“Terrible sign! thou followest me!  Shall I find thee elsewhere—­divinity and suffering?  What am I?  What have I done?”

For the first time a singular and unknown terror penetrated him.  He trembled, at once frozen and scorched by an invincible shudder.  He dared not lift his eyes, fearing to meet some terrible vision.  He dared not call, fearing to hear the sound of his own voice.  He remained profoundly plunged in meditations on eternity, so terrible for him, and he murmured the following kind of prayer: 

“Great God, if Thou hearest me, judge me then, but do not isolate me in judging me!  Look upon me, surrounded by the men of my generation; consider the immense work I had undertaken!  Was not an enormous lever wanted to bestir those masses; and if this lever in falling crushes some useless wretches, am I very culpable?  I seem wicked to men; but Thou, Supreme judge, dost thou regard me thus?

“No; Thou knowest it is boundless power which makes creature culpable against creature.  It is not Armand de Richelieu who destroys; it is the Prime-Minister.  It is not for his personal injuries; it is to carry out a system.  But a system—­what is this word?  Is it permitted me to play thus with men, to regard them as numbers for working out a thought, which perhaps is false?  I overturn the framework of the throne.  What if, without knowing it, I sap its foundations and hasten its fall!  Yes, my borrowed power has seduced me.  O labyrinth!  O weakness of human thought!  Simple faith, why did I quit thy path?  Why am I not a simple priest?  If I dared to break with man and give myself to God, the ladder of Jacob would again descend in my dreams.”

At this moment his ear was struck by a great noise outside—­laughter of soldiers, ferocious shouts and oaths, mingled with words which were a long time sustained by a weak yet clear voice; one would have said it was the voice of an angel interrupted by the laughter of demons.  He rose and opened a sort of linen window, worked in the side of his square tent.  A singular spectacle presented itself to his view; he remained some instants contemplating it, attentive to the conversation which was going on.

“Listen, listen, La Valeur!” said one soldier to another.  “See, she begins again to speak and to sing!”

“Put her in the middle of the circle, between us and the fire.”

“You do not know her!  You do not know her!” said another.  “But here is Grand-Ferre, who says that he knows her.”

“Yes, I tell you I know her; and, by Saint Peter of Loudun, I will swear that I have seen her in my village, when I had leave of absence; and it was upon an occasion at which one shuddered, but concerning which one dares not talk, especially to a Cardinalist like you.”

“Eh! and pray why dare not one speak of it, you great simpleton?” said an old soldier, twisting up his moustache.

“It is not spoken of because it burns the tongue.  Do you understand that?”