"
"Yes," rejoined the tyrant, "I, alas! have only the fist and the
stomach. Oh! thrice happy the ostrich, that, at a pinch, makes a meal
of pebbles, bits of broken glass, shoe-buttons, knife-handles,
belt-buckles, or any such-like delicacies that come in its way, which
the poor, weak, human stomach cannot digest at all. At this moment
I feel capable of swallowing whole that great mass of scenery and
decorations in the chariot yonder. I feel as if I had as big a chasm in
me as the grave I dug this morning for poor Matamore, and as if I never
could get enough to fill it. The ancients were wise old fellows; they
knew what they were about when they instituted the feasts that always
followed their funerals, with abundance of meats and all sorts of good
things to eat, washed down with copious draughts of wine, to the honour
of the dead and the great good of the living. Ah! if we only had the
wherewithal now to follow their illustrious example, and accomplish
worthily that philosophical rite, so admirably calculated to stay the
tears of mourners and raise their drooping spirits."
"In other words," said Blazius, "you are hankering after something to
eat. Polyphemus, ogre, Gargantua, monster that you are! you disgust me."
"And you," retorted the tyrant, "I know that you are hankering after
something to drink.
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