Peace in the heart. Winds were standing. The air was immobile …



Christophe was calm; he was full of rest. It was in some way proud to have achieved it. And from the bottom, he was desperate about it. He wondered about such silence. Passions were dormant; he sincerely thought they would not wake up again.

Christophe’s great, somewhat primitive power wandered into sleep when it was idle and when it had no object to target. The bottom felt a secret emptiness. In the cache, something: “for what”; maybe feel the happiness he couldn’t grasp. There was no longer a battle for himself or against others; he had no more trouble even with his own work. He had reached the end of one of his tripods; he was the result of his former efforts; it was too easy for him to unload the musical into the mouth he had received; and the bridgehead as the crowd that had naturally left him, admired his past works, he himself began to break away, without knowing yet, whether he would move forward. Creation was a steady and one-sided happiness for him. In her lifetime, art was no longer just a beautiful player she used with virtuoso skill. Christophe felt ashamed that he was threatened to become an amateur.

” To get ahead in art , says Ibsen, is needed more and more like a natural genius. Passions, pains, that give life content and purpose unless indeed, the artist does not create, but merely write books .”

Christophe wrote books. He wasn’t used to that. These books were beautiful. He would have been better if they had not been so beautiful, but rather livelier. Christophe, the resting athlete who didn’t know what he did with his muscles today, looked at your bored waiting for Pacific Work for years, yelling like a noble beast. And when he was a Germanman who was old-fashioned with optimism, he tried to convince himself that everything was the best, and he thought he’d now arrived at the final amount of the trip; He was glad that he had been in pain, had become a ruler of himself. It didn’t mean much… But what about it! Man gives what he has; he’s what it can be … Christophe thought he was in the harbor.

Friendships have not lived together today. When Jacqueline escaped, Christophe thought Olivier would settle down with him. But Olivier couldn’t do it. Even though he wanted to approach Christoph, he felt unable to live with him as he used to. She had spent so many years with Jacqueline that she would have been unbearable, even holy, if she had taken no more people into her private life – even if that other creature had loved her a thousand times more than Jacqueline, and even if Olivier had loved her too her. – To such a person, man does not think anything can.

It was hard for Christophen to understand him first. He tried again to attract Olivier Jeannin to him, he was stunned, died, even ashamed. – Then he explained his instinct, which was more rational in him, to him all the time. And suddenly she sensed talking about it, and she thought she was right.

But they met each other every day; and they never lived under the same roof as they had lived in closer proximity to each other than they are today. They may not have exchanged their most sensitive ideas. But they didn’t have to do it. That exchange of thoughts happened by itself, without words: it happened in the friendship of loving hearts.

Neither of them spoke much; one was deeply engaged in his art, the other in his memory. Olivier Jeannin’s grief eased; but he did not seek it himself, it wasn’t right for him: it had been the sole purpose of his life for too long. He loved his child; but his child – a flattering baby – could not fill a very big place in his life. There are men who are more lovers than fathers. It is not worth getting hurt. Nature is diverse; It would be absurd to impose the same laws of the heart on everyone. No one has the right to neglect their duties for their feelings. But at least one must admit to the heart the right not to be happy if one also fulfills his duty. Most of all, Olivier loved the creature that the body had created by that child.

Until recently, Olivier had not noticed much of the suffering of other people. He was an intellectual soul, and they live too much in themselves. It was not because of Olivier Jeannin’s selfishness, but the hospital’s habit of dreaming. Jacqueline, during their marriage, was still just expanding that emptiness that was already around her husband; His love had pulled Olivier Jeannin and other people into a magic that still felt when love had already disappeared. And besides, Olivier was a little aristocrat with temperament. From childhood he had stood away from a large herd, even though his heart was quite good; it requires the instincts of the purity of his body and soul. The odor and thoughts of those people were disgusting to him.

But now a very ordinary case, which he saw as a seer, changed his whole view in this respect.

