"In truth, I do not understand you," said Father d'Aigrigny.
"I believe it. Your past conduct shows as much," replied Rodin, contemptuously. "You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions, which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which, now divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction, every attack! Do you, at length understand me? Not yet?" added Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. "Answer me—do people die of despair?"
"Yes."
"May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of insane generosity?"
"Yes."
"May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only refuge from frightful realities?"
"Yes."
"May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and voluptuous agony?"
"Yes."
"Are there not in life such terrible circumstances that the most worldly, the firmest, the most impious characters, throw themselves blindly, overwhelmed with despair, into the arms of religion, and abandon all earthly greatness for sackcloth, and prayers, and solitude?"