No man among our contemporaries has been
more hated than Monsieur Louis Veuillot. He has flagellated, kicked,
cuffed, jeered, mocked, humiliated, exasperated, better than anybody
else, the writers I most detest. He has given them wounds which will
forever rankle. He has indelibly branded these miserable actors who play
upon the theatre of their vices the comedy of their vanity. We together
examined the pages where I had expressed my opinion upon contemporary
authors.
"Are these," said Monsieur Louis Veuillot, speaking severely to me,
"are these all your sacrifices to the truth? Praises to that one,
flattery to this one, soft words to him, compliments to another? You
blame them just enough to incite people to buy their books. Is that what
you call serving our noble and austere cause? Oh, Sir! Sir!" ...
He lectured me long and well. He spoke with the edification of a sermon
and the brilliancy of a satire. At last, ashamed of my weakness,
electrified by his language, burning to repair lost time, I said to him,
pressing his hands in mine,--
"I am dwelling amid the luxuries of Capua; when next you hear from me, I
shall be in the midst of the field of battle.
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