“Are you going to leave our heads on our shoulders?” asked Moreau (of the Oise), a substantial farmer. “You, sir, who took blood for wine just now?”
“Where is the use? Aren’t the principles of social order worth some sacrifices, sir?”
“Hi! Bixiou! What’s-his-name, the Republican, considers a landowner’s head a sacrifice!” said a young man to his neighbor.
“Men and events count for nothing,” said the Republican, following out his theory in spite of hiccoughs; “in politics, as in philosophy, there are only principles and ideas.”
“What an abomination! Then you would ruthlessly put your friends to death for a shibboleth?”
“Eh, sir! the man who feels compunction is your thorough scoundrel, for he has some notion of virtue; while Peter the Great and the Duke of Alva were embodied systems, and the pirate Monbard an organization.”
“But can’t society rid itself of your systems and organizations?” said Canalis.
“Oh, granted!” cried the Republican.
“That stupid Republic of yours makes me feel queasy. We sha’n’t be able to carve a capon in peace, because we shall find the agrarian law inside it.”
“Ah, my little Brutus, stuffed with truffles, your principles are all right enough. But you are like my valet, the rogue is so frightfully possessed with a mania for property that if I left him to clean my clothes after his fashion, he would soon clean me out.”