A terrible thing, I say.

Is it a disease? Is it a remedy? Both. This noble
yearning is at the same time and for the same beings a
chastisement and a reward; a voluptuousness full of
expiation; a chastisement for faults committed, a recompense
for sorrows borne! None may escape it. It is a hunger of
angels felt by demons. Saint Theresa experiences it,
Messalina also. This need of the immaterial is the most deeply
rooted of all needs. One must have bread; but before
bread, one must have the ideal. One is a thief, one is a
street-walker--all the more reason. The more one drinks
of the darkness of night the more is one thirsty for the
light of dawn. Schinderhannes becomes a cornflower,
Poulailler a violet. Hence these sinisterly ideal weddings.

And then, what happens?

What I have just said.

Cloaca, but abyss. Here the human heart opens partly,
disclosing unimaginable depths. Astarte becomes platonic.
The miracle of the transformation of monsters by love is
being accomplished. Hell is being gilded. The vulture
is being metamorphosed into a bluebird. Horror ends in the
pastoral. You think you are at Vouglans's and
Parent-Duchâtelet's; you are at Longus's. Another step and you
will stumble into Berquin's. Strange indeed is it to
encounter Daphnis and Chloe in the Forest of Bondy!