But I have no skill of the hands, Benoit.” “There is no great skill required, m’sieur, to carry a basket at Les Arles.”[1] “I urge you, Benoit, to avoid words of folly. Am I of the fibre to lift crates from a market cart? And if I were, do you suppose I could adjust my intellect to so clumsy a calling?” “It is better, m’sieur, to engage upon a humble task than to wallow with the gudgeon of the Seine.” “Pooh! Benoit, am I a likely suicide?” “Given no meat, a man will drink betimes over-deeply of the water.” The answer and memory of a certain grotesque figure in the Morgue gave Wynne to pause. “You are a cold comforter,” he said. “Have you no happier suggestion to offer?” “I speak from knowledge, m’sieur. If you are destitute you must be content with the smallest blessings.” “But I have intellect, Benoit, in larger measure than most. Is there no market for intellect in this city of Paris?” “There will be better intellects than yours that sleep without a roof in Paris tonight. Why should you, a stranger, look to France to buy your thoughts?” “Because France alone, of all countries, holds out the hand of welcome to Art.” “It may be so—and it may be in so doing she fills her own coffers. These are matters which I do not understand, but I know well, and well enough, that the stranger may learn an art in this city, but he cannot sell it here. M’sieur, when your bread is eaten I would advise that you go to Les Arles and offer your hands. There is always a value for hands, even though it be but very small, and maybe, by using them, you would in the end find profit for the brain.”