“Alas!  Alas! religion has departed; the clouds of heaven fall in rain; we have no longer either hope or expectation, not even two little pieces of black wood in the shape of a cross before which to clasp our hands.  The star of the future is loath to appear; it can not rise above the horizon; it is enveloped in clouds, and like the sun in winter its disc is the color of blood, as in ’93.  There is no more love, no more glory.  What heavy darkness over all the earth!  And death will come ere the day breaks.”

This is what the body said: 

“Man is here below to satisfy his senses; he has more or less of white or yellow metal, by which he merits more or less esteem.  To eat, to drink, and to sleep, that is life.  As for the bonds which exist between men, friendship consists in loaning money; but one rarely has a friend whom he loves enough for that.  Kinship determines inheritance; love is an exercise of the body; the only intellectual joy is vanity.”

Like the Asiatic plague exhaled from the vapors of the Ganges, frightful despair stalked over the earth.  Already Chateaubriand, prince of poesy, wrapping the horrible idol in his pilgrim’s mantle, had placed it on a marble altar in the midst of perfumes and holy incense.  Already the children were clenching idle hands and drinking in a bitter cup the poisoned brewage of doubt.  Already things were drifting toward the abyss, when the jackals suddenly emerged from the earth.  A deathly and infected literature, which had no form but that of ugliness, began to sprinkle with fetid blood all the monsters of nature.

Who will dare to recount what was passing in the colleges?  Men doubted everything:  the young men denied everything.  The poets sang of despair; the youth came from the schools with serene brow, their faces glowing with health, and blasphemy in their mouths.  Moreover, the French character, being by nature gay and open, readily assimilated English and German ideas; but hearts too light to struggle and to suffer withered like crushed flowers.  Thus the seed of death descended slowly and without shock from the head to the bowels.  Instead of having the enthusiasm of evil we had only the negation of the good; instead of despair, insensibility.  Children of fifteen, seated listlessly under flowering shrubs, conversed for pastime on subjects which would have made shudder with terror the still thickets of Versailles.  The Communion of Christ, the Host, those wafers that stand as the eternal symbol of divine love, were used to seal letters; the children spit upon the Bread of God.

Happy they who escaped those times!  Happy they who passed over the abyss while looking up to Heaven.  There are such, doubtless, and they will pity us.

It is unfortunately true that there is in blasphemy a certain outlet which solaces the burdened heart.  When an atheist, drawing his watch, gave God a quarter of an hour in which to strike him dead, it is certain that it was a quarter of an hour of wrath and of atrocious joy.  It was the paroxysm of despair, a nameless appeal to all celestial powers; it was a poor, wretched creature squirming under the foot that was crushing him; it was a loud cry of pain.  Who knows?  In the eyes of Him who sees all things, it was perhaps a prayer.