My thoughts turn to all these passers-by and to all those who will pass by, whom I shall not see, and to other wounded steeples.

The most beautiful of all voices echoes within me, and I would fain make use of it for this entreaty, "Build not the churches again! You who will come after us, you who, in the sharp distinctness of the ended deluge will perhaps be able to see the order of things more clearly, don't build the churches again! They did not contain what we used to believe, and for centuries they have only been the prisons of the saviours, and monumental lies.

If you are still of the faith have your temples within yourselves.

But if you again bring stones to build up a narrow and evil tradition, that is the end of all.
In the name of justice, in the name of light, in the name of pity, do not build the churches again!" But I did not say anything.

I bow my head and walk more heavily.
I see Madame Marcassin coming out of the church with blinking eyes, weary-looking, a widow indeed.