Olivier had rented an apartment, quite modest, on Monterouge, quite close to the residence of Christophe and Cécile. It was mostly inhabited by the people in the city quarter, and the house was home to low-interest people, officers and a few working families. At other times, Olivier would have suffered from such an environment; he would have known himself there; But nowadays he was like him, where he lived: he felt everywhere as a stranger. He barely knew who his neighbors were, nor did he want to know. When he came home from work – (he had gone to an office as an officer) – he closed his memories and did not go to the city other than watching his baby and Christoph. Her home was not her home: it was a dark chamberThe images of his past were reflected: Kuta was darker and the box was looser, the clearer the inner images were. Olivier noticed even the people who came up against him on the stairs. However, against him, some of them fell into his mind. There are souls who do not see anything exactly before they have passed. But then nothing is left unnoticed by them, even the smallest details dig into them as though they were a steel drawer. Olivier was like this: he was full of shadows of living people. When a shocking incident occurred, those human characters appeared; and Olivier wondered that he knew them, even though they had never known those people. And sometimes he handed his hands to reach them … But then it was too late.

When he left his home one day, he saw a crowd of people in front of the front door of the house, the middle caretaker’s wife, telling him something. Olivier was so little curious that he would continue his journey without asking what was going on; but the caretaker’s wife wanted to get a new listener and stopped Olivier Jeannin and asked him if he knew how those Roussel ruins had been? Olivier didn’t even know who those “Roussel ruins” were; and he listened now, but indifferently, only to courtesy. When he heard that a worker, a man, a wife, and five children living in a house, had made a joint homage because of their poverty, he stayed like others, standing and looking at the walls of the building and listening to a narrator who was not tired. but began to shoot and still start. As far as the caretaker’s wife said, Olivier’s mind woke up, and she noticed that she had seen those unlucky women she spoke to; and he was asking something about them … Indeed, he knew them: a man – (Olivier was listening to his breathless breath; he had come up against the man often on the stairs) – the man was a worker in a bakery: a flabby, overturned by the furnace glow; cheeks with a hole, beard rough; he had received pneumonia early in the winter; he had gone to work again, even though he hadn’t completely healed yet; the disease was recurring; for three weeks he was without work and had nothing to do. The wife, who was always pregnant and was hungry for it, and whose gout had been so bad that she was lame, drove and drill to take care of the family, toured for days to try to get help from the Nursing Care Center, even the little that it gave, In the meantime, the kids never stopped asking; one of them was eleven years old, the second was the seventh and the third, the two were already dead, and in addition there were still twins who had seen the best to come to the world at such times: they were born last month.

A neighboring neighbor told me:

– On the day they were born, the oldest of those five, the eleven-year-old Justine, started crying and said how he could carry the two smallest in his arms!

Olivier Jeannin immediately remembered the image of that girl: – a huge big forehead, a colorless hair retracted to the back of the head, and gray-eyed gray eyes that were very upright at the fold of the forehead. She had seen the girl often, always carrying either food or the smallest sister; or he led a hand of his seven-year-old brother, a son of a delicate and delicate look, whose eyes were so amazed and dim! When Olivier and the girl came up on the stairs, Olivier said, distractedly polite as his habit was:

– Sorry, little girl.

The girl didn’t answer anything; he went rigid, hardly hesitating; but this kind of courtesy seemed good to him because he could imagine it really meant for him. – Last night at six o’clock, Olivier had gone to the city and had met the girl for the last time; the girl had then carried a charcoal rod to her home. Olivier had not come to realize that the laptop seemed very heavy. But the children of the poor are so used to it. Olivier had greeted the girl as usual, without looking at her. When he then raised his head in his thoughts downstairs, he had seen the girl upstairs: the child stood leaning against the railing, his little face wrinkled, and looked at his way. He immediately turned to Olivier Jeannin and went up the stairs. Do I know a girl where it took her to go? “Olivier was sure about it, and his heart was troubled when he thought of that kid-boy who had died in his heavy sang as his liberator,” he thought of those other little ones to whom life was meant to get suffering!

Now, Olivier couldn’t go for a walk. He went back to his room. But what was there! Those dead ones close by … Only a few partitions separated him from them … That he had lived as a neighbor of such mortals!

