"And pain, Monsieur?" said Brother Jacques softly.
"Ah well, and pain," abstractedly. "But as to Heaven and hell, bah!
Let some one prove to me that there exists a hereafter other than
silence; I am not unreasonable. People say that I am an infidel, an
atheist. I am simply a pagan, even more of a pagan than the Greeks,
for they worshiped marble. Above all things I am a logician; and logic
can not feed upon suppositions; it must have facts. Why should I be a
Catholic, to exterminate all the Huguenots; a Huguenot, to annihilate
all the Catholics? No, no! Let all live; let each man worship what he
will and how. There is but one end, and this end focuses on death,
unfeeling sod, and worms. Shall I die to-morrow? I enjoyed yesterday.
And had I died yesterday, I should now be beyond the worry of
to-morrow. I wish no man's death, because he believes not as I
believe. I wish his death only when he has wronged me . . . or I have
wronged him. I do not say to you, 'Monsieur, be a heretic'; I say
merely, permit me to be one if I choose. And what is a soul?" He blew
upon the gold knob of his stick, and watched the moisture evaporate.
"Thought, Monsieur; thought is the soul. Can you dissect the process
of reason? Can you define of what thought consists? No, Monsieur;
there you stop. You possess thought, but you can not tell whence it
comes, or whither it goes when it leaves this earthly casket. This is
because thought is divine. When on board a ship, in whom do you place
your trust?" Chaumonot's eyes were burning with religious zeal.
"I trust the pilot, because I see him at the wheel. I speak to him,
and he tells me whither we are bound. I understand your question, and
have answered it. You would say, 'God is the pilot of our souls.' But
what proof? I do not see God; and I place no trust in that which I can
not see. Thought, you say, is the soul. Well, then, a soul has the
ant, for it thinks. What! a Heaven and a hell for the ant? Ah, but
that would be droll! I own to but one goddess, and she is chastening.
That is Folly! She is a liberal creditor. How bravely she lends us
our excesses! When we are young, Folly is a boon companion. She opens
her purse to us, laughing. But let her find that we have overdrawn our
account with nature, then does Folly throw aside her smiling mask,
become terrible with her importunities, and hound us into the grave. I
am paying Folly, Monsieur," exhibiting a palsied hand. "I am paying in
precious hours for the dross she lent me in my youth."