Translation:Family (Quillard)

All around, the rebels go about announcing the imminent end of the old world, preaching through words or actions their scorn and hatred of contemporary society. But they are suspected of bias and are gladly considered scoundrels, madmen, or sinister jesters.

On the contrary, propaganda by the deed becomes far more meaningful when it is the work of respectable people—ministers and officials of every kind. Thus, the bullets of Fourmies struck dead the idea of the Fatherland; for it became clear that day that the war to come, the real war, would not be waged between two peoples speaking different languages, but within every country—between exploiters and the exploited, the fat and the lean. Likewise, scarcely a week passes without the principle of property being seriously undermined by those who claim to uphold it—concessions and privileges granted to financial piracy that elegantly robs the smallest purses; even direct thefts, just to get a little practice.

This time, it is the family that has been damaged. And the perpetrators of this attack are not, as one might imagine, anarchists or revolutionaries, but persons of indisputable respectability—serious capitalists, more than millionaires; and since the lesson comes from so high up, it borrows a peculiar authority from those who condescend to possess such an admirable fortune.

Here is the story, as told by l'éclair. A man in his sixties, Mr. X..., had left Bordeaux to come to Paris and live with a young woman. The day before yesterday, he killed himself with a revolver. On his table, a few letters were found—letters he had addressed to his family, especially to his son, pleading for help. His son, more than a millionaire, had not even replied.

For in the end, family, property, country, and the rest all boil down to simple matters of money. Imagine the old lover, well provided for with income: his children, touched by pious reverence, would have tolerated, smiling, his wish to remain young. But he was penniless, the poor wretch; he dishonored his white hair, and how shameful it was for his family to think he might be carousing with women. Naturally, the world would pity this distinguished family, struck by a truly dreadful misfortune; but surely, since the revolver shot, warm congratulations have poured in, along with: "This death is a deliverance for you! You were so burdened!"

If only one could explain the savage killing of a father by a son as an act of revenge, of childhood suffering finally avenged. But no: this old man leaves life with a soul still innocent, a good man, I believe, incapable of paternal cruelty, as he was of cunning or greed, for he died poor. He had never been very rich.

May his shade be peaceful, as well as those of the children of servants and poor folks who kill themselves out of a confused love for the fathers and mothers who beat them, body and soul, in the name of kindness.