Thereupon, Hyacinthe walked off with his languid air, well pleased with the effect which he had produced on the others.
“So you know him?” said Pierre to Francois.
“He was my schoolfellow at Condorcet, we were in the same classes together. Such a funny fellow he was! A perfect dunce! And he was always making a parade of Father Duvillard’s millions, while pretending to disdain them, and act the revolutionist, for ever saying that he’d use his cigarette to fire the cartridge which was to blow up the world! He was Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche, and Tolstoi, and Ibsen, rolled into one!
And you can see what he has become with it all: a humbug with a diseased mind!”
“It’s a terrible symptom,” muttered Pierre, “when through ennui or lassitude, or the contagion of destructive fury, the sons of t
