"I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between
detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that
you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now,
because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and
that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This
I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see
your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below
yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love
you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either
about you or myself."

"And what must I do?"

"You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and
your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and,
believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your
inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this
roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only
there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your
ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot
endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute
to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your
qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love
evil, I never loved it; and, if you cultivate it in yourself instead of
uprooting it, I can never love you. Do you understand me?"

"No."

"What, no!"

"No, I say. I am not aware that there is any evil in me. If you are not
displeased at the lack of grace in my legs, or the lack of whiteness in
my hands, or the lack of elegance in my words, I fail to see what you
find to hate in me. From my childhood I have had to listen to evil
precepts, but I have not accepted them. I have never considered it
permissible to do a bad deed; or, at least, I have never found it
pleasurable. If I have done wrong, it is because I have been forced to
do it. I have always detested my uncles and their ways. I do not like to
see others suffer; I do not rob a fellow-creature; I despise money, of
which they made a god at Roche-Mauprat; I know how to keep sober, and,
though I am fond of wine, I would drink water all my life if, like my
uncles, I had to shed blood to get a good supper. Yet I fought for them;
yet I drank with them. How could I do otherwise? But now, when I am my
own master, what harm am I doing? D