all the same, and I think you much prettier as you are.”
“I am very glad of it.”
“What have you got to tell me?”
“Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt. I am going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it only to destroy it.”
“Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man always refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant in his own way. I am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher.”
“How can one become a philosopher?”
“By thinking.”
“Must one think a long while?”
“Throughout life.”
“Then it is never over?”
“Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying.”
“And how can that happiness be felt?”
“By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions, and especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the majority of men a troop of grown-up children.”
“What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?”
“Pleasure is the actual enjoyment of our senses; it is a complete satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and, when our worn-out senses want repose, either to have breathing time, or to recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which finds enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce greater sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones.”
“And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell me what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them.”
“Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult one to decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will tell you in a few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty for the existence of which we find no reason in nature.”
“Then nature must be the philosopher’s principal study?”
“Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who commits the fewest errors.”
“What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest quantity of errors?”
“Socrates.”
“Yet he was in error sometimes?”
“Yes, in metaphysics.”
“Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without that study.”
“You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature is everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever tells you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I went on, my dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed slowly, think; let your maxims be the consequence of just reasoning, and keep your happiness in view; in the end you must be happy.”
“I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M. Baletti will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary me, and now I am much interested.”
“How do you know that you are interested?”
“Because I wish you not to leave me.”
“Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy better than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I wish to prove it by kissing you?”
“No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses.”
“Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence is charming.”
“It is your work, dear friend; and I am so grateful to you that I share your desires.”
“What is there to prevent us from satisfying such natural desires? Let us embrace one another tenderly.”
What a lesson in philosophy! It seemed to us such a sweet one, our happiness was so complete, that at daybreak we were still kissing one another, and it was only when we parted in the morning that we discovered that the door of the room had remained open all night.
Baletti gave her a few lessons, and she was received at the opera; but she did not remain there more than two or three months, regulating her conduct carefully according to the precepts I had laid out for her. She never received Narbonne again, and at last accepted a nobleman who proved himself very different from all others, for the first thing he did was to make her give up the stage, although it was not a thing according to the fashion of those days. I do not recollect his name exactly; it was Count of Tressan or Trean. She behaved in a respectable way, and remained with him until his death. No one speaks of her now, although she is living in very easy circumstances; but she is fifty-six, and in Paris a woman of that age is no longer considered as being among the living.
After she left the Hotel de Bourgogne, I never spoke to her. Whenever I met her covered with jewels and diamonds, our souls saluted each other with joy, but her happiness was too precious for me to make any attempt against it. Her brother found a situation, but I lost sight of him.
CHAPTER IX
The Beautiful O-Morphi—The Deceitful Painter—I Practice Cabalism for the Duchess de Chartres—I Leave Paris—My Stay in Dresden and My Departure from that City
I went to St. Lawrence’s Fair with my friend Patu, who, taking it into his head to sup with a Flemish actress known by the name of Morphi, invited me to go with him. I felt no inclination for the girl, but what can we refuse to a friend? I did as he wished. After we had supped with the actress, Patu fancied a night devoted to a more agreeable occupation, and as I did not want to leave him I asked for a sofa on which I could sleep quietly during the night.
Morphi had a sister, a slovenly girl of thirteen, who told me that if I would give her a crown she would abandon her bed to me. I agreed to her proposal, and she took me to a small closet where I found a straw palliasse on four pieces of wood.
“Do you call this a bed, my child?”
“I have no other, sir.”
“Then I do not want it, and you shall not have the crown.”
“Did you intend undressing yourself?”
“Of course.”
“What an idea! There are no sheets.”
“Do you sleep with your clothes on?”
“Oh, no!”
“Well, then, go to bed as usual, and you shall have the crown.”
“Why?”
“I want to see you undressed.”
“But you won’t do anything to me?”
“Not
