Rameau's Nephew and First Satire (Oxford World's Classics) by Denis Diderot Page B

expressions, working now the nose, now the mouth, now the forehead, now the eyes; I’ve a particular pliancy of the hips; a way of contorting the spine, of raising or dropping the shoulders, of spreading the fingers, of nodding the head and closing the eyes, of registering amazement, as if I’d heard a divine, angelic voice issuing from heaven. That’s the way to flatter. I’m not sure you fully grasp how much energy goes into this last charade. It’s not my invention, but no one has surpassed me in its performance. See? See?
    ME: It’s true, it’s quite unique.
    HIM: Do you believe any female mind inclined to vanity could resist that?
    ME: I have to agree that you’ve carried the talent of playing the lunatic, and of degrading yourself, to its farthest possible extreme.
    HIM: Whatever they try, every last one of them, they’ll never equal that. The best of them, Palissot for example, will never be more than a good student. But although the game’s amusing at first, and one takes a certain pleasure in privately deriding those whom one befuddles, in the long run it loses its savour; and then, also, after coming up with a few new ideas, one is obliged to repeat oneself. Wit and art have their limits. There’s only God or a handful of rare geniuses for whom the way ahead stretches endlessly on, as they move forward along it. Bouret may be one of those. There are certain traits of his which give me—yes, me—a sense of the sublime. The little dog, the Register of Felicity, the flaming torches on the road to Versailles, they’re the kind of things which confound and mortify me. They’re enough to discourage one from trying.
    ME: What are you talking about, what little dog?
    HIM: Where have you been all this time? Do you really not know how this extraordinary man set about detaching from himself and attaching to the Minister of Justice the affections of a little dog that had caught the minister’s fancy?
    ME: I do not know, I confess.
    HIM: Good. It’s one of the most beautiful stories anyone could imagine; all of Europe marvelled at it, and there isn’t a single courtier whose envy it did not excite. You’re a shrewd man; let’s see how you’d have gone about it. Remember that Bouret’s dog loved him. Remember that the minister’s bizarre costume frightened the little animal. Remember that Bouret only had a week to solve the difficulties. You must be aware of all aspects of the problem to fully appreciate the merit of the solution. Well?
    ME: Well, I must admit to you that in this kind of situation I’d be incapable of solving the simplest difficulty.
    HIM: Listen [he tapped me lightly on the shoulder as he spoke, for he likes taking little liberties], listen, and marvel. He gets himself a mask made in the likeness of the Minister of Justice; he borrows the voluminous cassock from a valet. He covers his face with the mask. He puts on the cassock. He calls his dog, pats him, gives him a biscuit. Then suddenly, after changing his accoutrements, it’s no longer the Minister of Justice, it’s now Bouret that calls his dog and beats him. In less than two or three days of continually performing this drill from dawn to dusk, the dog has learnt to flee from Bouret the tax farmer, and run to Bouret the Minister of Justice. But I’m being too kind. You’re a non-believer who doesn’t deserve to be instructed in the miracles which take place right under your nose.
    ME: Nevertheless, I entreat you—the book, the flaming torches?
    HIM: No, no. Enquire of the pavingstones, they’ll give you those details; you should be making the most of our chance meeting to hear of things no one knows but me.
    ME: You’re right.
    HIM: Borrow the gown
and
the wig; I forgot the wig, the wig of the Minister of Justice! To get a mask made in his likeness! The mask, above all else, makes my head spin. Of course the man enjoys the highest reputation. Of course he’s a millionaire. There are military officers with the Cross of St