“Ah!” cried Raphael, “I was thinking, my friends, that we are in a fair way to become very great scoundrels,” and there was an ingenuousness in his tones that set these writers, the hope of young France, in a roar. “So far our blasphemies have been uttered over our cups; we have passed our judgments on life while drunk, and taken men and affairs in an after-dinner frame of mind. We were innocent of action; we were bold in words. But now we are to be branded with the hot iron of politics; we are going to enter the convict’s prison and to drop our illusions. Although one has no belief left, except in the devil, one may regret the paradise of one’s youth and the age of innocence, when we devoutly offered the tip of our tongue to some good priest for the consecrated wafer of the sacrament. Ah, my good friends, our first peccadilloes gave us so much pleasure because the consequent remorse set them off and lent a keen relish to them; but nowadays——”
“Oh! now,” said the first speaker, “there is still left——”
“What?” asked another.
“Crime——”
“There is a word as high as the gallows and deeper than the Seine,” said Raphael.
“Oh, you don’t understand me; I mean political crime. Since this morning, a conspirator’s life is the only one I covet. I don’t know that the fancy will last over to-morrow, but to-night at least my gorge rises at the anaemic life of our civilization and its railroad evenness. I am seized with a passion for the miseries of retreat from Moscow, for the excitements of the Red Corsair, or for a smuggler’s life. I should like to go to Botany Bay, as we have no Chartreaux left us here in France; it is a sort of infirmary reserved for little Lord Byrons who, having crumpled up their lives like a serviette after dinner, have nothing left to do but to set their country ablaze, blow their own brains out, plot for a republic or clamor for a war——”
“Emile,” Raphael’s neighbor called eagerly to the speaker, “on my honor, but for the revolution of July I would have taken orders, and gone off down into the country somewhere to lead the life of an animal, and——”
“And you would have read your breviary through every day.”
“Yes.”
“You are a coxcomb!”