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tality, 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 as-
sistance: is it not Tertullian who says that the blessed shall
travel from star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshop-
pers of the stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta,
ta! What twaddle all these paradises are! God is a nonsensi-
cal 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 ex-
ist 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 noth-
ingness; 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, be-
lieve me. I laugh at the idea of there being any one who has
anything to tell me on that subject. Fables of nurses; buga-
boo for children; Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is the
night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothing-
ness. You have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent