"All these farms are let at the lowest possible price," said the marquis; "when one is unable to escape from the present economical notions, the best he can do is to bear as lightly as possible on the hard-working cultivator of the soil. These people are grateful to me, as you see, and wish me long life. God save the mark! They consider me very kind, although they do not much like my face. They do not know that I do not care for them as they understand the word, and that I see in them only victims whom I cannot save, but whose executioner I do not choose to be. I know very well that, under logical legislation, this estate should produce a hundred times as much as it does. My dissatisfaction is allayed when I think of it; but in order to think of it and to sustain myself with the certainty that it will some day be the instrument of the voluntary labor of a multitude of prudent men, I must avoid seeing it in its present state, for this spectacle saddens me and turns me cold; for this reason I very rarely expose myself to it." It was in fact about two years since Monsieur de Boisguilbault had visited his farms and made the circuit of his domain. He could make up his mind to do it only in case of absolute necessity. He was greeted everywhere with demonstrations of respect and affection which were not without a touch of superstitious terror; for his solitude and eccentric habits had given him the reputation of a sorcerer with many peasants. Many a time, during a storm, they had said sadly: "Ah! if Monsieur de Boisguilbault chose to prevent the hail, he could do it! but, instead of doing what he can, he is always looking for something else that nobody knows and that he will never find perhaps!" "Well, Emile, what would you do with all this, if it were yours?" said the marquis as they rode home; "for in asking you to make this tiresome round of visits with me, I had no other purpose than to question you." "I would try!" Emile replied, warmly. "Of course," said the marquis, "I would try to found a genuine _commune_ if I could. But I should try in vain, I should fail. And you, too, perhaps!" "What does it matter?" "That is the generous, insane cry of youth: what does it matter if you fail, providing only that you are doing something, eh? You yield to a craving for activity and do not see the obstacles. There are obstacles, however, and the worst of all is this: that there are no men. In that sense your father is right in appealing to a brutal but none the less powerful fact. Men's minds are not ripe, their hearts are not well-disposed; I see much land and many arms, but I do not see a single mind detached from the _ego_ which governs the earth. A little more time, Emile, for the idea to bloom and spread; it will not be so long as people think; I shall not see it, but you will. Be patient, therefore!" "What do you mean? does time do anything without us?"