And I saw others walking at night along the deserted bridges.  These were the most sinister.  The water flowed under the arches with a low sound.  They did not see it . . . they guessed at it from its cool breath!  They longed for it and they feared it.  They dared not do it!  And yet, they must.  A distant clock sounded the hour and, suddenly, in the vast silence of the night, there was heard the splash of a body falling into the river, a scream or two, the sound of hands beating the water, and all was still.  Sometimes, even, there was only the sound of the falling body when they had tied their arms down or fastened a stone to their feet.  Oh, the poor things, the poor things, the poor things, how I felt their anguish, how I died in their death!  I went through all their wretchedness; I endured in one hour all their tortures.  I knew all the sorrows that had led them to this, for I know the deceitful infamy of life, and no one has felt it more than I have.

How I understood them, these who weak, harassed by misfortune, having lost those they loved, awakened from the dream of a tardy compensation, from the illusion of another existence where God will finally be just, after having been ferocious, and their minds disabused of the mirages of happiness, have given up the fight and desire to put an end to this ceaseless tragedy, or this shameful comedy.

Suicide!  Why, it is the strength of those whose strength is exhausted, the hope of those who no longer believe, the sublime courage of the conquered!  Yes, there is at least one door to this life we can always open and pass through to the other side.  Nature had an impulse of pity; she did not shut us up in prison.  Mercy for the despairing!

As for those who are simply disillusioned, let them march ahead with free soul and quiet heart.  They have nothing to fear since they may take their leave; for behind them there is always this door that the gods of our illusions cannot even lock.

I thought of this crowd of suicides:  more than eight thousand five hundred in one year.  And it seemed to me that they had combined to send to the world a prayer, to utter a cry of appeal, to demand something that should come into effect later when we understood things better.  It seemed to me that all these victims, their throats cut, poisoned, hung, asphyxiated, or drowned, all came together, a frightful horde, like citizens to the polls, to say to society: 

“Grant us, at least, a gentle death!  Help us to die, you who will not help us to live!  See, we are numerous, we have the right to speak in these days of freedom, of philosophic independence and of popular suffrage.  Give to those who renounce life the charity of a death that will not be repugnant nor terrible.”

I began to dream, allowing my fancy to roam at will in weird and mysterious fashion on this subject.

I seemed to be all at once in a beautiful city.  It was Paris; but at what period?  I walked about the streets, looking at the houses, the theaters, the public buildings, and presently found myself in a square where I remarked a large building; very handsome, dainty and attractive.  I was surprised on reading on the facade this inscription in letters of gold, “Suicide Bureau.”