"That is the same thing. Conscience is the amount of innate knowledge we have in us." Monseigneur Welcome listened in some surprise to this language, which was very novel to him. The Republican continued,-- "As for Louis XVI. I said No. I do not believe that I have the right to kill a man, but I feel the duty of exterminating a tyrant, and I voted for the end of the tyrant. That is to say, for the end of prostitution for women; the end of slavery for men; and the end of night for children. In voting for the Republic I voted for all this: I voted for fraternity, concord, the Dawn! I aided in the overthrow of errors and prejudices, and such an overthrow produces light; we hurled down the old world, and that vase of wretchedness, by being poured over the human race, became an urn of joy." "Mingled joy," said the Bishop. "You might call it a troubled joy, and now, after that fatal return of the past which is called 1814, a departed joy. Alas! the work was incomplete, I grant; we demolished the ancient régime in facts, but were not able to suppress it completely in ideas. It is not sufficient to destroy abuses, but morals must also be modified. Though the mill no longer exists, the wind still blows." "You demolished: it may be useful, but I distrust a demolition complicated with passion." "Right has its passion, Sir Bishop, and that passion is an element of progress. No matter what may be said, the French Revolution is the most powerful step taken by the human race since the advent of Christ. It may be incomplete, but it was sublime. It softened minds, it calmed, appeased, and enlightened, and it spread civilization over the world. The French Revolution was good, for it was the consecration of humanity." The Bishop could not refrain from muttering,--"Yes? '93!" The Republican drew himself up with almost mournful solemnity, and shouted, as well as a dying man could shout,-- "Ah! there we have it! I have been waiting for that. A cloud had been collecting for fifteen hundred years, and at the end of that period it burst: you are condemning the thunder-clap." The Bishop, without perhaps confessing it to himself, felt that the blow had gone home; still he kept a good countenance, and answered,-- "The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in that of pity, which is only a higher form of justice. A thunder-clap must not deceive itself." And he added as he looked fixedly at the conventionalist,-- "And Louis XVII.?" The Republican stretched forth his hand and seized the Bishop's arm.