Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one of these mad festivals?  Must we believe that it requires such an effort for men to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest at intervals?  The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by their rule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talk at once from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Perhaps it is the same in the world.  As we are obliged all the year to be decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraint during the Carnival.  It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies and wishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain.  For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of the Saturnalia, and all is given up to the “fools of the family.”

The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase—­on foot, in carriages, and on horseback.  It is now who can attract the most attention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosity or envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to the employments and troubles of yesterday.

Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders; our whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival!  And yet man has need of holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart.  Can he not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures?  Economists have been long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of the human race.  Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of its leisure!  It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find it relaxation?  Work supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness that gives it a relish.  O philosophers! go in quest of pleasure! find us amusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word, invent a Carnival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.

Three o’clock.—­I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire.  As this is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too.  So I light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup of the coffee that my portress’s son brought from the Levant, and I look in my bookcase for one of my favorite authors.

First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are too fond of talking slang:—­Voltaire; but he disheartens men by always bantering them:—­Moliere; but he hinders one’s laughter by making one think:—­Lesage; let us stop at him.  Being profound rather than grave, he preaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to be found in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth:  he sees the miseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly tricks without hating it.

Let us call up all the heroes of his book....  Gil Blas, Fabrice, Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!  Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude; bring hither for my amusement the world-carnival, of which you are the brilliant maskers!