Moreover, the timid philosopher, the enemy of personal display, reckoned himself unfortunate if compelled to be a sight even though the attacks upon him would be in earnest. To be thus dispensed from the trial was more than satisfaction. He knew the rigor of Equality in the masonic rites; this exception in his favor was therefore a triumph.
“Still,” said the chairman, “as the new brother loves Equality like myself, I will ask him to explain himself on the question which I put solely for form’s sake: ‘What do you seek in our society?’”
Rousseau took two steps forward, and answered, as his dreamy and melancholy eye wandered over the meeting:
“I seek here what I have not found elsewhere. Truths, not sophisms. If I have agreed to come here, after having been entreated—(he emphasized the word)—it is from my belief that I might be useful. It is I who am conferring the obligation. Alas! we all may have passed away before you can supply me with the means of defense, or help me to freedom with your hands if I should be imprisoned, or give me bread and comfort if afflicted—for the light cometh slowly, progress has a halting step, and where the light is quenched, none of us may be able to revive it—— ”
“Illustrious brother, you are wrong,” said the soft and penetrative voice of one who charmed the philosopher, “more than you imagine lies in the scope of this society: it is the future of the world. The future is hope—science—heaven, the Chief Architect who hath promised to illuminate His great building, the earth. The Architect does not lie.”
Startled by this lofty language, Rousseau looked and recognized the young man who had reminded him of the meeting at the street corner. It was Baron Balsamo. Clad in black with marked richness and great style, he was leaning on the side rail of the platform, and his face, softly lighted up, shone with all its beauty, grace and natural expressiveness.
“Science?” repeated the author, “a bottomless pit. Do you prate to me of science—comfort, future and promise where another tells of material things, rigor and violence—which am I to believe?” And he glanced at Marat whose hideous face did not harmonize with Balsamo’s. “Are there in the lodge meeting wolves just as in the world above—wolf and lamb! Let me tell you what my faith is, if you have not read it in my books.”
“Books,” interrupted Marat, “granted that they are sublime; but they are utopias; you are useful in the sense of the old prosers being useful. You point out the boon, but you make it a bubble, beautiful with the sunshine playing in a rainbow on it, but it bursts and leaves a nasty taste on the lips.”
“Have you seen the great acts of nature accomplished without preparation?” retorted Rousseau. “You want to regenerate the world by deeds? this is not regeneration but revolution.”
“Then,” sharply replied the surgeon, “you do not care for independence, or liberty?”