matters.”
“Oh! oh!” cried Cursy, the vaudevilliste; “in that case, gentlemen, here’s to Charles X., the father of liberty.”
“Why not?” asked Emile. “When law becomes despotic, morals are relaxed, and vice versa.
“Let us drink to the imbecility of authority, which gives us such an authority over imbeciles!” said the good banker.
“Napoleon left us glory, at any rate, my good friend!” exclaimed a naval officer who had never left Brest.
“Glory is a poor bargain; you buy it dear, and it will not keep. Does not the egotism of the great take the form of glory, just as for nobodies it is their own well-being?”
“You are very fortunate, sir – ”
“The first inventor of ditches must have been a weakling, for society is only useful to the puny. The savage and the philosopher, at either extreme of the moral scale, hold property in equal horror.”
“All very fine!” said Cardot; “but if there were no property, there would be no documents to draw up.”
“These green peas are excessively delicious!”
“And the cure was found dead in his bed in the morning…”
“Who is talking about death? Pray don’t trifle, I have an uncle.”
“Could you bear his loss with resignation?”
“No question.”
“Gentlemen, listen to me! How to kill an uncle. Silence! (Cries of “Hush! hush!”) In the first place, take an uncle, large and stout, seventy years old at least, they are the best uncles. (Sensation.) Get him to eat a pate de foie gras, any pretext will do.”
“Ah, but my uncle is a thin, tall man, and very niggardly and abstemious.”
“That sort of uncle is a monster; he misappropriates existence.”
“Then,” the speaker on uncles went on, “tell him, while he is digesting it, that his banker has failed.”
“How if he bears up?”
“Let loose a pretty girl on him.”
“And if – ?” asked the other, with a shake of the head.
“Then he wouldn’t be an uncle – an uncle is a gay dog by nature.”
“Malibran has lost two notes in her voice.”
“No, sir, she has not.”
“Yes, sir, she has.”
“Oh, ho! No and yes, is not that the sum-up of all religious, political, or literary dissertations? Man is a clown dancing on the edge of an abyss.”
“You would make out that I am a fool.”
“On the contrary, you cannot make me out.”
“Education, there’s a pretty piece of tomfoolery. M. Heineffettermach estimates the number of printed volumes at more than a thousand millions; and a man cannot read more than a hundred and fifty thousand in his lifetime. So, just tell me what that word education means. For some it consists in knowing the name of Alexander’s horse, of the dog Berecillo, of the Seigneur d’Accords, and in ignorance of the man to whom we owe the discovery of rafting and the manufacture of porcelain. For others it is the knowledge how to burn a will and live respected, be looked up to and popular, instead of stealing a watch with half-a-dozen aggravating circumstances, after a previous conviction, and so perishing, hated and dishonored, in the Place de Greve.”
“Will Nathan’s work live?”
“He has very clever collaborators, sir.”
“Or Canalis?”
“He is a great man; let us say no more about him.”
“You are all drunk!”
“The consequence of a Constitution is the immediate stultification of intellects. Art, science, public works, everything, is consumed by a horribly egoistic feeling, the leprosy of the time. Three hundred of your bourgeoisie, set down on benches, will only think of planting poplars. Tyranny does great things lawlessly, while Liberty will scarcely trouble herself to do petty ones lawfully.”
“Your reciprocal instruction will turn out counters in human flesh,” broke in an Absolutist. “All individuality will disappear in a people brought to a dead level by education.”
“For all that, is not the aim of society to secure happiness to each member of it?” asked the Saint-Simonian.
“If you had an income of fifty thousand livres, you would not think much about the people. If you are smitten with a tender passion for the race, go to Madagascar; there you will find a nice little nation all ready to Saint-Simonize, classify, and cork up in your phials, but here every one fits into his niche like a peg in a hole. A porter is a porter, and a blockhead is a fool, without a college of fathers to promote them to those positions.”
“You are a Carlist.”
“And why not? Despotism pleases me; it implies a certain contempt for the human race. I have no animosity against kings, they are so amusing. Is it nothing to sit enthroned in a room, at a distance of thirty million leagues from the sun?”
“Let us once more take a broad view of civilization,” said the man of learning who, for the benefit of the inattentive sculptor, had opened a discussion on primitive society and autochthonous races. “The vigor of a nation in its origin was in a way physical, unitary, and crude; then as aggregations increased, government advanced by a decomposition of the primitive rule, more or less skilfully managed. For example, in remote ages national strength lay in theocracy, the priest held both sword and censer; a little later there were two priests, the pontiff and the king. To-day our society, the latest word of civilization, has distributed power according to the number of combinations, and we come to the forces called business, thought, money, and eloquence. Authority thus divided is steadily approaching a social dissolution, with interest as its one opposing barrier. We depend no longer on either religion or physical force, but upon intellect. Can a book replace the sword? Can discussion be a substitute for action? That is the question.”
“Intellect has made an end of everything,” cried the Carlist. “Come now! Absolute freedom has brought about national suicides; their triumph left them as listless as an English millionaire.”
“Won’t you tell us something new? You have made fun of authority of all sorts to-day, which is every bit as vulgar as denying the existence of God. So you have no belief left, and the century is like an old Sultan worn out by debauchery! Your Byron, in short, sings of crime and its emotions in a final despair of poetry.”
“Don’t you know,” replied Bianchon, quite drunk by this time, “that a dose of phosphorus more or less makes the man of genius or the scoundrel, a clever man or an idiot, a virtuous person or a criminal?”
“Can any one treat of virtue thus?” cried Cursy. “Virtue, the subject of every drama at the theatre, the denoument of every play, the foundation of every court of law…”
“Be quiet, you ass. You are an Achilles for virtue, without
