"This festival," he muttered, "on which peace and good-will...."
They passed through the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, turned into the
boulevards and made their purchases. They dined at the Grand Hotel.
She was in a sunny frame of mind and tried to cheer him up. But he
remained preoccupied. Suddenly he asked,
"How is it possible that one can have a bad conscience when one has
acted rightly?"
She did not know.
"Is it because the upper classes have so trained us, that our conscience
troubles us whenever we rebel against them? Probably it is so. Why
shouldn't he who has been hurt unjustly, have the right to attack
injustice? Because only he who has been hurt will attack, and the upper
classes hate being attacked. Why did I not strike at the upper classes
in the past, when I belonged to them? Because, of course, I didn't know
them then. One must look at a picture from a distance in order to find
the correct visual point!"
"One shouldn't talk about such things on Christmas Eve!"
"True, it is Christmas. This festival of...."
They returned home. They lit the candles on the Christmas tree; it
radiated peace and happiness; but its dark branches smelt of a funeral
and looked sinister, like the Baron's face.
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