“Here are my conclusions: 

“Formerly, when a man was a failure at every other profession he turned photographer; now he has himself elected a deputy.  A government thus composed will always be sadly lacking, incapable of evil as well as of good.  On the other hand, a despot, if he be stupid, can do a lot of harm, and, if he be intelligent (a thing which is very scarce), he may do good.

“I cannot decide between these two forms of government; I declare myself to be an anarchist, that is to say, a partisan of that power which is the most unassuming, the least felt, the most liberal, in the broadest sense of the word, and revolutionary at the same time; by that I mean the everlasting enemy of this same power, which can in no way be anything but defective.  That’s all!”

Cries of indignation rose about the table, and all, whether Legitimist, Orleanist or Republican through force of circumstances, grew red with anger.  M. Patissot especially was choking with rage, and, turning toward M. Rade, he cried: 

“Then, monsieur, you believe in nothing?”

The other answered quietly: 

“You’re absolutely correct, monsieur.”

The anger felt by all the guests prevented M. Rade from continuing, and M. Perdrix, as chief, closed the discussion.

“Enough, gentlemen!  We each have our opinion, and we have no intention of changing it.”

All agreed with the wise words.  But M. Rade, never satisfied, wished to have the last word.

“I have, however, one moral,” said he.  “It is simple and always applicable.  One sentence embraces the whole thought; here it is:  ’Never do unto another that which you would not have him do unto you.’  I defy you to pick any flaw in it, while I will undertake to demolish your most sacred principles with three arguments.”

This time there was no answer.  But as they were going home at night, by couples, each one was saying to his companion:  “Really, M. Rade goes much too far.  His mind must surely be unbalanced.  He ought to be appointed assistant chief at the Charenton Asylum.”

A RECOLLECTION

How many recollections of youth come to me in the soft sunlight of early spring!  It was an age when all was pleasant, cheerful, charming, intoxicating.  How exquisite are the remembrances of those old springtimes!

Do you recall, old friends and brothers, those happy years when life was nothing but a triumph and an occasion for mirth?  Do you recall the days of wanderings around Paris, our jolly poverty, our walks in the fresh, green woods, our drinks in the wine-shops on the banks of the Seine and our commonplace and delightful little flirtations?

I will tell you about one of these.  It was twelve years ago and already appears to me so old, so old that it seems now as if it belonged to the other end of life, before middle age, this dreadful middle age from which I suddenly perceived the end of the journey.