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.

I was then twenty-five. I had just come to Paris. I was in a government
office, and Sundays were to me like unusual festivals, full of