Then he went to meet Christoph. He was haunted by his heart; he blamed himself, saying that it is unneces- sary to clog like he’s in the superfluous shell of love, when many others suffer thousands of bitter fate. Other people he could have saved! His mind action was real and deep; he was easy to express it. Christophe, who was prone to influences, became shocked in turn. When he heard the story of Olivier Jeannin, he broke his newly-filled sheet of music and said he was an egoist, amusing a child with a child’s clip. But then he gathered the torn pieces of paper. He was too fond of his music; and a clear instinct told him that destroying a work of art could not make any person happier. Such a tragedy of poverty was nothing new to him; Already a little child, he was used to passing such shafts without falling into them. Besides, he severely criticized suicide because he now has a period of life when he felt so full of power that he did not recognize the right to stop fighting, no matter how severe the suffering was. Suffering and Battle: What is Normal? That’s the whole thing! what is more normal? That’s the whole thing! what is more normal? That’s the whole thing!

Olivier had also experienced similar suffering; but never could he have achieved what came to him or to others, a clear position in relation to them. He was horrified by poverty; it had been taken by all the forces of life from his beloved Antoinete. Then, when she had married Jacqueline and gave her riches and love to shake herself, she had quickly tried to dissipate the memories of the former gloomy years she and her sister had every day drilling herself to get the right to live the next, without even knowing if she could succeed . These images of the past now came to his mind, now that the young man’s selfishness was no longer guarding him. This time he did not face the face of suffering, but he went to see them. He didn’t have to go far to see them. In his present state of mind he noticed them everywhere. – The world was full of suffering. The world, this house of trouble … Oh, how much infinite pain! Torture of rotten, breathtaking, alive rotting bodies. Silent talk of frustrated minds. Children who don’t get love; poor girls who have no hope, seduced or deceived women; men who are disappointed in their friendship, love and faith; the sad flock of the unlucky ones that the world smashes and who it forgets!… The cruelty here is not misery or illness, but the mutual evil of the people towards each other. Hardly Olivier lifted the door that closed the door of human hell, and in one of his ears there was a cry of all the oppressed, the skinned poor, the bullied nation, Armenian massacres, strangled Finland, torn pieces of Poland, swamped Russian, African robbers of European robbers, all humanity of all kinds of unfortunate. It drowned in his ears; He heard it everywhere, he could no longer privatize it, he could not understand that people were still thinking about something else in the world. He spoke to Christoph on this issue. It got Christophe’s confusion: He spoke to Christoph on this issue. It got Christophe’s confusion: He spoke to Christoph on this issue. It got Christophe’s confusion:

– Be quiet now! Let me do my job.

And when she was struggling to get balance, she got angry and rained:

– Damn it! My day is wasted! Well, now you’re in this grief.

Olivier tried to defend himself.

– My boyfriend, Christophe, didn’t always have to look down.
Then you can’t live anymore.
– You have to hand your hands on those who are in the gap.

– Of course. But in what way? Throw yourself into it? Because that’s what you’re trying to do. You nowadays tend not to see anything other than sad in life. God forbid you! That pessimism is pathetic; but it is weakening. Do you want to create happiness in the world? So be happy first.

– Happy! Who has the heart to be when you see so much suffering? There can be no happiness other than trying to reduce them by fighting against evil.

– Very good. But I will not help the unlucky crouching. A poor soldier does not help the army. But I can comfort people with my art, spreading strength and joy among them. Do you know how many sufferers some beautiful idea, some flying song has supported them in their trouble? Everyone’s staying in her flat! You French, you are usually noble enthusiasts, always ready to show your mind to all the wrongs, whether they are in Spain or Russia, and you never understand what it is. That’s why I like you. But do you think that in any way will you help? You throw yourself everything indiscriminately, and the result is empty – unless it really worsens the thing … And look at it; your art has never been less than now, where your artists consider it their duty to intervene in world politics. It is strange how such small and cunning dettant masters dare to raise themselves into apostles! It would be better if they would draw a little cleaner wine for their people. – My first duty is to do well what I do and create a healthy music that strengthens your veil and gives your being a sun!

