OMO-0245 — The White Flag and the Sovereign Nation (Part 1 of 3)
Politics, the State, and Public Life
The White Flag and the Sovereign Nation (Part 1 of 3)
France, from the Counter-Revolution to the National Right
Duration: 30:50 · Reading with an AI-generated voice. Audio in Spanish.
Spotify · Apple Podcasts · Amazon Music · Watch in Spanish on YouTube
France, from the Counter-Revolution to the National Right
I. A King Who Said No
In the autumn of 1873, France came close to having a king again.
This is not a fantasy of the nostalgic. Three years earlier, France had lost the war against Prussia, Emperor Napoleon III had been taken prisoner, and the country had elected an Assembly with a monarchist majority. Those monarchists were divided into two families, like two branches of the same tree that had not spoken to one another for half a century. The Legitimists followed the senior Bourbon branch, that of Louis XVI, and believed that the Crown is inherited by right, not negotiated. The Orleanists followed the junior branch, which in 1830 had agreed to reign under a liberal constitution, like a king signing a contract with his subjects.
In 1873, the two branches reconciled. The heir of the senior branch, Henri, Count of Chambord, a grandson of Charles X, had no children, and the Orleanists agreed that he should reign first. On May 24 of that year, the Assembly had elected Marshal Mac-Mahon President of the Republic: a monarchist soldier at the head of an institutional order many still regarded as temporary, a borrowed house while the owner’s return was being prepared. The throne was ready. One detail remained: the flag.
Chambord refused to reign under the tricolor and demanded the white flag, the flag of Henry IV and the kings of France. He said, in substance, that he could not abandon the standard of his fathers.[1] And the restoration collapsed.
Posterity has laughed a great deal at this prince who lost a kingdom over a piece of cloth. But whoever laughs has not understood what was at stake. The tricolor was not a decoration: it was the flag of 1789, of the Republic, of Napoleon, and of the revolutions of 1830 and 1848. Accepting it unconditionally meant accepting that the king was returning because the Nation called him, and that the Nation was therefore above the king. Chambord did not want to be a crowned employee of the Nation. He wanted to be what his ancestors had been: a king whose authority did not arise from a vote.
Whether he was prudent can be debated, and has been for a century and a half. What cannot be disputed is that he saw something true. Between receiving the crown from a prior order and receiving it from the national will, there is a difference no fabric can erase.
The consequence was swift. In 1875, the laws that gave shape to the Third Republic were passed. In 1877, Mac-Mahon dissolved the Chamber and lost the elections. In 1879, when the republicans also won the Senate, he resigned.[2] The Republic ceased to be a waiting room and became a home.
Our story begins here. Not because monarchy ended, but because an illusion ended: the belief that restoring the king was enough to close the wound of 1789. Everything that followed, from the nationalists to Marine Le Pen, arose from that impossibility.
To follow this path without losing our way, we need two things: to understand what happened in 1789 and to carry with us an instrument of judgment.
II. What Changed in 1789: The Deed to the House
Let us think of France as a very old house.
For centuries, many families inhabited it. There were provinces with their own customs, cities with their privileges, artisans’ guilds with their rules, parishes, universities, religious orders, lordships, and municipalities. The king stood above everything, but he had not built every room. Many existed before him and had titles of their own. The king governed the house, but he was neither its sole owner nor its sole architect.
That France was no paradise. There were abuses, injustices, and a court that, since Louis XIV, had been absorbing power and impoverishing the intermediate bodies. No age deserves to be turned into a postcard. But it retained something decisive: society was still distinguished from the power that governed it, because an enormous part of common life had not been manufactured by that power.
France was not born in 1789; it already existed. What changed was the deed of ownership to the house.
To understand this, we must explain the word around which this entire history turns: sovereignty. In the modern sense we shall use here, sovereignty does not simply mean supreme political power. It designates the power that claims to possess within itself the ultimate legal ground of command, without recognizing within the political order powers in their own right capable of limiting it.
The distinction matters, because every government needs a supreme authority, and tradition always knew one. Rome and medieval Christendom had a suprema auctoritas, but it was an authority limited from above and below: above, by the divine and natural order; below, by the rights and responsibilities belonging in their own right to families, municipalities, guilds, provinces, and kingdoms. The king was supreme, but he was not the only bearer of rights in his kingdom.
