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
