And while we dressed—that is, while Pons helped me to dress—I continued to quip with him.
“It is quite clear, Pons, that you have not heard the news,” I said slyly.
Whereat up pricked his ears like the old gossip he was.
“Late news?” he queried. “Mayhap from the English Court?”
“Nay,” I shook my head. “But news perhaps to you, but old news for all of that. Have you not heard? The philosophers of Greece were whispering it nigh two thousand years ago. It is because of that news that I put twenty fat farms on my back, live at Court, and am become a dandy. You see, Pons, the world is a most evil place, life is most sad, all men die, and, being dead . . . well, are dead. Wherefore, to escape the evil and the sadness, men in these days, like me, seek amazement, insensibility, and the madnesses of dalliance.”
“But the news, master? What did the philosophers whisper about so long ago?”
“That God was dead, Pons,” I replied solemnly. “Didn’t you know that? God is dead, and I soon shall be, and I wear twenty fat farms on my back.”
“God lives,” Pons asserted fervently. “God lives, and his kingdom is at hand. I tell you, master, it is at hand. It may be no later than to-morrow that the earth shall pass away.”
“So said they in old Rome, Pons, when Nero made torches of them to light his sports.”
Pons regarded me pityingly.