Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  I have said that "to enter the Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was to

  enter the sanctum of a man of genius" - but then it was only the man of

  genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign,

  consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of the

  volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate. On the back were

  visible in large letters Oeuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately shadowed

  forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.

  Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building

  presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique

  construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Cafe. In a

  corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of

  curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, gave it an air at once

  classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared, in

  direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the

  bibliotheque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here

  lay an ovenful of the latest ethics - there a kettle of dudecimo melanges.

  Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron - a

  toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius - Plato reclined

  at his ease in the frying-pan- and contemporary manuscripts were filed

  away upon the spit.

  In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little

  from the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite the

  door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a

  formidable array of labelled bottles.

  It was here, about twelve o'clock one night during the severe winter

  the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity - that Pierre

  Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked the door

  upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to the

  comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing fagots.

  It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or

  twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its

  centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the

  wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains

  of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his pate-pans

  and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of

  the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its

  stanchions of solid oak.

  It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his

  chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a

  perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of

  his meditations. In attempting des oeufs a la Princesse, he had

  unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a la Reine; the discovery of a

  principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and

  last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains

  which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a

  successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these

  unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree

  of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well

  calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large

  black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in

  his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those

  distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the

  red firelight itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

  Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible

  to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books and

  papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous

  manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.

  He had been thus occupied for some minutes when "I am in no hurry,

  Monsieur Bon-Bon," suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.

  "The devil!" ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning

  the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

  "Very true," calmly replied the voice.

  "Very true! - what is very true? - how came you here?" vociferated the

  metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at full

  length upon the bed.

  "I was saying," said the intruder, without attending to the

  interrogatives, - "I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time -

  that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of no

  pressing importance - in short, that I can very well wait until you have

  finished your Exposition."

  "My Exposition! - there now! - how do you know? - how came you to

  understand that I was writing an Exposition? - good God!"

  "Hush!" replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising

  quickly from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron

  lamp that depended over-head swung convulsively back from his approach.

  The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the

  stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly

  lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct,

  by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin,

  but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These

  garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their

  present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches.

  In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to

  the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head

  was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of a hinder part, from

  which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles,

  with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and

  at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color

  or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a

  shirt, but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme

  precision around the throat and the ends hanging down formally side by

  side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an

  ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and

  demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over

  his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an

  instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of

  his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps

  of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly

  from the person as to discover the words "Rituel Catholique" in white

  letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine

  - even cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with

  the ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into

  an expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping

  of the hand
s, as he stepped toward our hero - a deep sigh - and altogether

  a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally

  preposessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the

  metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his visiter's

  person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted him to a seat.

  There would however be a radical error in attributing this

  instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one of

  those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an influence.

  Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his

  disposition, was of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any

  speciousness of exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an

  observer of men and things should have failed to discover, upon the

  moment, the real character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his

  hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visiter's feet was

  sufficiently remarkable - he maintained lightly upon his head an

  inordinately tall hat - there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder

  part of his breeches - and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable

  fact. Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found

  himself thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had

  at all times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however,

  too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his

  suspicions in regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to

  appear at all conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed;

  but, by leading his guest into the conversation, to elicit some important

  ethical ideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated

  publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize

  himself - ideas which, I should have added, his visitor's great age, and

  well-known proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have

  enabled him to afford.

  Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit

  down, while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the fire,

  and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of Mousseux.

  Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair vis-a-vis to

  his companion's, and waited until the latter should open the conversation.

  But plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset

  of their application - and the restaurateur found himself nonplussed by

  the very first words of his visiter's speech.

  "I see you know me, Bon-Bon," said he; "ha! ha! ha! - he! he! he! -

  hi! hi! hi! - ho! ho! ho! - hu! hu! hu!" - and the devil, dropping at once

  the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from

  ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth, and,

  throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and uproariously,

  while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches, joined lustily in

  the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent, stood up on end,

  and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

  Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to

  laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of

  the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the

  white letters which formed the words "Rituel Catholique" on the book in

  his guest's pocket, momently changing both their color and their import,

  and in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words Regitre des

  Condamnes blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,

  when Bon-Bon replied to his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an

  air of embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been

  observed.

  "Why sir," said the philosopher, "why sir, to speak sincerely - I I

  imagine - I have some faint - some very faint idea - of the remarkable

  honor-"

  "Oh! - ah! - yes! - very well!" interrupted his Majesty; "say no more

  - I see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he

  wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited

  them in his pocket.

  If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his

  amazement was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented

  itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to

  ascertain the color of his guest's, he found them by no means black, as he

  had anticipated - nor gray, as might have been imagined - nor yet hazel

  nor blue - nor indeed yellow nor red - nor purple - nor white - nor green

  - nor any other color in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in

  the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly

  that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications

  of their having existed at any previous period - for the space where eyes

  should naturally have been was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead

  level of flesh.

  It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some

  inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his

  Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.

  "Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon - eyes! did you say? - oh! - ah! - I perceive!

  The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given you a

  false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes! - true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon,

  are very well in their proper place - that, you would say, is the head? -

  right - the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these optics are

  indispensable - yet I will convince you that my vision is more penetrating

  than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner - a pretty cat- look at

  her - observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts - the

  thoughts, I say, - the ideas - the reflections - which are being

  engendered in her pericranium? There it is, now - you do not! She is

  thinking we admire the length of her tail and the profundity of her mind.

  She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of ecclesiastics,

  and that you are the most superficial of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am

  not altogether blind; but to one of my profession, the eyes you speak of

  would be merely an incumbrance, liable at any time to be put out by a

  toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these optical affairs are

  indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them well; - my vision is the

  soul."

  Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and

  pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without

  scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

  "A clever book that of yours, Pierre," resumed his Majesty, tapping

  our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass

  after a thorough compliance with his visiter's injunction. "A clever book

  that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own heart. Your

  arrangement of the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many

  of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my

  most intimate acqua
intances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill

  temper, as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one

  solid truth in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint

  out of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you

  very well know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?"

  "Cannot say that I -"

  "Indeed! - why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men

  expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

  "Which is - hiccup! - undoubtedly the case," said the metaphysician, while

  he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and offered his

  snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

  "There was Plato, too," continued his Majesty, modestly declining the

  snuff-box and the compliment it implied - "there was Plato, too, for whom

  I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato,

  Bon-Bon? - ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one day,

  in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade him

  write, down that o nous estin aulos. He said that he would do so, and went

  home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me for

  having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to

  Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the

  'aulos.'"

  "Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down.

  So the sentence now read 'o nous estin augos', and is, you perceive, the

  fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics."

  "Were you ever at Rome?" asked the restaurateur, as he finished his

  second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of

  Chambertin.

  But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time," said the

  devil, as if reciting some passage from a book - "there was a time when

  occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of

  all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people,