Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of the last
century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk of impiety.
Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth against prayer,
while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness. I was as
though drunken or insensate when I saw that effigy of Christ on
Brigitte's bosom; while not believing in him myself I recoiled, knowing
that she believed in him. It was not vain terror that arrested my hand.
Who saw me? I was alone and it was night. Was it prejudice? What
prevented me from hurling out of my sight that little piece of black
wood? I could have thrown it into the fire, but it was my weapon I threw
there. Ah! what an experience that was, and still is, for my soul! What
miserable wretches are men who mock at that which can save a human being!
What matters the name, the form, the belief? Is not all that is good
sacred? How dare any one touch God?
As at a glance from the sun the snows descend the mountains and the
glaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, so there
descended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks. Repentance is
a pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. Although I had almost
committed a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt that my heart was
innocent. In an instant calm, self-possession, reason returned; I again
approached the bed; I leaned over my idol and kissed the crucifix.
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