''What I envy you is your liberty," observed M. de Bellegarde, „your wide range, your freedom to come and go, your not having a lot of people, who take themselves awfully seriously, expecting something of you. I live," he added with a sigh, „beneath the eyes of my admirable mother." [...]

As I pass through the wide streets, I am delighted with everything I see. The houses so lofty and clean, and white, the novel appearance of the trees planted along the pavements, the fine buildings, the massive bronze lamps, and the magnificent cafés, the tinkling of bells on the horses, so singular to my ear. […]

It would be impossible for me either to appear at or write to your Convention in the aim of furnishing a contribution to your deliberations, except in connection with my own life-work, and the deep convictions which instigated that life-work, and which have become even more and more profound as I continued in it.[...]