He was dead--the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate whose irreproachable life
was a proverb in all the courts of France. Advocates, young counsellors, judges had
greeted him at sight of his large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes,
bowing low in token of respect.
He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak. Swindlers and
murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to read the most secret
thoughts of their minds.
He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and followed by the
regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red trousers had escorted him to the tomb and men
in white cravats had spoken words and shed tears that seemed to be sincere beside his
grave.
But here is the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk where he had kept
the records of great criminals! It was entitled:
20th June, 1851. I have just left court. I have condemned Blondel to death! Now, why did
this man kill his five children? Frequently one meets with people to whom the destruction
of life is a pleasure. Yes, yes, it should be a pleasure, the greatest of all, perhaps, for is
not killing the next thing to creating? To make and to destroy! These two words contain
the history of the universe, all the history of worlds, all that is, all! Why is it not
intoxicating to kill?
25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who runs. A being? What
is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it the principle of motion and a will ruling
that motion. It is attached to nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is
a grain of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know not whence,
one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing--nothing more. It perishes, it is finished.
26th June. Why then is it a crime to kill? Yes, why? On the contrary, it is the law of
nature. The mission of every being is to kill; he kills to live, and he kills to kill. The beast
kills without ceasing, all day, every instant of his existence. Man kills without ceasing, to
nourish himself; but since he needs, besides, to kill for pleasure, he has invented hunting!
The child kills the insects he finds, the little birds, all the little animals that come in his
way. But this does not suffice for the irresistible need to massacre that is in us. It is not
enough to kill beasts; we must kill man too. Long ago this need was satisfied by human
sacrifices. Now the requirements of social life have made murder a crime. We condemn
and punish the assassin! But as we cannot live without yielding to this natural and
imperious instinct of death, we relieve ourselves, from time to time, by wars. Then a
whole nation slaughters another nation. It is a feast of blood, a feast that maddens armies
