Then the baroness¹ drew me aside.

 

"Therese," says she, "am I in error? are you not the person I saved from the Conciergerie ten years ago? have you entirely² forgotten your Dubois ?"

 

Little flattered by this discovery, I however replied to it with politeness, but I was dealing³ with the most subtle, the most adroit⁴ woman in contemporary France; there was no way of eluding⁵ her. Dubois overwhelmed me with attentions, she said that she, like the entire town, had taken an interest in my fate but that had she known who I really was, she would have resorted to all sorts of measures and made many a representation to the magistrates⁶, amongst whom, she declared, she had several friends. As usual, I was weak, I permitted myself to be led to this woman's room and there I related my sufferings to her.

 

"My dear friend," said she, renewing her embraces, "if I have desired to see you more intimately, it is to tell you I have made my fortune and that all I possess is at your disposal; look here," she said, opening some caskets brimming with gold and diamonds, "these are the fruits of my industry; had I worshiped Virtue⁷ like you, I should be in prison today, or hanged."

 

"O Madame," I cried, "if you owe all that to naught⁸ but crime, Providence⁹, which eventually is always just, will not suffer you to enjoy it for long."

 

"An error," said Dubois; "do not imagine that Providence invariably favors Virtue; do not let a brief interlude of prosperity blind you to this point. It is as one to the maintenance of Providence's scheme whether 'tis Peter or Paul who follows the evil career while the other surrenders himself to good; Nature must have an equal quantity of each, and the exercise of crime rather than the commission of good is a matter of you've no idea what indifference¹⁰ to her; listen Therese, pay a little attention to me," continued that corruptor, seating herself and bidding me take a nearby chair; "you have some wit, my child, and your intelligence will be speedily convinced.

 

"'Tis not man's election of Virtue which brings him happiness, dear girl, for Virtue, like vice¹², is nothing beyond a scheme of getting along in the world; 'tis not, hence, a question of adopting one course rather than another; 'tis merely a matter of following the road generally taken; he who wanders away from it is always wrong; in an entirely virtuous¹³ world, I would recommend virtue to you, because worldly rewards being associated therewith, happiness would infallibly be connected with it too; in a totally corrupt¹¹ world, I would never advise anything but vice. He who does not walk along with others has inevitably¹⁴ to perish; everyone he encounters he collides with, and, as he is weak, he has necessarily to be crushed. It is in vain the law wishes to re-establish order and restore men to righteousness; too unjust to undertake the task, too insufficient¹⁵ to succeed in it, those laws will lure¹⁶ you away from the beaten path, but only temporarily; never will they make man abandon it. While the general interest of mankind drives it to corruption¹⁷, he who does not wish to be corrupted¹⁸ with the rest will therefore be fighting against the general interest; well, what happiness can he expect who is in perpetual conflict with the interest of everyone else? Are you going to tell me it is vice which is at odds¹⁹ with mankind's welfare? I would grant this true in a world composed of equal proportions of good and bad people, because in this instance, the interest of the one category would be in clear contradiction with that of the other; however, that does not hold true in a completely corrupt society; in it, my vices²⁰ outrage²¹ the vicious only and provoke in them other vices which they use to square matters: and thus all of us are happy: the vibration²² becomes general: we have a multitude of conflicts and mutual²³ injuries whereby everyone, immediately recovering what he has just lost, incessantly²⁴ discovers himself in a happy position. Vice is dangerous to naught but Virtue which, frail²⁵ and timorous²⁶, dares undertake nothing; but when it shall no longer exist on earth, when its wearisome reign²⁷ shall reach its end, vice thereafter outraging²⁸ no one but the vicious, will cause other vices to burgeon²⁹ but will cause no further damage to the virtuous. How could you help but have foundered³⁰ a thousand times over in the course of your life, Therese? for have you not continually driven up the one-way street all the world has crowded down? Had you turned and abandoned yourself to the tide you would have made a safe port as well as I. Will he who wishes to climb upstream cover as much distance in a day as he who moves with the current? You constantly talk about Providence; ha! what proves to you this Providence is a friend of order and consequently enamored of Virtue? Does It not give you uninterrupted examples of Its injustices³¹ and Its irregularities? Is it by sending mankind war, plagues, and famine, is it by having formed a universe vicious in every one of its particulars It manifests to your view Its extreme fondness of good? Why would you have it that vicious individuals displease³² It since Providence Itself acts only through the intermediary of vices? since all is vice and corruption in Its works? since all is crime and disorder³³ in what It wills? Moreover, whence do we derive³⁴ those impulses which lead us to do evil? is it not Providence's hand which gives them to us? is there a single one of our sensations which does not come from It? one of our desires which is not Its artifact? is it then reasonable to say that It would allow us or give us penchants for something which might be harmful to It or useless? if then vices serve Providence, why should we wish to disown them, disclaim³⁵ them, resist them? what would justify³⁶ our labors³⁷ to destroy them? and whence comes the right to stifle³⁸ their voice? A little more philosophy in the world would soon restore all to order and would cause magistrates and legislators to see that the crimes they condemn³⁹ and punish with such rigor⁴⁰ sometimes have a far greater degree of utility than those virtues⁴¹ they preach without practicing and without ever rewarding."#p#分页标题#e#

