“If you are not a millionaire, you are most certainly drunk.”
“Drunk with power. I can kill you!—Silence! I am Nero! I am Nebuchadnezzar!”
“But, Raphael, we are in queer company, and you ought to keep quiet for the sake of your own dignity.”
“My life has been silent too long. I mean to have my revenge now on the world at large. I will not amuse myself by squandering paltry five-franc pieces; I will reproduce and sum up my epoch by absorbing human lives, human minds, and human souls. There are the treasures of pestilence—that is no paltry kind of wealth, is it? I will wrestle with fevers—yellow, blue, or green—with whole armies, with gibbets. I can possess Foedora—Yet no, I do not want Foedora; she is a disease; I am dying of Foedora. I want to forget Foedora.”
“If you keep on calling out like this, I shall take you into the dining-room.”
“Do you see this skin? It is Solomon’s will. Solomon belongs to me—a little varlet of a king! Arabia is mine, Arabia Petraea to boot; and the universe, and you too, if I choose. If I choose—Ah! be careful. I can buy up all our journalist’s shop; you shall be my valet. You shall be my valet, you shall manage my newspaper. Valet! valet, that is to say, free from aches and pains, because he has no brains.”
At the word, Emile carried Raphael off into the dining-room.
“All right,” he remarked; “yes, my friend, I am your valet. But you are about to be editor-in-chief of a newspaper; so be quiet, and behave properly, for my sake. Have you no regard for me?”
“Regard for you! You shall have Havana cigars, with this bit of shagreen: always with this skin, this supreme bit of shagreen. It is a cure for corns, and efficacious remedy. Do you suffer? I will remove them.”
“Never have I known you so senseless——”