No quarter，war to the death！a pretty woman is a casus belli；a pretty woman is flagrant misdemeanor.All the invasions of history have been determined by petticoats.Woman is man's right.
Romulus carried off the Sabines；William carried off the Saxon women；Caesar carried off the Roman women.
The man who is not loved soars like a vulture over the mistresses of other men；and for my own part，to all those unfortunate men who are widowers，I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of Italy：'Soldiers，you are in need of everything；the enemy has it.'
[2]Liege：
a cork-tree.Pau：
a jest on peau，skin.
Tholomyes paused.
'Take breath，Tholomyes，'said Blachevelle.
At the same moment Blachevelle，supported by Listolier and Fameuil，struck up to a plaintive air，one of those studio songs composed of the first words which come to hand，rhymed richly and not at all，as destitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the wind，which have their birth in the vapor of pipes，and are dissipated and take their flight with them.
This is the couplet by which the group replied to Tholomyes'harangue：——'The father turkey-cocks so grave Some money to an agent gave，That master good Clermont-Tonnerre Might be made pope on Saint Johns'day fair.But this good Clermont could not be Made pope，because no priest was he；And then their agent，whose wrath burned，With all their money back returned.'
This was not calculated to calm Tholomyes'improvisation；he emptied his glass，filled，refilled it，and began again：——
'Down with wisdom！
Forget all that I have said.
Let us be neither prudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes.
I propose a toast to mirth；be merry.
Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating！Indigestion and the digest.
Let Justinian be the male，and Feasting，the female！
Joy in the depths！
Live，O creation！
The world is a great diamond.
I am happy.
The birds are astonishing.What a festival everywhere！
The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou.Summer，I salute thee！
O Luxembourg！
O Georgics of the Rue Madame，and of the Allee de l'Observatoire！O pensive infantry soldiers！O all those charming nurses who，while they guard the children，amuse themselves！
The pampas of America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Odeon.
My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas.
All is beautiful.
The flies buzz in the sun.The sun has sneezed out the humming bird.
Embrace me，Fantine！'
He made a mistake and embraced Favourite.
Ⅷ THE DEATH OF A HORSE
'The dinners are better at Edon's than at Bombarda's，'exclaimed Zephine.
'I prefer Bombarda to Edon，'declared Blachevelle.
'There is more luxury.
It is more Asiatic.
Look at the room downstairs；there are mirrors[glaces]on the walls.'
'I prefer them[glaces，ices]on my plate，'said Favourite.
Blachevelle persisted：——
'Look at the knives.
The handles are of silver at Bombarda's and of bone at Edon's.Now，silver is more valuable than bone.'
'Except for those who have a silver chin，'observed Tholomyes.
He was looking at the dome of the Invalides，which was visible from Bombarda's windows.
A pause ensued.
'Tholomyes，'exclaimed Fameuil，'Listolier and I were having a discussion just now.'
'A discussion is a good thing，'replied Tholomyes；'a quarrel is better.'
'We were disputing about philosophy.'
'Well？'
'Which do you prefer，Descartes or Spinoza？'
'Desaugiers，'said Tholomyes.
This decree pronounced，he took a drink，and went on：——
'I consent to live.
All is not at an end on earth since we can still talk nonsense.
For that I return thanks to the immortal gods.We lie.
One lies，but one laughs.
One affirms，but one doubts.The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogism.
That is fine.There are still human beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of the paradox merrily.
This，ladies，which you are drinking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine，you must know，from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras，which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea.Attention while you drink！three hundred and seventeen fathoms！and Monsieur Bombarda，the magnificent eating-house keeper，gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes.'
Again Fameuil interrupted him：——
'Tholomyes，your opinions fix the law.
Who is your favorite author？'
'Ber——'
'Quin？'
'No；Choux.'
And Tholomyes continued：——
'Honor to Bombarda！
He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl，and Thygelion of Chaeronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan；for，oh，ladies！there were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt.
Apuleius tells us of them.Alas！always the same，and nothing new；nothing more unpublished by the creator in creation！
Nil sub sole novum，says Solomon；amor omnibus idem，says Virgil；and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Cloud，as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos.
One last word.
Do you know what Aspasia was，ladies？Although she lived at an epoch when women had，as yet，no soul，she was a soul；a soul of a rosy and purple hue，more ardent hued than fire，fresher than the dawn.
Aspasia was a creature in whom two extremes of womanhood met；she was the goddess prostitute；Socrates plus Manon Lescaut.
Aspasia was created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus.'
Tholomyes，once started，would have found some difficulty in stopping，had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment.The shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt.It was a Beauceron mare，old and thin，and one fit for the knacker，which was dragging a very heavy cart.
On arriving in front of Bombarda's，the worn-out，exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further.This incident attracted a crowd.
Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word，Matin（the jade），backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip，when the jade fell，never to rise again.
