[Here's another of the articles written shortly after Ravachol's execution, in which Louise Michel added her bit to the Ravachol myth. There was a good deal of reference between the various contributions to L'Endehors. Michel began her article with a line from an article by Zo d'Axa and references Gustave Mathieu's "The Little Ravachol will Grow." This working translation is a little rough, but I'll be finishing these as a group.]
Today or Tomorrow.
Everything is good which strikes or stings.
So much the better if these bandits have completed their work. The scaffold has started the party, and fire will beat its wings over the apotheosis.
The blood of Ravachol splashes, from the false collar to the cuffs, the cold man of the Élysée.
The Élysée! This is the point that attracts the looks! From it will rise in the air the final bouquet, and the cross of Our Lady of the Slaughter will be the streetlamp.
The sun has risen red in the prologue, and red it will set.
Yes, so much the better, it is necessary that this be finished, that we plow like a field the accursed institutions in order to dry up the blood.
Let the slaves, more debased than ever, shout some Marseillaises, an instant is enough to change these docile dogs into wolves; the winds blow liberty.
Pompeii danced when Vesuvius opened.
The trails of blood left by Deibler from one city to another indicate the road of the executioners all the way to Montbrison where they slaughtered the dynamiter, the rebel, the anarchist who sang at the guillotine.
That is what is truly beautiful, the vision of those who die for justice; on the hideous trunk of the gallows, on the block, the neck clasped by the garrote or engaged in the infamous half-moon of the scaffold, they are worthy of the punishment that is offered by singing in the ordeal.
In the luminous bay that cuts into the night of death, isn’t it beyond the free unknown, the taking possession of the world by humanity, the new dawn illuminating new times;
Like a magnet, limitless progress attracting men from ideal to ideal, like from milestone to milestone, towards the future;
On the earth washed as after the rainstorms, an intense life germinating on the buried past;
Some still uncertain dawns covering in the infinite distance some eras of harmony, science and love which, glimpsed, are worth eternity; isn’t that enough to laugh at the torments?
It is fortunate that under the current circumstances pity is cowardly, or we would always have them.
It is better this way. They have wished for it. The merciless verdicts demand as response: Everything is good that strikes or stings!
The crumbs thrown to the crowd in the provoking celebrations are covered with the Ravachol’s blood; in this way, on the nights of the hunt, one throws to the dogs bread soaked in the blood of the quarry.
He, dreaming of the happiness of all, has passionately thrown his life in the faces of the executioners.
So much the better if the anger mounts, the intensity of the battle will be short, there will be no more small means, no more foolish qualms!
The Deiblers of the Élysée, by the way, will prevent nothing. Let it be in a little while or tomorrow, what does it matter!
When so many implacable wills have the same aim, so many convinced men the same untiring patience, the same scorn for death, the moment is imminent.
Each doing their work in their turn will be worth a thousand, and the little Ravachols will not have time to grow much before the deliverance.
The streets, by then, will no longer be changed into slaughterhouses, it is the slaughterhouses which will be blown up.
It is not with wishes that the man of the stone age took the cavern where the big cats peacefully devoured their prey.
Let each, like Ravachol, act according to his conscience, deploring the unwitting victims without letting themselves be diminished by hesitation; it is a lofty thought: the deliverance of the world.
Salute to the next flash of lightning thundering over the palaces, to the immense blaze that will end the orgy!
Nothing gives more to the struggle than the torture of a proud, brave man—it is no longer the time to cry for the dead, they must be avenged—this time it will be vengeance for all and always.
Here is the battle without mercy where the lost children of liberty offer themselves joyfully.
L’Endehors, No. 63, 17 juillet 1892.
[Working translation by Shawn P. Wilbur]
 The line appears in Zo d’Axa’s article, “14 juillet sanglant,” L’Endehors N°62, 10 juillet 1892
 Anatole Deibler, French executioner from 1885 to 1939, responsible for the executions of Ravachol, Auguste Vaillant, Emile Henry, Sante Caserio, three members of the Bonnot Gang, and a total of 395 men.