When that time comes anything that resembles virtue – nay, anything but ardent devotion to Plutus – will be regarded as vastly ridiculous. Justice – if, in this unfortunate epoch, any justice can still exist – will forbid the existence of citizens who are unable to make their fortunes.
Your wife, O Bourgeois, your chaste other half, whose legitimacy is your poetry, giving to legality an irreproachable infamy, vigilant and loving guardian of your strongbox – your wife will be nothing more than the ideal type of kept woman. Your daughter, in her childish nubility, will dream in her cradle that she is selling herself for a million. And you yourself, O Bourgeois – even less a poet than you are today – will make no objection; you will have no complaint.