242 Les Miserables
‘Wel l? ’
‘Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?’
‘Desaugiers,’ said Tholomyes.
This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went
on:—
‘I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we
can still talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the im-
mortal gods. We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms,
but one doubts. The unexpected bursts forth from the syl-
logism. That is fine. There are still human beings here below
who know how to open and close the surprise box of the
paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with
so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from
the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred
and seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea. Attention
while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms! and
Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper,
gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for
four francs and fifty centimes.’
Again Fameuil interrupted him:—
‘Tholomyes, your opinions fix the law. Who is your fa-
vorite author?’
‘Ber—‘
‘Quin?’
‘No; Choux.’
And Tholomyes continued:—
‘Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of El-
ephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and
Thygelion of Chaeronea if he could bring me a Greek cour-