"My nephew is not my nephew, woman; he is blasphemy, sacrilege, atheism,
demagogy. Do you know what demagogy is?"

"Something relating to those people who burned Paris with petroleum;
and those who pull down the churches and fire on the images. So far I
understand very well."

"Well, my nephew is all that! Ah! if he were alone in Orbajosa--but no,
child. My nephew, through a series of fatalities, which are trials, the
transitory evils that God permits for our chastisement, is equivalent to
an army; is equivalent to the authority of the government; equivalent to
the alcalde; equivalent to the judge. My nephew is not my nephew; he
is the official nation, Remedios--that second nation composed of the
scoundrels who govern in Madrid, and who have made themselves masters of
its material strength; of that apparent nation--for the real nation is
the one that is silent, that pays and suffers; of that fictitious
nation that signs decrees and pronounces discourses and makes a farce of
government, and a farce of authority, and a farce of every thing. That
is what my nephew is to-day; you must accustom yourself to look under
the surface of things. My nephew is the government, the brigadier, the
new alcalde, the new judge--for they all protect him, because of the
unanimity of their ideas; because they are chips of the same block,
birds of a feather. Understand it well; we must defend ourselves against
them all, for they are all one, and one is all; we must attack them
all together; and not by beating a man as he turns a corner, but as our
forefathers attacked the Moors--the Moors, Remedios. Understand this
well, child; open your understanding and allow an idea that is
not vulgar to enter it--rise above yourself; think lofty thoughts,
Remedios!"