“Now this is how it is, my dear Amédée. I contend that ever since the days of La Rochefoucauld we have all followed in his footsteps like blundering idiots; I contend that self-advantage is _not_ man’s guiding principle--that there _are_ such things as disinterested actions....” “I should hope so,” interrupted Fleurissoire, naïvely. “Don’t be in such a hurry, I beg. By _disinterested_ I mean gratuitous. Also that evil actions--what are commonly called evil--may be just as gratuitous as good ones.” “In that case, why commit them?” “Exactly! Out of sheer wantonness--or from love of sport. My contention is that the most disinterested souls are not necessarily the best--in the Catholic meaning of the word; on the contrary, from the Catholic point of view, the best-trained soul is the one that keeps the strictest accounts.” “The one that ever feels its debt towards God,” added Fleurissoire seraphically, in an attempt to keep up to the mark. Julius was obviously irritated by his brother-in-law’s interruptions; he thought them ludicrous. “A contempt for what may serve is no doubt the stamp of a certain aristocracy of nature.... So once a man has shaken free from orthodoxy, from self-indulgence and from calculation, we may grant that his soul may keep no accounts at all?” “No! No! Never! We may not grant it!” exclaimed Fleurissoire vehemently; then suddenly frightened by the sound of his own voice, he bent towards Baraglioul and whispered: “Let’s speak lower; we shall be overheard.” “Pooh! How could anyone be interested in what we are saying?” “Oh, my dear Julius, I see you have no conception what the people of this country are like. I’ve spent only four days here, but during those four days the adventures I’ve had have been endless, and of a kind to teach me caution--pretty forcibly too--though it wasn’t in my nature, I swear. I am being tracked!” “It’s your imagination.” “I only wish it were! But what’s to be done? When falsehood takes the place of truth, truth must needs dissemble. As for me, with this mission that has been entrusted to me (I’ll tell you about it presently), placed as I am between the Lodge and the Society of Jesus, it’s all up with me. I am an object of suspicion to everyone; everything is an object of suspicion to me. Suppose I were to confess to you, my dear Julius, that just now when you met my distress with mockery, I actually doubted whether it was really you to whom I was talking--whether you weren’t an imitation Julius.... Suppose I were to tell you that this morning before I met you, I actually doubted my own reality--doubted whether I was really here in Rome--whether I wasn’t just dreaming--and whether I shouldn’t wake up presently at Pau, lying peacefully beside Arnica, back again in my everyday life.” “My dear fellow, you’ve got fever.” Fleurissoire seized his hand and in a voice trembling with emotion: