dissipation . . . Are you listening, Raphael?" asked the orator,
interrupting himself.

"Yes," answered the young man, less surprised by the accomplishment of
his wishes than by the natural manner in which the events had come
about.

He could not bring himself to believe in magic, but he marveled at the
accidents of human fate.

"Yes, you say, just as if you were thinking of your grandfather's
demise," remarked one of his neighbors.

"Ah!" cried Raphael, "I was thinking, my friends, that we are in a
fair way to become very great scoundrels," and there was an
ingenuousness in his tones that set these writers, the hope of young
France, in a roar. "So far our blasphemies have been uttered over our
cups; we have passed our judgments on life while drunk, and taken men
and affairs in an after-dinner frame of mind. We were innocent of
action; we were bold in words. But now we are to be branded with the
hot iron of politics; we are going to enter the convict's prison and
to drop our illusions. Although one has no belief left, except in the
devil, one may regret the paradise of one's youth and the age of
innocence, when we devoutly offered the tip of our tongue to some good
priest for the consecrated wafer of the sacrament. Ah, my good
friends, our first peccadilloes gave us so much pleasure because the
consequent remorse set them off and lent a keen relish to them; but
nowadays----"

"Oh! now," said the first speaker, "there is still left----"