The Generous Player

Yesterday, in the crowd of the boulevard, I felt myself grazed by
a mysterious Being whom I have always wished to know, and whom I
recognized at once, though I had never seen him. He doubtless had a
similar wish to make my acquaintance, for he gave me a significant
wink in passing which I hastened to obey. I followed him attentively,
and soon I descended behind him into a resplendent subterranean abode,
where sparkled a luxury that none of the better homes in Paris can
nearly approach. It seemed odd to me that I could have passed by this
enchanting den so often without divining the entrance. There reigned
an exquisite, though heady atmosphere, which made one forget almost
at once all the fastidious horrors of life; there one breathed a
somber blessedness, similar to that which the lotus-eaters experienced
when, disembarking on an enchanted isle, bright with the glimmerings
of eternal afternoon, they felt growing within them, to the drowsy
sound of melodious cascades, the desire never to see again their
hearthstones, their wives, their children, and never to remount the
high surges of the sea.

Strange visages of men and women were there, marked with a fatal
beauty, which it seemed to me I had already seen in epochs and in lands
I could not precisely recall, and which inspired me rather with a
fraternal sympathy than with that fear which is usually born at sight
of the unknown. If I wished to try to define in any way the singular
expression of these visages, I should say that I had never seen eyes
burning more feverishly with dread of ennui and with the immortal
desire of feeling themselves alive.

My host and I were already, when we sat down, old and perfect friends.
We ate, we drank beyond measure of all sorts of extraordinary wines,
and--what was no less extraordinary--it seemed to me, after several
hours, that I was no more drunken than he. Play, that superhuman
pleasure, had meanwhile irregularly interrupted our frequent libations,
and I must say that I staked and lost my soul, at the rubber, with
heroic heedlessness and lightness. The soul is so impalpable a thing,
so often useless and sometimes so annoying, that I experienced, at its
loss, a little less emotion than if, on a walk, I had misplaced my
visiting card. For a long time we smoked some cigars the incomparable
savor and perfume of which gave the soul nostalgia for unknown lands
and joys, and, intoxicated with all these delights, I dared, in an
access of familiarity which seemed not to displease him, to cry, while
mastering a cup full to the brim: "To your immortal health, old Buck!"

We talked, also, of the universe, of its creation and of its future
destruction; of the great idea of the century, namely, progress and
perfectibility; and, in general, of all forms of human infatuation.
On this subject, His Highness never exhausted his fund of light and
irrefutable pleasantries, and he expressed himself with an easy flow of
speech and a quietness in his drollery that I have found in none of the
most celebrated causeurs of humanity. He explained to me the absurdity
of the different philosophies which have hitherto taken possession of
the human brain, and deigned even to confide to me certain fundamental
principles, the property and the benefits of which it does not suit
me to share with the casual comer. He did not in any way be-moan the
bad deputation which he enjoys in all parts of the world, assured me
that he himself was the person most interested in the destruction
of superstition, and confessed that he had never feared for his
own power save once, on the day when he had heard a preacher, more
subtle than his colleagues, cry from the pulpit: "My dear brethren,
never forget, when you hear the progress of wisdom vaunted, that the
cleverest ruse of the Devil is to persuade you he does not exist!"

The memory of this celebrated orator led us naturally to the subject of
the academies, and my strange companion stated that he did not disdain,
in many cases, to inspire the pen, the word, and the conscience of
pedagogs, and that he was almost always present, though invisible, at
the academic sessions.

Encouraged by so many kindnesses, I asked him for news of God, and
whether he had recently seen Him. He answered, with a carelessness
shaded with a certain sadness: "We greet one another when we meet, but
as two old gentlemen, in whom an innate politeness cannot extinguish
the memory of ancient bitterness."

It is doubtful that His Highness had ever granted so long an audience
to a plain mortal, and I was afraid of abusing it. Finally, as the
shivering dawn whitened the panes, this famous personage, sung by
so many poets and served by so many philosophers who have worked
unknowingly for his glory, said to me: "I want to leave you with a
pleasant memory of me, and to prove that I, of whom so much ill is
said, I can sometimes be a good devil, to make use of one of your
common phrases. In order to compensate for the irremediable loss of
your soul, I shall give you the stakes you would have won had fate
been with you, namely, the possibility of relieving and of conquering,
all through your life, that odd affection of ennui which is the source
of all your maladies and of all your wretched progress. Never shall a
desire be framed by you which I will not aid you to realize; you shall
reign over your vulgar fellow-men; you shall be stocked with flattery,
even with adoration; silver, gold, diamonds, fairylike palaces, shall
come seeking you and shall pray you to accept them, without your having
made an effort to attain them; you shall change fatherland and country
as often as your fancy may dictate; you shall riot in pleasures,
unwearying, in charming countries where it is always warm and where the
women are fragrant as the flowers--et cetera, et cetera ..." he added,
rising and taking leave of me with a pleasant smile.

If I had not been afraid of humiliating myself before so vast an
assemblage, I should gladly have fallen at the feet of this generous
player to thank him for his unheard of munificence. But little by
little, after I had left him, incurable distrust reentered my breast;
I dared no longer believe in such prodigious good fortune, and, on
going to bed, still saying my prayers through silly force of habit, I
repeated in semi-slumber: "My God! Lord, my God! Let it be that the
Devil keep his word!"