In humans, there must be sun in itself, otherwise he cannot spread it to others. It wasn’t for Olivier Jeannin. Like the best of the modern day, he was not strong enough to radiate power around him, alone. He would have been able to do so only by joining others. But to whom did he join? Because he was a free thinker and religious at the bottom of his heart, he was rejected by all parties, both state and religious. They were in direct competition with intolerance and constraint. When they got hold of power, they used it right away. Only the weak and the oppressed pleased Olivier Jeannin. At least of that, he agreed with Christophe that people should not fight distant injustices, but rather the injustices that are taking place, who are surrounded by us and from whom we are responsible, who is more who is less. Many people are content to express their disapproval of the evil deeds of others, and do not remember what evil they do.

Olivier now started to help the poor. His friend Mrs Arnaud was a member of a charity club. Olivier got access to the club’s business. But in the early days he felt many disappointments: the poor who remained in his care did not all deserve such participation; whether they rewarded his gentleness badly, doubted him, stayed with him. Moreover, it is difficult for an intelligent person to be content with charity alone: ​​for a refreshing charity, Baptism is only the land of a very small band of misery! The work is almost always cut, broken; it feels stinky, random; it seems to bind wounds only to the extent that it comes up with them: it is usually too modest and urgent to deepen the excavation of the roots of the evil itself. And such a search was a requirement

He began to investigate the issue of social misery. In that area he had plenty of guides. At that time, the social issue had become a great social question. It was spoken in salons, theatrical stages, novels. Everyone was about to feel it. A significant proportion of young people sacrificed the best of their power to it.

Each new generation needs its own new madness. Even the most selfish of the youth have some amount of too much power of life, the capital of energy that has been given to them in advance, and who does not want to remain infertile; they spend it on some activity, or (wise) – on some theory. Whether it’s aviation or revolution! Muscle or Ideas for Sport! At a young age, he definitely wants to entrust himself to taking part in a major movement for humanity, believing in reforming the world. It is wonderful to feel the vibrating universe of your senses from every touch of wind! Then the soul is so free and light! There is still no burden on family ballast; does not own anything, so nothing can be lost. It is generous to be able to give something that you don’t yet own. And it is also wonderful to love and hate, Believe in changing the world with dreams and shouts! Young people are like hunting dogs before they start driving: they tremble and bark the air. The injustice that happened in another part of the world makes them crazy.

Barking in the dark. From one house to another, the voices in the heart of the large forests ceaselessly stopped. The night was restless. It was not easy at that time to sleep. The wind carried the echoes of so many wrongs!… The forms of iniquity are innumerable; One can easily do another to improve one. What is injustice? For one it is a shameful peace, a cut country. For others it is war. For some it is a destroyed entity, a king driven by exile; for some again a robbed church; for some, a prosperous future, a threat to freedom. For peoples it is a weathering; it is equality for the elite. There are so many different injustices that every era chooses its own injustice, one against whom it fights, and the other that it supports.

At this time, the world’s toughest forces attacked social injustices, and in it they knewly quietly created new ones.

And indeed, there are great injustices, and they had become clear to everyone since the class of labor, still growing in number and strength, had become one of the great struggles of the state apparatus. But, contrary to all the declarations of labor tribes and commemorative poets, the position of that class was not worse than it had been before: it was better than it had ever been. The general notion of its inferiority was therefore not due to the fact that the suffering of its class would have been greater than before, but that the class was more powerful today. Stronger in itself with the help of the capital he hated, with the fatal economic and industrial development that had brought those workers into big, battle-ready armies and artificially put them in the arms, He made the master of every lord, who commanded the flocks to the light, who took them in the battle for the assault, and made them the most vivid expression of the world. From this massive mass of primitive forces that the leaders were just about to organize, the glow of a burning ridge, shaky electric waves from one person to another, and from individuals to the whole of human society came.

