s trench of truth, where the immense social sliding ends.
They are there engulfed, but they display themselves there.
This mixture is a confession. There, no more false appearances, no plastering over is possible, filth removes its shirt, absolute denudation puts to the rout all illusions and mirages, there is nothing more except what really exists, presenting the sinister form of that which is coming to an end. There, the bottom of a bottle indicates drunkenness, a basket-handle tells a tale of domesticity; there the core of an apple which has entertained literary opinions becomes an apple-core once more; the effigy on the big sou becomes frankly covered with verdigris, Caiphas'' spittle meets Falstaff''s puking, the louis-d''or which comes from the gaming-house jostles the nail whence hangs the rope''s end of the suicide.
a livid foetus rolls along, enveloped in the spangles which danced at the Opera last Shrove-Tuesday, a cap which has pronounced judgment on men wallows beside a mass of rottenness which was formerly Margoton''s petticoat; it is more than fraternization, it is equivalent to addressing each other as thou.
All which was formerly rouged, is washed free.
The last veil is torn away. A sewer is a cynic.
It tells everything.
The sincerity of foulness pleases us, and rests the soul.
When one has passed one''s time in enduring upon earth the spectacle of the great airs which reasons of state, the oath, political sagacity, human justice, professional probity, the austerities of situation, incorruptible robes all assume, it solaces one to enter a sewer and to behold the mire which befits it.