How among the masses would one ever be able to content the thirst for the mysterious?
Leaving the _elite_ on one side, would science suffice to pacify desire, lull suffering, and satisfy the dream?
And what would become of himself in the bankruptcy of that same charity, which for three years had alone kept him erect by occupying his every hour, and giving him the illusion of self-devotion, of being useful to others?
It seemed, all at once, as if the ground sank beneath him, and he heard nothing save the cry of the masses, silent so long, but now demanding justice, growling and threatening to take their share, which was withheld from them by force and ruse.

Nothing more, it seemed, could delay the inevitable catastrophe, the fratricidal class warfare that would sweep away the olden world, which was condemned to disappear beneath the mountain of its crimes.

Every hour with frightful sadness he expected the collapse, Paris steeped in blood, Paris in flames.

And his horror of all violence froze him; he knew not where to seek the new belief which might dissipate the peril.

Fully conscious, though he was, that the social and religious problems are but one, and are alone in question in the dreadful daily labour of Paris, he was too deeply troubled himself, too far removed from ordinary things by his position as a priest, and too sorely rent by doubt and powerlessness to tell as yet where might be truth, and health, and life.