The intellectual part of the bourgeoisie was not “raised by the people” by its legitimacy, by its newness or by the power of its ideas, even though those intellectuals believed it. It did it with its body flow.

Would it have inspired them with their legitimacy? There were many other real countless times in the world, and it hadn’t moved the world. Do you think with power? Those ideas were the pieces of truth that had been robbed from here and adapted to cover the interests of a single class of people at the expense of other classes. Those ideas were unreasonable creeds, like all other creeds, – kingship of God’s grace, infallibility of the popes, universal suffrage, equality of human beings – they were as impossible as other ideas if they criticized them by the measure of reason and their power. What did mean that the ideas were medium? Ideas do not conquer the world as ideas, but as strengths. They don’t get people with their intellectual content, but with the vitality that which radiates from them in certain periods of history. They are like a smoky smoke: they affect the dullest sense of smell. Even the ghost remains spiritually intact until the day that it has the force of infection, which is not due to its own merits, but to the human slaves in which it is embodied and which give its blood into its veins. Then the dried tree, that Jericho rose suddenly flourishes; it grows, fills the air with its violent scent. – Many of these ideas, which, as a flagrant flag, led labor classes to attack bourgeois castles, were born from the brains of bourgeois dreamers. As long as they were left in bourgeois books, they were just like dead: museum items, glass-enclosed mummies that are rarely seen. But as soon as the people had taken them, it had made them a people, giving them the power of fervent reality; that power renewed them in form, brought them to life; it blew into these abstract rationales its own hot-tempered hopes, as if Hegira’s burning wind. They now spread from person to person. They went to everybody, no one knew who brought them and how. The importers didn’t mean anything. Soul infections continued their work; and semi-living beings could often infect the best: each carried it unknowingly. whoever brought them and how. The importers didn’t mean anything. Soul infections continued their work; and semi-living beings could often infect the best: each carried it unknowingly. whoever brought them and how. The importers didn’t mean anything. Soul infections continued their work; and semi-living beings could often infect the best: each carried it unknowingly.

Such phenomena of intellectual infection are common to all times and to all countries; they are also noticed in aristocracy in countries where different nations are tried to be kept completely separate. But nowhere are they more powerful than the nations in which there is no healthy border between the elite and the great herd. There’s a bunch of fights, whatever it is, right after the infection. In spite of its self-esteem and intelligence, it cannot resist it: for that best is always weaker than it might be. Intelligence is an island that is crushed and crushed by the proverbs of humanity and often covered by them. It will only appear when the bullet has landed. – Admires France’s privileged categories: how devotedly they gave up their rights on August 4: the previous night of the day. But the more amazing, though, is that they don’tcould have done differently than they did. I can imagine how many of them, when they returned home, wondered, “What am I doing? I was like drunk…” Praised be such a wine and a vine from which it leaks! The privileged French of that time had not planted the shelter they had drunk from the juice of the grapes: the wine was already ready, only to drink it. He drank it, drunk. Even those who did not taste it, shivered when they only felt the smell of the vineyards. Oh, the revolution of the winemaking!… There is nothing left in the 89 wine of the 89th year in a family cellar; but the children of our children still remember that their ancient fathers were drunk about it.

The equally sour, yet equally powerful wine had risen to the head of the Olivier Jeannin generation bourgeoisie. They sacrificed their own social class to the new God, the unknown: the people of Deo Ignoto .

Probably not everyone was sincere in this matter. Many saw it merely as an opportunity to be noticed by distinguishing themselves from their class so as to despise it. For the most, it was intellectual amusement, the charm of jewelery that they didn’t mean to be true. It is pleasing to believe in a thing, to fight for it, or to take a fight once, or at least to fight if necessary. It is not uncomfortable to think that you dare to do something. Teatteriliikutusta!

