The Life of the Fly 



the future in store for it? Like many an- 

 other in the ringing city, to use Rabelais' epi- 

 thet, 1 will it become a home for the fuller's 

 teazles, a warehouse for scrap-iron, a carrier's 

 stable? Who knows? Stones have their des- 

 tinies no less unexpected than ours. 



When I took possession of it as a laboratory 

 for the municipal course of lectures, the nave 

 remained as it was at the time of my former 

 short and disastrous visit. To the right, on 

 the wall, a number of black stains struck the 

 eye. It was as though a madman's hand, 

 armed with the ink-pot, had smashed its fra- 

 gile projectile at that spot. I recognized the 

 stains at once. They were the marks of the 

 corrosive which the retort had splashed at our 

 heads. Since those days of long ago, no one 

 had thought fit to hide them under a coat of 

 whitewash. So much the better: they will 

 serve me as excellent counsellors. Always be- 

 fore my eyes, at every lesson, they will speak 

 to me incessantly of prudence. 



'The allusion is to the many churches and chapels at 

 Avignon and to Pantcgruel, Book v, chap, i: 'Our pilot 

 told us that it was the Ringing Island; and indeed we 

 heard a kind of a coniused and often repeated noise . . . 

 not unlike the sour.d of great, middle-sized and little 

 bells, rung all at once, as it is customary at Paris, Tours, 

 Gergeau, Nantes and elsewhere on high holidays; and, 

 the nearer we came to the land, the louder we heard 

 that jangling.' — Translator's Note. 



448 



