their captive long enough.

Now he had broken through his prison walls. His escape was accomplished.
That which would be regarded as his death, would be, in fact, the
beginning of his life. He was about to begin the world again. The true
Clubin had stripped off the false. In one hour the spell was broken. He
had kicked Rantaine into space; overwhelmed Lethierry in ruin; human
justice in night, and opinion in error. He had cast off all humanity;
blotted out the whole world.

The name of God, that word of three letters, occupied his mind but
little.

He had passed for a religious man. What was he now?

There are secret recesses in hypocrisy; or rather the hypocrite is
himself a secret recess.

When Clubin found himself quite alone, that cavern in which his soul had
so long lain hidden, was opened. He enjoyed a moment of delicious
liberty. He revelled for that moment in the open air. He gave vent to
himself in one long breath.

The depth of evil within him revealed itself in his visage. He expanded,
as it were, with diabolical joy. The features of Rantaine by the side
of his at that moment would have shown like the innocent expression of a
new-born child.

What a deliverance was this plucking off of the old mask. His conscience
rejoiced in the sight of its own monstrous nakedness, as it stepped
forth to take its hideous bath of wickedness. The long restraint of
men's respect seemed to have given him a peculiar relish for infamy. He
experienced a certain lascivious enjoyment of wickedness. In those
frightful moral abysses so rarely sounded, such natures find atrocious
delights--they are the obscenities of rascality. The long-endured
insipidity of the false reputation for virtue gave him a sort of
appetite for shame. In this state of mind men disdain their fellows so
much that they even long for the contempt which marks the ending of
their unmerited homage. They feel a satisfaction in the freedom of
degradation, and cast an eye of envy at baseness, sitting at its ease,
clothed in ignominy and shame. Eyes that are forced to droop modestly
are familiar with these stealthy glances at sin. From Messalina to
Marie-Alacoque the distance is not great. Remember the histories of La
Cadiere and the nun of Louviers. Clubin, too, had worn the veil.
Effrontery had always been the object of his secret admiration. He
envied the painted courtesan, and the face of bronze of the professional
ruffian. He felt a pride in surpassing her