“Here are my conclusions:
“Formerly, when a man was a failure at every
other profession he turned photographer; now he has
himself elected a deputy. A government thus composed
will always be sadly lacking, incapable of evil as
well as of good. On the other hand, a despot,
if he be stupid, can do a lot of harm, and, if he
be intelligent (a thing which is very scarce), he may
do good.
“I cannot decide between these two forms of
government; I declare myself to be an anarchist, that
is to say, a partisan of that power which is the most
unassuming, the least felt, the most liberal, in the
broadest sense of the word, and revolutionary at the
same time; by that I mean the everlasting enemy of
this same power, which can in no way be anything but
defective. That’s all!”
Cries of indignation rose about the table, and all,
whether Legitimist, Orleanist or Republican through
force of circumstances, grew red with anger.
M. Patissot especially was choking with rage, and,
turning toward M. Rade, he cried:
“Then, monsieur, you believe in nothing?”
The other answered quietly:
“You’re absolutely correct, monsieur.”
The anger felt by all the guests prevented M. Rade
from continuing, and M. Perdrix, as chief, closed
the discussion.
“Enough, gentlemen! We each have our opinion,
and we have no intention of changing it.”
All agreed with the wise words. But M. Rade,
never satisfied, wished to have the last word.
“I have, however, one moral,” said he.
“It is simple and always applicable. One
sentence embraces the whole thought; here it is:
’Never do unto another that which you would
not have him do unto you.’ I defy you to
pick any flaw in it, while I will undertake to demolish
your most sacred principles with three arguments.”
This time there was no answer. But as they were
going home at night, by couples, each one was saying
to his companion: “Really, M. Rade goes
much too far. His mind must surely be unbalanced.
He ought to be appointed assistant chief at the Charenton
Asylum.”
How many recollections of youth come to me in the
soft sunlight of early spring! It was an age
when all was pleasant, cheerful, charming, intoxicating.
How exquisite are the remembrances of those old springtimes!
Do you recall, old friends and brothers, those happy
years when life was nothing but a triumph and an occasion
for mirth? Do you recall the days of wanderings
around Paris, our jolly poverty, our walks in the fresh,
green woods, our drinks in the wine-shops on the banks
of the Seine and our commonplace and delightful little
flirtations?
I will tell you about one of these. It was twelve
years ago and already appears to me so old, so old
that it seems now as if it belonged to the other end
of life, before middle age, this dreadful middle age
from which I suddenly perceived the end of the journey.
