“Monster!” muttered Cinq-Mars.

“Words again!” said Joseph; “there is neither monster nor virtuous man.  You and De Thou, who pride yourselves on what you call virtue—­you have failed in causing the death of perhaps a hundred thousand men—­at once and in the broad daylight—­for no end, while Richelieu and I have caused the death of far fewer, one by one, and by night, to found a great power.  Would you remain pure and virtuous, you must not interfere with other men; or, rather, it is more reasonable to see that which is, and to say with me, it is possible that there is no such thing as a soul.  We are the sons of chance; but relative to other men, we have passions which we must satisfy.”

“I breathe again!” exclaimed Cinq-Mars; “he believes not in God!”

Joseph continued: 

“Richelieu, you, and I were born ambitious; it followed, then, that everything must be sacrificed to this idea.”

“Wretched man, do not compare me to thyself!”

“It is the plain truth, nevertheless,” replied the Capuchin’; “only you now see that our system was better than yours.”

“Miserable wretch, it was for love—­”

“No, no! it was not that; here are mere words again.  You have perhaps imagined it was so; but it was for your own advancement.  I have heard you speak to the young girl.  You thought but of yourselves; you do not love each other.  She thought but of her rank, and you of your ambition.  One loves in order to hear one’s self called perfect, and to be adored; it is still the same egoism.”

“Cruel serpent!” cried Cinq-Mars; “is it not enough that thou hast caused our deaths?  Why dost thou come here to cast thy venom upon the life thou hast taken from us?  What demon has suggested to thee thy horrible analysis of hearts?”

“Hatred of everything which is superior to myself,” replied Joseph, with a low and hollow laugh, “and the desire to crush those I hate under my feet, have made me ambitious and ingenious in finding the weakness of your dreams.”

“Just Heaven, dost thou hear him?” exclaimed Cinq-Mars, rising and extending his arms upward.

The solitude of his prison; the pious conversations of his friend; and, above all, the presence of death, which, like the light of an unknown star, paints in other colors the objects we are accustomed to see; meditations on eternity; and (shall we say it?) the great efforts he had made to change his heartrending regrets into immortal hopes, and to direct to God all that power of love which had led him astray upon earth-all this combined had worked a strange revolution in him; and like those ears of corn which ripen suddenly on receiving one ray from the sun, his soul had acquired light, exalted by the mysterious influence of death.

“Just Heaven!” he repeated, “if this wretch and his master are human, can I also be a man?  Behold, O God, behold two distinct ambitions—­the one egoistical and bloody, the other devoted and unstained; theirs roused by hatred, and ours inspired by love.  Look down, O Lord, judge, and pardon!  Pardon, for we have greatly erred in walking but for a single day in the same paths which, on earth, possess but one name to whatever end it may tend!”