For example, your last description of Jacques’ bandaging is true, but what’s interesting about it? Nothing.

Agreed.

– If it is necessary to be truthful, then let it be like Molière, Regnard, Richardson or Sedaine.10 Truth has its interesting sides which one brings out if one’s a genius.

Yes, when one is a genius, but what if one isn’t?

– When one isn’t one shouldn’t write.

But what if one has the misfortune to resemble a certain poet I sent to Pondicherry?

– Who is this poet?

This poet… But if you keep on interrupting me, Reader, and if I interrupt myself all the time, what will become of Jacques’ loves? Take my word for it, let us leave our poet there… Jacques’ host and hostess moved away…

– No, no, the story of the poet of Pondicherry…11

The surgeon went over to Jacques’ bed…

– The story of the poet of Pondicherry, the story of the poet of Pondicherry.

One day a young poet came to me, as they do every day… But, Reader, what has that got to do with the journey of Jacques the Fatalist and his master?

– The story of the poet of Pondicherry.

After the usual social niceties about my wit, my genius, my good taste, my benevolence and other things I didn’t believe a word of even though people have been repeatedly telling me them, and perhaps in all sincerity, for the last twenty years, the young poet took a sheet of paper out of his pocket.

‘Here are some verses.’

‘Verses?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, some verses on which I hope you will have the kindness to give me your opinion.’

‘Do you like truth?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, and I’m asking you to tell me it.’

‘Well, you’ll have it.’

‘What! Are you really stupid enough to think that a poet seeks the truth from you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And stupid enough to tell him it?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Without attenuation?’

‘Of course. Any attenuation, however artful, would be the most offensive of all insults. Faithfully interpreted it would mean: “You’re a bad poet and, since I don’t believe you are man enough to hear the truth, you’re a worthless man as well.” ’

‘And has honesty always worked for you?’

‘Almost always…’

I read my young poet’s odes and told him: ‘Not only is your poetry bad but it is evident that you’ll never write any good poetry.’

‘Then I must write bad poetry because I can’t stop myself from writing.’

‘That’s a terrible affliction. Can you not see, Monsieur, what abjection you will fall into? Neither the gods, your fellow men, nor the reviews have ever forgiven mediocrity in a poet. It’s Horace who said that.’12

‘I know.’

‘Are you rich?’

‘No.’

‘Are you poor?’

‘Very poor.’

‘And you are going to add to your poverty the ridicule of being a bad poet. You will have wasted your entire life and before you know it you’ll be old. Old, poor, and a bad poet. Ah! Monsieur, what a combination!’

‘I can see that but there’s nothing I can do to stop myself.’

(Here Jacques would have said: ‘It was written up above.’)

‘Have you got parents?’

‘I have.’

‘What is their position in life?’

‘They are jewellers.’

‘Would they help you financially?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Well, go and see your parents and ask them to lend you a small bag of jewels. Embark for Pondicherry and on the way you’ll write terrible poetry but when you get there you’ll make your fortune. When you’ve made your fortune you can come back here and write as much bad poetry as you want to, provided you don’t have any of it printed because you mustn’t ruin anyone else…’

It was around twelve years after I gave this advice to the young man that he reappeared. I didn’t recognize him.

‘It’s me, Monsieur,’ he said to me, ‘the man you sent to Pondicherry. I went there and I made a hundred thousand francs. I have come back and started to write poetry again and here is some which I’ve brought you. Is it still bad?’

‘It’s still bad, but at least your future is taken care of and I don’t mind if you carry on writing bad poetry.’

‘That is just what I intend to do…’

And when the surgeon had got to Jacques’ bed, Jacques didn’t give him the chance to speak: ‘I heard everything,’ he told him.

Then, turning to his master, he added… that is, he was about to add something when his master stopped him. He was tired of walking and sat himself down by the side of the road, his head turned in the direction of another traveller who was coming towards them on foot, with the reins of his horse, which was following him, over his arm.

You are going to believe, Reader, that this horse was the one that was stolen from Jacques’ master, and you are going to be wrong. That is what would happen in a novel, a little bit sooner or a little bit later, one way or another. But this is not a novel. I’ve already told you that, I believe, and I repeat it again.

The master said to Jacques: ‘Do you see that man coming towards us?’

JACQUES: I see him.

MASTER: His horse seems good, don’t you think?

JACQUES: I served in the infantry, I wouldn’t know about that.

MASTER: Well, I commanded in the cavalry and I do.

JACQUES: Well?

MASTER: I would like you to go and ask that man to let us have the horse. We’ll pay him for it, of course.

JACQUES: What a foolish idea, but I’ll go. How much do you want to pay?

MASTER: Go as high as one hundred écus.

After having reminded his master not to fall asleep, Jacques went to meet the traveller, suggested to him the purchase of his horse, paid him and led the horse away.

‘Well,’ Jacques’ master said to him, ‘if you have your premonitions you can see I have mine too. He’s a nice horse, this one. I suppose the man swore there was nothing wrong with him, but when it comes to horses all men are sharp dealers.’

JACQUES: When aren’t they?

MASTER: You can ride this one and I’ll have yours.

JACQUES: All right…

And there they were, both on horseback, and Jacques added: ‘When I left home my father and mother and my godfather all gave me something, each of them what little they could afford, and I already had in reserve the five louis which Jean, my elder brother, had given me when he left on his unfortunate trip to Lisbon…’

Here Jacques started to cry and his master began to tell him that it must have been written up above.

JACQUES: That’s true, Monsieur, and I’ve told myself that a hundred times. But in spite of all that I can’t stop myself from crying…

And there he was sobbing and crying even more while his master was taking his pinch of snuff and looking at his watch to see what time it was.

After he had put his horse’s reins between his teeth and wiped his eyes with both hands Jacques continued:

With brother Jean’s five louis, the money I was paid on joining up and the presents of my parents and friends I had a fund – of which I had not spent an obol. It was a lucky thing for me that I had it – don’t you think?

MASTER: It was impossible for you to stay any longer in the cottage.

JACQUES: Even if I paid.

MASTER: But why did your brother Jean go to Lisbon?

JACQUES: It seems to me that you are trying your best to make me lose my way. With all your questions we’ll have gone round the world before we’ve finished the story of my loves.

MASTER: What does that matter so long as you are speaking and I am listening to you? Aren’t those the two important things? You are scolding me when you should thank me.

JACQUES: My brother went to Lisbon in search of peace. Jean, my brother, was a smart lad – it was that which brought him misfortune. It would have been better for him if he had been an idiot like me – but then that was written up above. It was also written that the friar almoner from the Carmelites who used to come to our village to ask for eggs, wool, straw, fruit and wine all the year round would stay at my father’s house, and would corrupt Jean, my brother, and that Jean, my brother, would take a monk’s habit.

MASTER: Jean, your brother, was a Carmelite?

JACQUES: Yes, Monsieur, and a barefoot Carmelite at that.13 He was active, intelligent, a haggler, he was the village lawyer. He knew how to read and write, and even as a young man he used to spend his time deciphering and copying out old manuscripts. He worked his way through all the jobs in the order one after the other – porter, bellringer, gardener, assistant to the procurator and treasurer.