For the Count Pierre, Trecoeur was simply a mischievous being; in Monsieur de Lucan's eyes, he was a criminal.
"Why criminal ?" Pierre said.

"Is it his fault if he was born with the eternal flames on the marrow of his bones?
I admit that I feel quite disposed to break his head when I see Clotilde's eyes red; but I would not feel any more angry about it, than if I were crushing a serpent under my heel.

Since it is his nature, the poor man can't help it." "That little system of yours would simply suppress all merit, all will, all liberty; in a word, the whole moral world.

If we are not the masters of our own passions, at least to a great extent, and if, on the contrary, it is our passions that fatally control us; if a man is necessarily good or bad, honest or a knave, loyal or a traitor, at the mercy of his instincts, tell me, if you please, why you honor me with your esteem and your friendship?
I have no right to them any more than any one else, any more than Trecoeur himself." "I beg your pardon, my friend," said Pierre gravely; "in the vegetable world I prefer a rose to a thistle; in the moral world, I prefer you to Trecoeur.

You were born a gallant fellow; I rejoice at it, and I make the best of it." "Well, _mon cher_, you are laboring under a complete mistake," rejoined Lucan.