“Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:
“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev—I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall!”
“Shelled!!”
“I mean taken out of the carcass.”
“What do you think of a—hiccup!—physician?”
“ Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched violently.) “I never tasted but one—that rascal Hippocrates!—smelt of asafœtida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera-morbus.”
“The—hiccup!—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the—hiccup!—abortion of a pillbox!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.
“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev—if a gentleman wishes to live , he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”
“How so?”
“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will—smell—you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way.”