 

"But when I become sufficiently⁴² enfeebled, Madame," I replied, "to be able to embrace your appalling⁴³ doctrines⁴⁴, how will you manage to suppress the feelings of guilt⁴⁵ in my heart whose birth they will cause at every instant?"

 

"Guilt is an illusion," Dubois answered; "my dear Therese, it it naught but the idiotic⁴⁶ murmuring of a soul too debilitated⁴⁷ to dare annihilate⁴⁸ it."

 

"Annihilate it! May one?"

 

"Nothing simpler; one repents⁴⁹ only of what one is not in the habit of doing; frequently repeat what makes you remorseful⁵¹ and you'll quickly have done with the business; against your qualms⁵² oppose the torch of your passions and self-interest's potent⁵³ laws: they'll be put to rout⁵⁴ in a trice. Remorse⁵⁰ is no index of criminality; it merely denotes an easily subjugated⁵⁵ spirit; let some absurd command be given you, which forbids you to leave this room, and you'll not depart without guilty feelings however certain it is your departure will cause no one any harm. And so it is not true that it is exclusively crime which excites remorse. By convincing yourself of crime's nullity, of its necessity with what regards Nature's universal scheme, it would therefore be as possible to vanquish⁵⁶ the guilt one would sense after having committed it as it would be to throttle⁵⁷ that which would be born from your leaving this room after having received the illegal order to stay here. One must begin with a precise analysis of everything mankind denominates as criminal; by convincing oneself that it is merely the infraction⁵⁸ of its laws and national manners they characterize thus, that what is called crime in France ceases to be crime two hundred leagues away, that there is no act really considered criminal everywhere upon earth, none which, vicious or criminal here, is not praiseworthy and virtuous a few miles hence, that it is all a matter of opinion and of geography and that it is therefore absurd to tie oneself down to practicing virtues which are only vices somewhere else, and to flying from crimes which are excellent deeds in another climate - I ask you now if, after these reflections, I can still retain any feelings of guilt for having committed, either for the sake of pleasure or of self-interest, a crime in France which is nothing but a virtue in China? or if I ought to make myself very miserable⁵⁹ or be prodigiously⁶⁰ troubled about practicing actions in France which would have me burned in Siam? Now, if remorse exists only in reason of prohibition⁶¹, if it is never but born of the wreckage⁶² of the inhibitory check and in no wise of the committed act, is it so very wise to allow the impulse in itself to subsist⁶³? is it not stupid not to extirpate⁶⁴ it at once? Let one become accustomed to considering as inconsequential the act which has just excited remorse; let the scrupulously⁶⁵ meditated⁶⁶ study of the manners and customs of all the world's nations culminate⁶⁷ in one's judging the act indifferent; as a result of this research, let one repeat this act, whatever it is, as often as possible; or, better still, let one commit more powerful versions of the act one is concerting so as better to habituate oneself to it, do this, and familiarity together with reason will soon destroy remorse for it; they will rapidly annihilate this shadowy, furtive⁶⁸ impulse, issue of naught but ignorance and education. One will straightway feel that there being nothing really criminal in anything whatsoever⁶⁹, there is stupidity in repentance⁷⁰ and pusillanimity⁷¹ in not daring to do everything that may be useful or agreeable to us, whatever be the dikes one must breach⁷², the fences one must topple in order to do it. I am forty-five, Therese; I committed my first crime at fourteen. That one emancipated⁷³ me from all the bonds that hampered⁷⁴ me; since then I have not ceased to chase fortune throughout a career sown with crimes, there's not a single one I've not done or had done... and never have I known any remorse. However that may be, I am reaching my term, yet another two or three neat strokes and I pass from the mediocre⁷⁵ condition wherein I was to have spent my life, to an income of above fifty thousand a year. I repeat, my dear, never upon this happily traveled road has remorse made me feel its stings; a catastrophic miscarriage⁷⁶ might this instant plunge⁷⁷ me from the pinnacle⁷⁸ into the abyss, I'd not feel remorse, no: I would lament⁷⁹ my want of skill or accuse men, but I should always be at peace with my conscience."

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