Upon my head frightful homages are made. My flanks are ripped asunder, my blood their lubricity. When I am returned to my cell the jailer warns that he will deny that on this night I ever left the prison. The next day my judge, Monsieur de Cardoville, orders that my silence is ample acknowledgement of my guilt and tantamount to a confession. Virtue speaks but violence is silent.
Imagination dominates the world.
Virute speaks but is too feeble to resist criminal passion, too obedient to overcome the corruption of an age. That is what I have learned of the dangers of trafficking with me.