Such is quite innocent when it is naive, without the computation of one’s own interest. – But others, the dumb-bellies, knowingly did this part; folk movement was a way for them to get up. As the Norman Vikings took advantage of the rising tide to sail into the interior of the earth, they also believed that they could penetrate into large bays and then settle into the conquered cities, with the help of the sea that would eventually withdraw. The fairway was cramped, and the stream was whimsical: to be skillful. But a couple of three demagogic generations have created the right pirate way, which has no secrets in that profession. They bravely stepped into the fairway, and the caregivers did not look at those who blocked the road. There is such a group of rubbish in all parties; and no party is responsible for them, thank God. But the disgust that these speculators raised in the sincere and affiliated members of the parties brought some of them to despair from their own class of people. Olivier saw wealthy and educated bourgeoisies who knew the bourgeoisie’s degeneration and their own needlessness. He was naturally too fond of them. At first they had believed the mighty might reform the people; they had set up labor schools and sacrificed them without sacrificing their time and money; but then they had seen their business go into action; and when their hope had been exaggerated, so was their paralysis. The people had not heard their invitation, or if it had heard it, it would soon have gone away. When it approached them, it covered it all the way around, it was just a mockery of ridicules and ridicules of bourgeois civilization. And finally, the herd had wandered into the ranks of bourgeois apostles and had made them scream, speculating at their own expense, at the expense of both the people and the bourgeoisie. Then it seemed to simple people that the bourgeoisie was condemned to death, that it only polluted the people, that at any price the people had to free themselves, open their own development. So they could do nothing more than predict or conceive a people’s movement that would arise without them and against them. For others, it was the joy of refusal, the human sympathy, the deep and the unselfish who only enjoyed themselves and sacrificed. Love, and give everything! Youth is so rich in its own content, that it may well be without demanding anything back; it is not afraid to be empty in pockets. And it can live without everything, but it doesn’t have to be loved. – In this sense, others sat down their uncompromising logic; they did not sacrifice for the sake of the people, but the ideas. They were the most feared. They enjoyed and pride themselves in proving that their class was waiting for an untried end. It would have been more difficult for them to see their predictions deceiving than crushing under the new and coming. In their intelligent drumming mode, they cried out to their class: “Stronger! Stronger! Let us not be left behind!” – They had developed the theory of violence. And it can live without everything, but it doesn’t have to be loved. – In this sense, others sat down their uncompromising logic; they did not sacrifice for the sake of the people, but the ideas. They were the most feared. They enjoyed and pride themselves in proving that their class was waiting for an untried end. It would have been more difficult for them to see their predictions deceiving than crushing under the new and coming. In their intelligent drumming mode, they cried out to their class: “Stronger! Stronger! Let us not be left behind!” – They had developed the theory of violence. And it can live without everything, but it doesn’t have to be loved. – In this sense, others sat down their uncompromising logic; they did not sacrifice for the sake of the people, but the ideas. They were the most feared. They enjoyed and pride themselves in proving that their class was waiting for an untried end. It would have been more difficult for them to see their predictions deceiving than crushing under the new and coming. In their intelligent drumming mode, they cried out to their class: “Stronger! Stronger! Let us not be left behind!” – They had developed the theory of violence. They enjoyed and pride themselves in proving that their class was waiting for an untried end. It would have been more difficult for them to see their predictions deceiving than crushing under the new and coming. In their intelligent drumming mode, they cried out to their class: “Stronger! Stronger! Let us not be left behind!” – They had developed the theory of violence. They enjoyed and pride themselves in proving that their class was waiting for an untried end. It would have been more difficult for them to see their predictions deceiving than crushing under the new and coming. In their intelligent drumming mode, they cried out to their class: “Stronger! Stronger! Let us not be left behind!” – They had developed the theory of violence.

Violence by others! For as usual, these apostles of brute force were almost always sophisticated and weak men. Many of them were officials of the same state, whose destruction they were talking about, hardworking, conscientious and humble. Their theoretical jealousy in them was the counterbalance of weakness, bitterness, and suppressed life. But above all, it was a sign of a storm raging around them. Theoretics are meteorologists in their field: they say, in scientific terms, what the air is like – no matter what kind of air comes. They are windwaves that look like the wind is blowing. When they turn around, they think they could easily turn the wind.

The wind had already turned.

