The senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way,
heedless of those things which present obstacles, and which are called
conscience, sworn faith, justice, duty: he had marched straight to his
goal, without once flinching in the line of his advancement and his
interest. He was an old attorney, softened by success; not a bad man by
any means, who rendered all the small services in his power to his
sons, his sons-in-law, his relations, and even to his friends, having
wisely seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good
windfalls. Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was
intelligent, and just sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple
of Epicurus; while he was, in reality, only a product of
Pigault-Lebrun. He laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and
eternal things, and at the “crotchets of that good old fellow the
Bishop.” He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in
the presence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to him.
On some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what,
Count*** [this senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At
dessert, the senator, who was slightly exhilarated, though still
perfectly dignified, exclaimed:—
“Egad, Bishop, let’s have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a
bishop to look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am
going to make a confession to you. I have a philosophy of my own.”
“And you are right,” replied the Bishop. “As one makes one’s
philosophy, so one lies on it. You are on the bed of purple, senator.”
The senator was encouraged, and went on:—
“Let us be good fellows.”
“Good devils even,” said the Bishop.
“I declare to you,” continued the senator, “that the Marquis d’Argens,
Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the
philosophers in my library gilded on the edges.”
“Like yourself, Count,” interposed the Bishop.
The senator resumed:—
“I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist,
a believer in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire. Voltaire
made sport of Needham, and he was wrong, for Needham’s eels prove that
God is useless. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies
the _fiat lux_. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger;
you have the world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the
Eternal Father? The Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for
nothing but to produce shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Down
with that great All, which torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me
in peace! Between you and me, and in order to empty my sack, and make
confession to my pastor, as it behooves me to do, I will admit to you
that I have good sense. I am not enthusiastic over your Jesus, who
preaches renunciation and sacrifice to the last extremity. ’Tis the
counsel of an avaricious man to beggars. Renunciation; why? Sacrifice;
to what end? I do not see one wolf immolating himself for the happiness
of another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at the top; let
us have a superior philosophy. What is the advantage of being at the
top, if one sees no further than the end of other people’s noses? Let
us live merrily. Life is all. That man has another future elsewhere, on
high, below, anywhere, I don’t believe; not one single word of it. Ah!
sacrifice and renunciation are recommended to me; I must take heed to
everything I do; I must cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the
just and the unjust, over the _fas_ and the _nefas_. Why? Because I
shall have to render an account of my actions. When? After death. What
a fine dream! After my death it will be a very clever person who can
catch me. Have a handful of dust seized by a shadow-hand, if you can.
Let us tell the truth, we who are initiated, and who have raised the
veil of Isis: there is no such thing as either good or evil; there is
vegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us get to the bottom of it. Let
us go into it thoroughly. What the deuce! let us go to the bottom of
it! We must scent out the truth; dig in the earth for it, and seize it.
Then it gives you exquisite joys. Then you grow strong, and you laugh.
I am square on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a
waiting for dead men’s shoes. Ah! what a charming promise! trust to it,
if you like! What a fine lot Adam has! We are souls, and we shall be
angels, with blue wings on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my
assistance: is it not Tertullian who says that the blessed shall travel
from star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshoppers of the
stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta, ta! What twaddle
all these paradises are! God is a nonsensical monster. I would not say
that in the _Moniteur_, egad! but I may whisper it among friends.
_Inter pocula_. To sacrifice the world to paradise is to let slip the
prey for the shadow. Be the dupe of the infinite! I’m not such a fool.
I am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nought, senator. Did I
exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after death? No. What am I? A
little dust collected in an organism. What am I to do on this earth?
The choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead
me? To nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment
lead me? To nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My choice is
made. One must eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the
tooth than the grass. Such is my wisdom. After which, go whither I push
thee, the grave-digger is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls
into the great hole. End. _Finis_. Total liquidation. This is the
vanishing-point. Death is death, believe me. I laugh at the idea of
there being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject. Fables
of nurses; bugaboo for children; Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is
the night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothingness. You
have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul—it makes no
difference. That is the truth. Then live your life, above all things.
Make use of your _I_ while you have it. In truth, Bishop, I tell you
that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers. I don’t
let myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must be
something for those who are down,—for the barefooted beggars,
knife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimæras, the soul,
immortality, paradise, the stars, are provided for them to swallow.
They gobble it down. They spread it on their dry bread. He who has
nothing else has the good God. That is the least he can have. I oppose
no objection to that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The
good God is good for the populace.”
The Bishop clapped his hands.
“That’s talking!” he exclaimed. “What an excellent and really
marvellous thing is this materialism! Not every one who wants it can
have it. Ah! when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does
not stupidly allow one’s self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like
Stephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d’Arc. Those who have succeeded
in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of feeling
themselves irresponsible, and of thinking that they can devour
everything without uneasiness,—places, sinecures, dignities, power,
whether well or ill acquired, lucrative recantations, useful
treacheries, savory capitulations of conscience,—and that they shall
enter the tomb with their digestion accomplished. How agreeable that
is! I do not say that with reference to you, senator. Nevertheless, it
is impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you. You great
lords have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves,
which is exquisite, refined, accessible to the rich alone, good for all
sauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of life admirably. This
philosophy has been extracted from the depths, and unearthed by special
seekers. But you are good-natured princes, and you do not think it a
bad thing that belief in the good God should constitute the philosophy
of the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the
truffled turkey of the poor.”