“I hope I shall be something better,” said I, “before I die, or I shall have lived to little purpose.”
“That’s true, my dear! philologist—one small poor dog. What would you wish to be?”
“Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book.”
“Quoi, Monsieur Dante? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from his country. No, my
dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How, not think so? He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody. T’other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country—died with not enough to pay his undertaker.”
“Were you not forced to flee from your country?”
“That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue.”
“Well,” said I, “you can return now; the Bourbons are restored.”