While some sing, the rest talk all at once; it is no longer anything but noise. Tholomyès intervenes. Let them not talk at random. Too much improvisation empties the mind. Running beer gathers no froth. Mix majesty with the feast. Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees and dinners. No zeal, gentlemen. A hollow rumble of rebellion: leave us in peace; down with the tyrant; Sunday exists. Blachevelle invites him to contemplate his calm. Tholomyès names him the Marquis of that. The pun falls like a stone in a pool. The frogs hold their peace. He has recovered his empire.
He honours the pun in proportion to its merits: the dung of the mind which soars. There must be a limit even to dinners, even to apple turnovers. Each passion, even love, has a stomach which must not be filled too full. The sage knows how, at a given moment, to effect his own arrest. He has studied law, sustained a thesis on torture at Rome, is going to be a doctor; it does not follow that he must be an imbecile. Happy is he who, when the hour strikes, abdicates. Favourite loves the name Félix: it is Latin; it means prosper. He goes on. Distrust woman. She detests the serpent from professional jealousy. Blachevelle says he is drunk. Pardieu, says Tholomyès. Then be gay. He agrees, refills, rises. Glory to wine. He will be Spanish. Error is love. He idolises them all, then insults Zéphine's askew face, paints Favourite's Ionian lips, and turns to Fantine: a dreamer, a phantom with the modesty of a nun, who gazes into the azure without knowing what she sees. O Fantine, know this: I, Tholomyès, I am an illusion; but she does not even hear me, that blond maid of Chimeras. Do not marry. Do not crunch sugar; it is a salt that withers. Gentlemen, rob each other of your well-beloved; in love there are no friends.
Blachevelle tells him to take breath. The three men strike up a studio song about turkey-cocks and a pope, destitute of sense. It does not calm him. Down with wisdom. He proposes a toast to mirth. Be merry. The world is a great diamond. He is happy. Embrace me, Fantine. He makes a mistake and embraces Favourite.
Coming Up in Chapter 35
Zéphine prefers Édon's dinners; Blachevelle prefers Bombarda's mirrors and silver handles. Tholomyès looks at the dome of the Invalides and says Désaugiers, not Descartes. Then a worn-out mare falls on the quay, never to rise, and Fantine says, Poor horse.
