either religion or physical force, but upon intellect. Can a book
replace the sword? Can discussion be a substitute for action? That is
the question."

"Intellect has made an end of everything," cried the Carlist. "Come
now! Absolute freedom has brought about national suicides; their
triumph left them as listless as an English millionaire."

"Won't you tell us something new? You have made fun of authority of
all sorts to-day, which is every bit as vulgar as denying the
existence of God. So you have no belief left, and the century is like
an old Sultan worn out by debauchery! Your Byron, in short, sings of
crime and its emotions in a final despair of poetry."

"Don't you know," replied Bianchon, quite drunk by this time, "that a
dose of phosphorus more or less makes the man of genius or the
scoundrel, a clever man or an idiot, a virtuous person or a criminal?"

"Can any one treat of virtue thus?" cried Cursy. "Virtue, the subject
of every drama at the theatre, the denoument of every play, the
foundation of every court of law. . . ."

"Be quiet, you ass. You are an Achilles for virtue, without his heel,"
said Bixiou.

"Some drink!"

"What will you bet that I will drink a bottle of champagne like a
flash, at one pull?"