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 CHAPTER XIV

THE DÉBONNAIRE

"It is good to be superior to mortal weakness," said Malletort to himself as he re-entered his coach and drove from Bartoletti's door. "In the human subject I cannot but observe how few emotions are conducive to happiness. That which touches the heart seems always prejudicial to the stomach. How ridiculous, how derogatory, and how uncomfortable to turn red and pale, to burst into tears, to spring at people's throats, nay, even to feel the pulse beat, the head swim, the voice fail at a word, a look, a presence! What, then, constitutes the true well-being of man, the summum bonum, the vantage point, the grand desideratum to which all philosophy is directed? Self-command! But self-command leads to the command of others—to success, to victory, to power! and power, with none to share it, none to benefit by it, is it worth the labour of attainment? Can it be that its eminence is but like the crest of a mountain, from which the more extended the horizon the flatter and the more monotonous appears the view. It may, but what matter? Let me only get to the summit, and I can always come down again at my leisure. Basta! here we are. Now to gain a foothold on the slippery path that leads to the very top!"

The Abbé's carriage was brought to a halt while he spoke by a post of Grey Musketeers stationed in front of the Palais-Royal. The churchman's plain and quiet equipage had no right of entrance, and he alighted to pass through the narrow ingress left unguarded for foot-passengers. Hence he crossed a paved court, turned short into a wing