Conscience — Complete - Hector Malot

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      “Force, which is the last word of the philosophy of life!”

      “That which leads to a wise and progressive extermination. Is this what you desire?”

      “Why not? I do not shrink from an extermination that relieves humanity of idlers that it drags about without power to advance or to free itself, finally sinking under the load. Is it not better for the world to be rid of such people, who obstruct the advancement of others?”

      “At least the idea is bizarre coming from a doctor,” interrupted Crozat, “since it would put an end to hospitals.”

      “Not at all; I would preserve them for the study of monsters.”

      “In placing society on this antagonistic footing,” said Brigard, “you destroy society itself, which is founded on reciprocity, on good fellowship; and in doing so you can create for the strong a state of suspicion that paralyzes them. Carthage and Venice practised the selection by force, and destroyed themselves.”

      “You speak of force, my dear Saniel,” interrupted a voice; “where do you get that—the force of things, the tatum? There is no beginning, no will; events decide for us climate, temperament, environment.”

      “Then,” replied Saniel, “there is no responsibility, and this instrument conscience, that should decide everything, is good for nothing. You need not consider consequences. Success or defeat may yet be immaterial, for the accomplishment of an act that you have believed condemnable may serve the race, while another that you have believed beneficent may prove injurious; from which it follows that intentions only should be judged, and that no one but God can sound human hearts to their depths.”

      He began to laugh.

      “Do you believe that? Is that the conclusion at which you have arrived?”

      A waiter entered, carrying pitchers of beer on a tray, and the discussion was necessarily interrupted, every one drawing up to the table where Crozat filled the glasses, and the conversation took a more private turn.

      Saniel shook hands with Brigard, who received him somewhat coldly; then he approached Glady with the manifest intention of detaining him, but Glady had said that he was obliged to leave, so Saniel said that he could remain no longer, and had only dropped in on passing.

      When they were both gone Brigard turned to Crozat and Nougarede, who were near him, and declared that Saniel made him uneasy.

      “He believes himself stronger than life,” he said, “because he is sound and intelligent. He must take care that he does not go too far!”

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      When Saniel and Glady reached the street, the rain that had fallen since morning had ceased, and the asphalt shone clear and glittering like a mirror.

      “The walking is good,” Saniel remarked.

      “It will rain again,” responded Glady, looking at the sky.

      “I think not.” It was evident that Glady wished to take a cab, but as none passed he was obliged to walk with Saniel.

      “Do you know,” he said, “that you have wounded Brigard?”

      “I regret it sincerely; but the salon of our friend Crozat is not yet a church, and I do not suppose that discussion is forbidden there.”

      “To deny is not to discuss.”

      “You say that as if you were angry with me.”

      “Not at all. I am sorry that you have wounded Brigard—nothing more.”

      “That is too much, because I have a sincere esteem, a real friendship for you, if you will permit me to say so.”

      But Glady, apparently, did not desire the conversation to take this turn.

      “I think this is an empty cab,” he said, as a fiacre approached them.

      “No,” replied Saniel, “I see the light of a cigar through the windowpane.”

      Glady made a slight gesture of impatience that was not lost upon Saniel, who was expecting some such demonstration.

      Rich, and frequenting the society of poor men, Glady lived in dread of borrowers. It was enough for any man to appear to wish to talk to him privately to make him believe that he was going to ask for fifty louis or twenty francs; so often was this the case that every friend or comrade was an enemy against whom he must defend his purse. And so he lay in wait as if expecting some one to spring upon him, his eyes open, his ears listening, and his hands in his pockets. This explains his attitude toward Saniel, in whom he scented a demand for money, and was the reason for his attempt to escape by taking a cab. But luck was against him, and he tried to decline the unspoken request in another way.

      “Do not be surprised,” he said, with the volubility with which a man speaks when he does not wish to give his companion a chance to say a word, “that I was pained to see Brigard take seriously an argument that evidently was not directed against him.”

      “Neither against him nor against his ideas.”

      “I know that; you do not need to defend yourself. But I have so much friendship, so much esteem and respect for Brigard that everything that touches him affects me. And how could it be otherwise when one knows his value, and what a man he is? This life of mediocrity that he lives, in order to be free, is it not admirable? What a beautiful example!”

      “Not every one can follow it.”

      “You think that one cannot be contented with ten francs a day?”

      “I mean that not every one has the chance to make ten francs a day.”

      The vague fears of Glady became definite at these words. They had walked down the Rue Ferou and reached the Place St. Sulpice.

      “I think that at last I am going to find a cab,” he said, precipitately.

      But this hope was not realized; there was not a single cab at the station, and he was forced to submit to the assault from Saniel.

      And Saniel began:

      “You are compelled to walk with me, and, frankly, I rejoice, because I wish to talk to you of a serious affair—on which depends my future.”

      “This is a poor place for serious talk.”

      “I do not find it so.”

      “We would better appoint some other time.”

      “Why should we, since chance has thrown us together here?”

      Glady resigned himself to the inevitable, and was as polite as he could be in the circumstances.

      “I await your pleasure,” he said in a gracious tone, that was a contrast to his former one.

      Saniel, who was in such a hurry a few moments before, now silently walked by Glady, whose eyes were on the shining asphalt pavement.

      At last he spoke.

      “I have told you that my future depends on the affair concerning which I wish to speak to you. I can tell you all in a few words: If I am not able to procure three thousand francs within two days, I shall be obliged to leave Paris, to give up my studies and my work here, and go and bury myself in my native town and become a plain country doctor.”

      Glady did not flinch; if he had not foreseen the amount he expected the demand, and he continued gazing at his feet.

      “You know,” continued Saniel, “that I am the son of peasants; my father was marshal in a poor village of Auvergne. At school I gave proof of a certain aptitude

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