Ideas wear out in a popular society quickly, the faster, Kuta will spread them faster. How many of the French Republics were barely tired of the republic, the general right to vote, and many other freedoms conquered with great enthusiasm in fifty years! After the Fetishist herd cult, after the blissful optimism that had believed in the holy majesty and waited for the progress of mankind, there had now been a gust of violent spirit; the inability of the majority to rule themselves, their tendency to corruption, the sluggishness, the low and the timid horror of all supremacy, their oppression aroused rebellion; then energetic minorities – minorities of all kinds – then resorted to violence. Strange and ridiculous yes, but still fatal: “Action Françainen”royalists, French nationalists, and syndicalists converged. Balzac speaks of some of the men of his age,” of their tendencies to aristocrats who are rampant in the Republican, only to see a lot of cheaper people among their peers. ” there is no other way than an authority that can bend the best of those under the best power, the most oppressive majority, – either under the best of the workers or the bourgeoisie. theorists,The Philosophers of Violence shook as a sign of storm over them.

In addition, there were still writers waiting for inspiration from the flock, – those who can write, but do not know exactly what to write: as the Pacific-arched Greeks in Auli, they cannot get ahead and shamelessly awaken when the wind would reach their sail, whatever it was . – Among them, there were celebrities who had been waiting for Dreyfus unexpectedly out of their style work and taken to general meetings. A well-tracked example for beginners. A number of writers nowadays lurk in politics and thought they were leading state affairs. In every space they formed groups, spread the manifestos, saved the Capitols. Intellectuals’ front forces were marching behind the intellectuals of the intellectuals: both were equal. Both of these parties despised the other as rationalists and considered themselves intellectually high. The specimens of those who had the fortune that their veins ran in their veins, boasted with their popularity: they baptized it with their blood and wrote it. – All of them were bourgeois, dissatisfied, and tried to take over the authority that the bourgeoisie had lost with its selfishness. Rarely did these apostles retain the apostolic enthusiasm for a very long time. At first, they were a success for them, probably not because of their oratorical gifts. That’s the success of Mairi sweetly for their self-love. Then they continued with less success, even secretly afraid to be a little ridiculous. For a long time, this last feeling was gaining more and more victory, and the additional influence became fatigue to play a difficult part, difficult for their people who had a refined taste and skepticism developed. They were waiting for the wind to allow them to retreat, and so did their supporters. For those two groups were as if they were insulted. These New Types of Voltaire and Joseph de Maistre were insecure at the bottom, even though their words and writings were bold; they sensed the land, were afraid to snatch themselves in the eyes of the youngsters, tried every way to please them, to be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed. with a refined taste and skepticism. They were waiting for the wind to allow them to retreat, and so did their supporters. For those two groups were as if they were insulted. These New Types of Voltaire and Joseph de Maistre were insecure at the bottom, even though their words and writings were bold; they sensed the land, were afraid to snatch themselves in the eyes of the youngsters, tried everything to please them, to be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed. with a refined taste and skepticism. They were waiting for the wind to allow them to retreat, and so did their supporters. For those two groups were as if they were insulted. These New Types of Voltaire and Joseph de Maistre were insecure at the bottom, even though their words and writings were bold; they sensed the land, were afraid to snatch themselves in the eyes of the youngsters, tried every way to please them, to be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed. For those two groups were as if they were insulted. These New Types of Voltaire and Joseph de Maistre were insecure at the bottom, even though their words and writings were bold; they sensed the land, were afraid to snatch themselves in the eyes of the youngsters, tried every way to please them, to be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed. For those two groups were as if they were insulted. These New Types of Voltaire and Joseph de Maistre were insecure at the bottom, even though their words and writings were bold; they sensed the land, were afraid to snatch themselves in the eyes of the youngsters, tried every way to please them, to be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed. be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed. be even younger than them. Whether they were revolutionary or revolutionary in their writings, they continued to submit to the same literary fashion they had ever developed.

The strangest type that Olivier got acquainted with in this small bourgeois revolutionary front guard was a man who had begun to become a revolutionary inaction.

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