“Ha!” said I, who, though little versed at that time in these metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often speak of the strange doctrine to which Desmarais referred, “you are, then, a believer in the fatalism of Spinoza?”
“No, Monsieur,” said Desmarais, with a complacent smile, “my system is my own: it is composed of the thoughts of others; but my thoughts are the cords which bind the various sticks into a fagot.”
“Well,” said I, smiling at the man’s conceited air, “and what is your main dogma?”
“Our utter impotence.”
“Pleasing! Mean you that we have no free will?”
“None.”
“Why, then, you take away the very existence of vice and virtue; and, according to you, we sin or act well, not from our own accord, but because we are compelled and preordained to it.”
Desmarais’ smile withered into the grim sneer with which, as I have said, it was sometimes varied.
“Monsieur’s penetration is extreme; but shall I not prepare his nightly draught?”
“No; answer me at length; and tell me the difference between good and ill, if we are compelled by Necessity to either.”