“Then we must always be serious, except when we are with each other,” cried Chaulieu. “Oh, I would sooner take my chance of dying prematurely at ninety-seven than consent to such a vow!”
“Fontenelle,” cried our host, “you are melancholy. What is the matter?”
“I mourn for the weakness of human nature,” answered Fontenelle, with an air of patriarchal philanthropy. “I told your cook three times about the asparagus; and now—taste it. I told him not to put too much sugar, and he has put none. Thus it is with mankind,—ever in extremes, and consequently ever in error. Thus it was that Luther said, so felicitously and so truly, that the human mind was like a drunken peasant on horseback: prop it on one side, and it falls on the other.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” cried Chaulieu. “Who would have thought one could have found so much morality in a plate of asparagus! Taste this salsifis.”
“Pray, Hamilton,” said Huet, “what jeu de mot was that you made yesterday at Madame d’Epernonville’s which gained you such applause?”
“Ah, repeat it, Count,” cried Boulainvilliers; “‘t was the most classical thing I have heard for a long time.”
“Why,” said Hamilton, laying down his knife and fork, and preparing himself by a large draught of the champagne, “why, Madame d’Epernonville appeared without her tour; you know, Lord Bolingbroke, that tour is the polite name for false hair. ‘Ah, sacre!’ cried her brother, courteously, ‘ma soeur, que vous etes laide aujourd’hui: vous n’avez pas votre tour!’ ‘Voila pourquoi elle n’est pas si-belle (Cybele),’ answered I.”
“Excellent! famous!” cried we all, except Huet, who seemed to regard the punster with a very disrespectful eye. Hamilton saw it. “You do not think, Monsieur Huet, that there is wit in these jeux de mots: perhaps you do not admire wit at all?”
“Yes, I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes the trees it is fine; when it cools the wave it is refreshing; when it steals over flowers it is enchanting: but when, Monsieur Hamilton, it whistles through the key-hole it is unpleasant.”
“The very worst illustration I ever heard,” said Hamilton, coolly. “Keep to your classics, my dear Abbe. When Jupiter edited the work of Peter Huet, he did with wit as Peter Huet did with Lucan when he edited the classics: he was afraid it might do mischief, and so left it out altogether.”