— Jesus — it was he — lowered his head.

For that and then? in the long, sleepless nights of his conscience (in the desert that thought makes around us, even as we wander in the midst of a crowd) had distressed, had tortured him so much and so often…

But he pulled himself together. He shook his head as if he wanted to free himself from an incubus and in his fine voice he retorted:

— Satan, why do you tempt me?

— Believe it. The sacrifice will have its return and it will reap the harverst that the blood has fertilized, even in the stoniest soils.

— When will that be?

— Oh, have no fear. The day will come.

— Will come, when?… A day will come! But my life is for today.

— Life is eternal and we will live again in those who come after us.

— Nothing but tales. We live and we die. When then, between the cradle and the grave, is there joy for only a few and sorrow for the rest?

Jesus remained pensive for a moment.

In another period, he would have spoken of the glory that awaits the elect at the side of the Father; of the kingdom of Heaven, closed to the pleasure-seekers and open to the humble and the poor in spirit.

But — divinity of flesh and bone, snatched from the Olympus of dreams, a man constrained to live the life of a man — he had long been agitated by private, gnawing rebellions against this Father who knew all things, who willed all things, and who, being capable of anything, yet permitted being and things to mutually torture one another, solely as a distraction from his eternel ennui.

Had not the destiny of man been fixed from the first hours? Why the lie of salvation, if Good and Evil were to face each other uselessly, as was foretold, in space and in time?

He, however, Jesus, he had never renounced his personal dream of peace and love.

He raised his head; his eyes blazed and a strange fascination now emanated from his whole person.

Standing, arms open and head held high, he spoke:

— Brother, reach deep within yourself, descend into the depths of your soul.

In a corner, the deepest part, there is a treasure that is worth all others.

Why do you strive to be what you are not?

Hatred moves you and makes you a desperado; but love is in you. It is in all men, without doubt.

The appetites deny it; the passions stifle it; but its little flame burns without fretting about that.

Stir it with the breath of your will and it will develop into a purifyng flame.

I do not say: adapt to evil and suffer it. But you want to oppose violence with violence. That is tit for tat, not a liberation.

The house of peace cannot be built with blood-soaked bricks.

— The evil will crush you if you do not rein it in.

— We must cut down evil by refusing to execute or serve it. Which, believe me, demands a greater heroism than any other act, for it presents no glory in compensation but the private satisfaction of not letting ourselves be carried away by the whirlwinds of violence and crime.

— Fine words.

— It is enough to speak to men as brothers whose minds have been soiled by error.

It is enough to appeal to their humanity.

The tranquility of all presupposes a state of peace; there will be no peace as long as there is no justice.

My friend, be just to yourself and to your neighbor.

Do not judge. Persuade. Abandon the oppressors to themselves if you do not want to be oppressed.

— Fine words.

— That must be followed by facts, that is to say the “good works” — works consistent with the thought that animates them.

— And have you been preaching that gospel a long time?

— Nearly two thousand years and others had preached it before my appearance…

— And how many have listened to you?

— Very few… Too few, alas!

— So you see that your preaching is sterile.

— That is not because of the terrain; it is because workers of good will are lacking. Do you want to be one of them?

— No. You ask me to renounce the little that I can still win—and for an uncertain compensation.

A compensation that does not remove a single wrinkle, that does not spare you a single blow.

You are dead for nothing and you pursue your calling uselessly. If I solve nothing, at least I avenge myself.

You only create resigned beings who await a miracle.

— And that is your error. The miracle does not come to pass simultaneously. It is necessary to construct it, day by day.

— And who will construct it? Those tormented by misery, those who, disarmed in the face of all vexations, must submit or revolt, even if rebellion is suicide.

— Let them unite their miseries; let their passive resistance impose it! But it is necessary to address others as well. Wherever there are men of good will.

— Let them demonstrate, and not by adding words to words… But the hours pass. You have time on your side. I do not know what awaits me tonight or tomorrow. I am leaving. Here is the money…

— I do not want it.

— You will give it to the first hungry person you encounter.

— Money corrupts. The redemption must be accomplished by the word that illuminates.

— I am on my way… However, I would like to help you. Why don’t you come with me? If no one stops me, I have enough resources to spend a month discussing.

You will be able to feed yourself, and then we will go together to fight injustice.

— Why not abandon your automobile? — Why not cast your banknotes to the wind? When you do not feel their wait, will you feel different? Then, pure in spirit, we will go wherever there is suffering, bearing words of hope.

— They will send us to hell…

— We will climb the stairs of the house of the rich to rebuke them for their faults…

— The porter will call the cops…

— I see that you are obstinate!

— I am determined.

— Farewell, brother; I am on my way; others will listen to me.

— I will follow mine as well and, before I fall, you will hear people speak of me.

The two men shook hands.

Bonnot, despite himself, felt sad.

The eyes of Jesus were wet.

…The auto sputtered, then, thrust forward by its powerful moter, started up.

On the dusty road leading to far-off cities, Jesus again took up his painful march, surely toward a new Calvary.

On the same road, but in an opposite direction, straight toward the biggest of cities, where each night the Epulons of Mammon celebrate their feasts, while, through dark alleys, wanders Lazarus, like a rabid dog, whipped by foul weather, beaten by hunger — on the same route, with a mad speed, raced the gray automobile, toward the struggle without mercy of the illegal bandit against legal bandits.

Then, both disappeared.

The one ended, as he had foreseen, tracked to his own refuge, firing his last cartridge.

The other preaching love and passive resistance to evil — which experienced a recrudescence thanks to the warlike frenzy — was trampled and slaughtered by nationalist fanaticism.

And, over the world, injustice continues to orbit as before…

Worse than before…..

—o—