Faith?  It had fled away long ago, since the day when he had laid aside his dress of catechumen, and, initiated in the secrets of the sanctuary, he had laid hand on the priestly jugglings.

Then he had been filled with an infinite sorrow.  But he had prudently repressed it deep within, and in this centre of devout hypocrisy and holy intrigue, he had covered himself again, like all the rest, with a varnish of sanctity.

Faith!  What priest is he who, amidst the religious pageants, the public falsehoods and the private apostacies, the burlesque scenes behind the stage preceding the solemn performance, what priest is he who has preserved his faith?

What priest is he, upright and wishing to remain upright—­there are such lost in obscure positions—­who has not said quietly to himself, in his inmost being, all alone with his conscience, what the Cure of Althausen often repeated to himself: 

“Faith, bitter mockery! to believe by order, without examination and without reply!

“Annihilation of the individual, murder of the thought, criminal denial of the intelligence, the most sublime of man’s gifts!

“Oh miseries of the soul! filth of the body! vileness of the spirit! unfathomable depths of human folly!  What am I and what are we, and whom do we wish to deceive?

“What are we, we who say to others, ’Be just, humble, chaste, pitiful?  Have faith.’  Oh! priests, my brethren, and you, my masters, you have tried to close my soul as we close a book, to extinguish my thought like a too lively flame and to bend my rebellious reason; but my soul unfolds in spite of you; the book swollen with doubts, bursts under the clasp, my thought rekindles at the first spark, and my reason rises to its full height to protest from the deeps of darkness where you would bury it.

“For I have followed you step by step in the tortuous ways of your dark lives.  I have listened to your words and I have seen your deeds, and the deeds gave the lie to your words.

“Then I said to myself:  Perhaps we are living in an evil period.  The curse is upon this age.  And I have sought to relieve my thoughts in less gloomy pictures.  I have ransacked history to find there the golden age of Catholicism.  But the pages of Catholic history are stained with mire and blood.  The dealers of the temple, more powerful than Christ, have in their turn driven him out of the sanctuary.  Humanity, imprisoned in the round of hypocritical conventions and nefarious laws, revolves unceasingly on itself, the eternal Ixion fastened to the eternal wheel.

“Whither are we going?  Whither are we going in the ocean of social tempests, of political knaveries, of religious falsehoods?  Centuries pass, empires fall, nations disappear, religions, at first blazing torches, then smoky harmful lamps, die out one by one, generations succeed generations with hands stretched out towards the future whence the new light must spring, and the future, gloomy gulf, will swallow up all, men and things, worlds and gods.