It is in the one domain of science and its application, and sometimes in the technique of the arts, that experience legitimately takes the power of law, and that acquired productions have a right to accumulate.  But to pass from this treasuring of truth to the dynastic privilege of ideas or powers or wealth—­those talismans—­that is to make a senseless assimilation which kills equality in the bud and prevents human order from having a basis.  Inheritance, which is the concrete and palpable form of tradition, defends itself by the tradition of origins and of beliefs—­abuses defended by abuses, to infinity—­and it is by reason of that integral succession that here, on earth, we see a few men holding the multitude of men in their hands.

I say all this to Marie.  She appears to be more struck by the vehemence of my tone than by the obviousness of what I say.  She replies, feebly, “Yes, indeed,” and nods her head; but she asks me, “But the moral law that you talk about, isn’t it tradition?”

“No.  It is the automatic law of the common good.  Every time that finds itself at stake, it re-creates itself logically.  It is lucid; it shows itself every time right to its fountain-head.  Its source is reason itself, and equality, which is the same thing as reason.  This thing is good and that is evil, because it is good and because it is evil, and not because of what has been said or written.  It is the opposite of traditional bidding.  There is no tradition of the good.  Wealth and power must be earned, not taken ready-made; the idea of what is just or right must be reconstructed on every occasion and not be taken ready-made.”

Marie listens to me.  She ponders, and then says, “We shouldn’t work if we hadn’t to leave what we have to our relations.”

But immediately she answers herself, “No.”

She produces some illustrations, just among our own surroundings.  So-and-so, and So-and-so.  The bait of gain or influence, or even the excitement of work and production suffice for people to do themselves harm.  And then, too, this great change would paralyze the workers less than the old way paralyzes the prematurely enriched who pick up their fortunes on the ground—­such as he, for instance, whom we used to see go by, who was drained and dead at twenty, and so many other ignoble and irrefutable examples; and the comedies around bequests and heirs and heiresses, and their great gamble with affection and love—­all these basenesses, in which custom too old has made hearts go moldy.

She is a little excited, as if the truth, in the confusion of these critical times, were beautiful to see—­and even pleasant to detain with words.

All the same, she interrupts herself, and says, “They’ll always find some way of deceiving.”  At last she says, “Yes, it would be just, perhaps; but it won’t come.”

* * * * * *

The valley has suddenly filled with tumult.  On the road which goes along the opposite slope a regiment is passing on its way to the barracks, a new regiment, with its colors.  The flag goes on its way in the middle of a long-drawn hurly-burly, in vague shouting, in plumes of dust and a sparkling mist of battle.