"What do you think of Epicurus?—what do you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?"
"What do I think of whom?"—said the devil in astonishment—"you cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?—I am Epicurus. I am the same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes Laertes."
"That's a lie!"—said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into his head.
"Very well!—very well, sir!—very well indeed, sir"—said his majesty.
"That's a lie!"—repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically—"that's a—hiccup!—lie!"
"Well, well! have it your own way"—said the devil pacifically: and Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.
"As I was saying"—resumed the visiter—"as I was observing a little while ago, there are some very outré notions in that book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"
"The—hiccup!—soul"—replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS. "is undoubtedly"—
"No, sir!"