"It is simply what might be called a venial homicide," said Lord Falmouth; "and, as for me, if the wish was worth the trouble, if it were some impossible thing, as if, for example, it were a question of being honoured by your friendship, madame la marquise, I certainly would not hesitate at such a trifle as the life of some obscure inhabitant of Greenland, for example, or a Laplander, because, as he is the smallest sort of a man, the sin would no doubt be less."
The marquise smiled and shrugged her shoulders, saying to me, "And you, monsieur, do you think that most men would hesitate very long between their wish and the fatal word?"
"I believe there would be so little hesitation, madame, even among the most honourable of men, that if in our golden age the wicked spirit should make such a proposition, the world would become a wilderness in eight days; and, perhaps, you, madame, you and Lord Falmouth and I, would be immolated by the caprice of one of our intimate friends, who, instead of taking the trouble of going all the way to Greenland for a victim, would treat us in a neighbourly way."
"But I have an idea," said Lord Falmouth; "suppose that the caprices and desires of humanity, by dint of satisfying themselves on the human race, had reduced the inhabitants of the world to two people in some far corner of this earth, a man who passionately loved a woman who detested him in return, and that Satan, according to his system, said to him: 'My terms are still the same; pronounce the redoubtable name, she will love you, but she will die, and you will have caused her death.' Should the man say the word?"
"To pronounce the word would be to prove that he loved desperately," said I to Lord Falmouth.
"Yes, if he were a good Catholic," said Madame de Pënâfiel; "because then he would have purchased love at the price of eternal punishment, without which it is only ferocious selfishness."
"But, madame, permit me to observe that, since there is a question of Satan, it is evident that they would both be good Catholics."
"You are quite right," replied Lord Falmouth, "and your observation reminds me of the joyful and hopeful exclamation of a poor man who was saved from shipwreck. On getting to land, the first thing he saw was a gallows. 'God be praised,' said he, 'I have landed in a civilised country.'
"But," said Lord Falmouth, "is it not enough to bring one to the verge of despair, to think that even now there are some people so happily, so wonderfully endowed, that they spend three or four hours every morning trying to see the devil,—evoking and invoking the evil one? I lately came across one of those credulous individuals in the Rue de la Barillerie. I assure you he is perfectly convinced that one of these days he will succeed, and I must admit that I greatly envy him his credulity, for he has an occupation that he will never become tired of; for a constant desire sustained by unfailing hope seems to me to come very near to perfect happiness."
"But," said I to Lord Falmouth, "did not your great poet Byron amuse himself with such follies at one time?"