Free Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master by Denis Diderot

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