ot think that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil.
　　I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child.
　　In voting for the Republic, I voted for that.
　　I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors.
　　The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light.
　　We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy."
　　"Mixed joy," said the Bishop.
　　"You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas!
　　The work was incomplete, I admit:
　　we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there."
　　"You have demolished.
　　It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath."
　　"Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress.
　　In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ.
　　Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth.
　　It was a good thing.
　　The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity."
　　The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:--
　　"Yes? '93!"
　　The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation:--
　　"Ah, there you go; '93!
　　I was expecting that word.
　　A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst.
　　You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial."
　　The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction.
　　Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter.
　　He replied:--
　　"The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error."
　　And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, "Louis XVII.?"
　　The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop's arm.
　　"Louis XVII.! let us see.
　　For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child?←←文←檔←共←享←與←在←線←閱←讀←
　　I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Greve, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV."
　　"Monsieur," said the Bishop, "I like not this conjunction of names."
　　"Cartouche?
　　Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?"
　　A momentary silence ensued.
　　The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.
　　The conventionary resumed:--
　　"Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them.
　　He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, `Sinite parvulos,' he made no distinction between the little children.
　　It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod.
　　Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown.
　　Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys."
　　"That is true," said the Bishop in a low v