"My dear Planchet, there was, once upon a time, at the siege of Rochelle, when I was there, when you were there, when we both were there, a certain Arab, who was celebrated for the manner in which he adjusted culverins. He was a clever fellow, although very singular with regard to his complexion, which was the same color as your olives. Well, this Arab, whenever he had done eating or working, used to sit down to rest himself, as I am resting myself now, and smoked I cannot tell you what sort of magical leaves, in a large amber-mouthed tube; and if any officer, happening to pass, reproached him for being always asleep, he used quietly to reply: 'Better to sit down than to stand up, to lie down than to sit down, to be dead than to lie down.' He was a very melancholy Arab, and I remember him perfectly well, from his color and his style of conversation. He used to cut off the heads of the Protestants with extreme satisfaction." "Precisely; and then used to embalm them, when they were worth the trouble." "Yes; and when he was engaged in his embalming occupations, with his herbs and other plants about him, he looked like a basket-maker making baskets." "You are quite right, Planchet; he did so." "Oh, I can remember things very well at times!" "I have no doubt of it; but what do you think of his mode of reasoning?" "I think it very good in one sense, and stupid in another." "Propound your meaning, M. Planchet." "Well, monsieur, in point of fact, then, 'better to sit down than to stand up' is plain enough, especially when one may be fatigued under certain circumstances:" and Planchet smiled in a roguish way. "As for 'better to be lying down than sitting down,' let that pass; but as for the last proposition, that it is 'better to be dead than alive,' it is, in my opinion, very absurd, my own undoubted preference being for my bed; and if you are not of my opinion, it is simply, as I have already had the honor of telling you, because you are boring yourself to death." "Planchet, do you know M. la Fontaine?" "The chemist at the corner of the Rue Saint-Mederie?" "No; the writer of fables?" "Oh! Maitre Corbeau!" "Exactly so; well, then, I am like his hare." "He has got a hare also, then?" "He has all sorts of animals." "Well, what does his hare do, then?" "His hare thinks." "Ah, ah!" "Planchet, I am like M. la Fontaine's hare--I am thinking." "You're thinking, you say?" said Planchet, uneasily. "Yes; your house is dull enough to drive people to think. You will admit that, I hope." "And yet, monsieur, you have a look out upon the street." "Yes; and wonderfully interesting that is, of course." "But it is no less true, monsieur, that, if you were living at the back of the house, you would bore yourself--I mean, you would think--more than ever." "Upon my word, Planchet, I hardly know that."