It is said that when you meet a mad dog, if you keep quietly on your way without turning, the dog will merely follow you a short distance growling and showing his teeth; but if you allow yourself to be frightened into a movement of terror, if you but make a sudden step, he will leap at your throat and devour you; that when the first bite has been taken there is no escaping him.

In European history it has often happened that a sovereign has made such a movement of terror and his people have devoured him; but if one had done it, all had not done it at the same time—­that is to say, one king had disappeared, but not all royal majesty.  Before the sword of Napoleon majesty made this movement, this gesture which ruins everything, not only majesty but religion, nobility, all power both human and divine.

Napoleon dead, human and divine power were reestablished, but belief in them no longer existed.  A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible, for the mind always goes farther.  It is one thing to say:  “That may be” and another thing to say:  “That has been;” it is the first bite of the dog.

The fall of Napoleon was the last flicker of the lamp of despotism; it destroyed and it parodied kings as Voltaire the Holy Scripture.  And after him was heard a great noise:  it was the stone of St. Helena which had just fallen on the ancient world.  Immediately there appeared in the heavens the cold star of reason, and its rays, like those of the goddess of the night, shedding light without heat, enveloped the world in a livid shroud.

There had been those who hated the nobles, who cried out against priests, who conspired against kings; abuses and prejudices had been attacked; but all that was not so great a novelty as to see a smiling people.  If a noble or a priest or a sovereign passed, the peasants who had made war possible began to shake their heads and say:  “Ah! when we saw this man in such a time and place he wore a different face.”  And when the throne and altar were mentioned, they replied:  “They are made of four planks of wood; we have nailed them together and torn them apart.”  And when some one said:  “People, you have recovered from the errors which led you astray; you have recalled your kings and your priests,” they replied:  “We have nothing to do with those prattlers.”  And when some one said “People, forget the past, work and obey,” they arose from their seats and a dull jangling could be heard.  It was the rusty and notched sabre in the corner of the cottage chimney.  Then they hastened to add:  “Then keep quiet, at least; if no one harms you, do not seek to harm.”  Alas! they were content with that.

But youth was not content.  It is certain that there are in man two occult powers engaged in a death-struggle:  the one, clear-sighted and cold, is concerned with reality, calculation, weight, and judges the past; the other is athirst for the future and eager for the unknown.  When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning, him of his danger; but when man listens to the voice of reason, when he stops at her request and says:  “What a fool I am; where am I going?” passion calls to him:  “Ah, must I die?”