"Theirgreatargument, ofwhichtheyaresoproud, infavorof 'pardoning' rascals, is," hewouldsay, "thatallrascalsaresufficientlyunhappyintheirwickedness, orthattheyareirresponsibleordiseased....Inthefirstplace, 'samoralideainaction, asillymelodramaticidea, stupid, emptyoptimism, suchasyoufindinScribeandCapus,—(ScribeandCapus, yourParisiangreatmen, artistsofwhomyourpleasure-seeking, vulgarsocietyisworthy, childishhypocrites, toocowardlytofacetheirownugliness).—, , ."

AtbottomtherewasnogreatdifferencebetweentheseideasandOlivier's: but, byasecretinstinctforbalanceandproportion, hewasneversodilettanteaswhenheheardprovocativewordsthrownout.

"Don'tgetsoexcited, myfriend," hewouldsaytoChristophe." 'Decameron,' letusbreatheinpeacethebalmyairofthegardensofthought, whileunderthecypress-hillandthetall, shadypines, twinedaboutwithroses, Florenceisdevastatedbytheblackplague."

Hewouldamusehimselffordaystogetherbypullingtopiecesart, science, philosophy, tofindtheirhiddenwheels: sohecamebyasortofPyrrhonism, inwhicheverythingthatwasbecameonlyafigmentofthemind, acastleintheair, whichhadnoteventheexcuseofthegeometricsymbols, :

"Itwasgoingquitewell: you'? Whatareyoutryingtoprove? Thatnothingisnothing? GoodLord! ? 'snoreasonfordoinganything? I', letthemdie! Formypart, I'malive, andI', mymindandthoughtintheother....Tohellwiththought!"