He asked himself sadly whether there was no middle ground between Terror and Inquisition; whether in this world one must be a fanatic or nothing.  He sought a middle course, possessing the force and cohesion of a party; but he sought in vain.  It seemed to him that the whole world of politics and religion rushed to extremes; and that what was not extreme was inert and indifferent—­dragging out, day by day, an existence without faith and without principle.

Thus at least appeared to him those whom the sad changes of his life showed him as types of modern politics.

His younger aunt, Louise-Elizabeth, who enjoyed to the full all the pleasures of modern life, had already profited by her father’s death to make a rich misalliance.  She married the Baron Tonnelier, whose father, although the son of a miller, had shown ability and honesty enough to fill high positions under the First Empire.

The Baron Tonnelier had a large fortune, increasing every day by successful speculation.  In his youth he had been a good horseman, a Voltairian, and a Liberal.

In time—­though he remained a Voltairian—­he renounced horsemanship, and Liberalism.  Although he was a simple deputy, he had a twinge of democracy now and then; but after he was invested with the peerage, he felt sure from that moment that the human species had no more progress to make.

The French Revolution was ended; its giddiest height attained.  No longer could any one walk, talk, write, or rise.  That perplexed him.  Had he been sincere, he would have avowed that he could not comprehend that there could be storms, or thunder-clouds in the heavens—­that the world was not perfectly happy and tranquil, while he himself was so.  When his nephew was old enough to comprehend him, Baron Tonnelier was no longer peer of France; but being one who does himself no hurt—­and sometimes much good by a fall, he filled a high office under the new government.  He endeavored to discharge its duties conscientiously, as he had those of the preceding reign.

He spoke with peculiar ease of suppressing this or that journal—­such an orator, such a book; of suppressing everything, in short, except himself.  In his view, France had been in the wrong road since 1789, and he sought to lead her back from that fatal date.

Nevertheless, he never spoke of returning, in his proper person, to his grandfather’s mill; which, to say the least, was inconsistent.  Had Liberty been mother to this old gentleman, and had he met her in a clump of woods, he would have strangled her.  We regret to add that he had the habit of terming “old duffers” such ministers as he suspected of liberal views, and especially such as were in favor of popular education.  A more hurtful counsellor never approached a throne; but luckily, while near it in office, he was far from it in influence.

He was still a charming man, gallant and fresh—­more gallant, however, than fresh.  Consequently his habits were not too good, and he haunted the greenroom of the opera.  He had two daughters, recently married, before whom he repeated the most piquant witticisms of Voltaire, and the most improper stories of Tallemant de Reaux; and consequently both promised to afford the scandalmongers a series of racy anecdotes, as their mother had before them.