“No matter: such is the world.”
“Well, then I would rather not make its acquaintance,” rejoined Eusebe.
“You are wrong. You ought to learn many curious things which it is important that you should know. The first thing to do is to learn the vices of the times, so as to be able to avoid them.”
“I would prefer knowing what they are to scrutinizing them too closely,” responded the provincial. “A thousand thanks to you, my dear Clamens, for wishing to be my guide. But I feel that I am too feeble to seek an object by paths so perilous. You know the mud of all the ruts, the briers of all the bushes: you will reach your object, no doubt. But what could I do, simple and artless as I am, pursuing such dangerous ways? Let each one take his own road. You may advance, confident of the future; I will return to the joys I already know.”
“What do you call your joys?”
“The woman I love, and the poets of whom I spoke to you last evening.”
“Alas! my friend,” said Clamens, “such joys will not last. Woman is a bell that will not always ring. As to the poets, their charms will not prove so enduring as those of your mistress,—since we have but three. The most bitter sadness characterizes these three great geniuses. The first died out of heart: he will dishearten you. The second lived in exile, where every thing was mournful. The third, disgusted with the ingratitude of his contemporaries, imposed silence upon the harmonious orchestra of his soul, to sit down, in despair, by the wayside, and play the clarionet.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The two friends walked on a long time in silence. Clamens, rather disappointed by the provincial’s obstinate peculiarities, said to himself, “Eusebe is a simpleton.” On his part, the provincial reflected, “Daniel is a sage.” And, as they were both profoundly in error, each remained convinced that he had hit upon the truth. At the moment of separation, Daniel said to his refractory pupil,—