This is what the soul said:
"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 rise; it can not get above the horizon; it
is enveloped in clouds, and like the sun in winter its disk is the color
of blood, as in '93. There is no more love, no more glory. What heavy
darkness over all the earth! And we shall be dead when 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 to which he owes 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 tightening their idle hands and drinking in their bitter
cup the poisoned brewage of doubt. Already things were drifting toward
the abyss, when the jackals suddenly emerged from the earth.
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