Jean Raspail, "The Camp of the Saints" – The final paragraphs

 

"(…) When the hundreds of vessels appeared, their crews burst out laughing: a European fleet, with all its lights ablaze, had lined up in a vast semicircle at the entrance to the bay. It looked as if they were awaiting a review. The ships fired a salvo of blank cartridges, one after another. Then a voice thundered through megaphones, first in French, then in English: 'Turn back! Turn back! France cannot welcome you! Europe cannot welcome you!'

The Third World armada replied with a colossal, unanimous cry. It was not a war cry. It was the vast, primitive voice of hope, of welcome, a kind of joyful, triumphant roar, like a child discovering a new toy. And the ships kept advancing."

"The hundreds of vessels began to enter the harbour, one after another, in a long, silent procession. There were no trumpet fanfares, no waving flags. Just a slow, inexorable advance. From the shore, the onlookers — the few who remained — watched in astonishment, as if hypnotised. There were no shouts, no resistance. Only the gentle lapping of the waves against the hulls and the shuffling of countless feet as the first waves of humanity began to spill onto the beaches."

"They were everywhere, a human tide: men, women, children, the elderly, all pouring out of the ships, their faces marked by a mixture of exhaustion and a strange, silent triumph. They were not an invading army in the traditional sense, but a force of absolute numbers, overwhelming by their mere presence. The air filled with a murmur, a new language, a new odour. Europe, it seemed, was no longer Europe."

(…)

"Blood ran through the streets of the Grenelle district. The last handful of men, weapons in hand, were cornered in the Place du Commerce, in front of the church. The priest, wearing his stole, stood up and spoke aloud the words of absolution. The men knelt, their faces covered in dust and blood. They had fought to the end, for what had been theirs and now belonged to everyone."

"At that same moment, the Archbishop of Paris, with his great golden cross on his chest, walked at the head of a procession of clergymen down the avenues of the Trocadéro district to receive the new missionaries of the Faith. The choir chanted the Te Deum. And out at sea, farther offshore, the boats continued to unload their cargo of misery. The Parisian night was full of voices and moans."

"A man in the Place de la Concorde raised a red flag. Another, in a gesture of despair, made the sign of the cross. And the crowd kept advancing, caring nothing for the dead, caring nothing for the living. And the last men in the Place du Commerce shouted, and then fell silent."