whatever Devil it is that overlooks the Currency (I can see his face
from here): for how many have yielded to the Desire of Riches and
professed themselves very willing to revel in them, yet did not get an
opportunity worth a farthing till they died? Like those two beggars
that Rabelais tells of, one of whom wished for all the gold that would
pay for all the merchandise that had ever been sold in Paris since its
first foundation, and the other for as much gold as would go into all
the sacks that could be sewn by all the needles (and those of the
smallest size) that could be crammed into Notre-Dame from the floor to
the ceiling, filling the smallest crannies. Yet neither had a crust
that night to rub his gums with.

Whatever Devil it is, however, that tempts men to repose--and for my
part I believe him to be rather an Aeon than a Devil: that is, a
good-natured fellow working on his own account neither good nor
ill--whatever being it is, it certainly suits one's mood, for I never
yet knew a man determined to be lazy that had not ample opportunity
afforded him, though he were poorer than the cure of Maigre, who
formed a syndicate to sell at a scutcheon a gross such souls as were
too insignificant to sell singly. A man can always find a chance for
doing nothing as amply and with as ecstatic a satisfaction as the
world allows, and so to me (whether it was there before I cannot tell,
and if it came miraculously, so much the more amusing) appeared this
thicket. It was to the left of the road; a stream ran through it in a
little ravine; the undergrowth was thick beneath its birches, and just
beyond, on the plain that bordered it, were reapers reaping in a
field. I went into it contentedly and slept till evening my third
sleep; then, refreshed by the cool wind that went before the twilight,
I rose and took the road again, but I knew I could not go far.