With Jean Bodin, in 1576, the concept changed in nature. Bodin defined sovereignty as absolute and perpetual power in relation to positive civil law: the sovereign, legibus solutus, was not subject to the ordinary laws he could enact and repeal. This did not release him from divine and natural law, and Bodin recognized other limits arising from property, obligations undertaken, and certain fundamental laws. The decisive innovation lay elsewhere: in concentrating ultimate legislative power within the commonwealth in the sovereign.[3] Hispanic tradition perceived the difference immediately. When the Aragonese Gaspar de Añastro translated Bodin into Spanish, he presented his version as ‘amended in a Catholic sense’ and replaced sovereignty with suprema auctoritas: sovereignty is an unlimited power above the social bodies, whereas suprema auctoritas assumes that every political body, including the monarch’s powers, is enclosed within limits.[4] The absolutism of subsequent centuries built upon that idea, and the Revolution did not invent it: it inherited it and changed its holder. What absolutism had forged for the king, 1789 transferred to the Nation. Article three of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen stated that the principle of all sovereignty resides essentially in the Nation. Article six defined law as ‘the expression of the general will.’ The Constitution of 1791 completed it: sovereignty is one, indivisible, inalienable, and imprescriptible, and belongs to the Nation.[5]
We must read carefully. The text does not say that a law is just merely because it issues from the general will. But by placing the origin of law in a will, rather than in an order that the will must discover and serve, it opens the door through which everything else will enter. From that point, constituent will becomes the principle of positive law, and the question of what is just begins to retreat before the question of who decided. This was not merely a matter of replacing the king with an assembly, but of changing the place where the foundation of command is sought.
What followed was consistent. On the night of August 4, privileges were abolished. In 1791, the Le Chapelier Law prohibited workers and artisans from joining together in corporations.[6] The provinces disappeared into departments drawn almost with a ruler. The house was emptied of families, leaving only two inhabitants: the isolated individual and the State representing the entire Nation.
It seems a contradiction, but it is not. The Revolution freed the individual from his old forms of belonging and, at the same time, enlarged central power as never before. Vallet de Goytisolo, one of the great Spanish jurists of the twentieth century, insisted on that paradox: the more alone the individual is left, the larger the State becomes, because there is no longer anything between them.[7] Removing a house’s internal walls does not make it freer; it turns it into an industrial shed where everything can be seen from the foreman’s office. And those bodies do not exist merely to restrain power: they possess ends and responsibilities of their own, prior to any State concession. That is why Vallet called the political community a society of societies: it must coordinate and complete the bodies that form it, not absorb them. The Belgian Thomist Marcel De Corte, a regular contributor to Verbo, described the outcome of their destruction with a famous formula: the passage ‘from society to the termite colony by way of dissociety.’ Dissociety is a mass of interchangeable individuals, without natural communities, organized from outside, that leads into totalitarianism.[8]
Following Vallet’s analysis, we should distinguish two realities we tend to confuse. One is the historical and organic nation: a people woven from communities, histories, and concrete rights, capable of containing smaller homelands within itself. The other is the Nation constructed by the modern State: a mass of equal citizens, with a single center, a single law, and a single sovereignty. The first is a fabric; the second, a surface.
Even the word State changed its meaning. Luis Hernando de Larramendi, a Spanish lawyer and thinker of the first half of the twentieth century, recalled that in older usage ‘estate’ meant someone’s situation or manner of being. There were the married and unmarried states, the ecclesiastical and secular estates, estates of nobles, citizens, artisans, and farmers, each with its order, rules, and jurisdiction; the Estates of the realm were those bodies gathered in the Cortes. The only thing not then called the State, he observes ironically, was what we now call by that name. That is why the phrase attributed to Louis XIV, ‘I am the State,’ could not have been uttered in his time with the meaning we give it today: the word did not yet mean that.[9]
III. Three Questions
Before continuing, we should establish a criterion of judgment. Every political movement we shall see can be assessed through three simple questions. They were formulated seven centuries ago by Saint Thomas Aquinas, who did not know modern sovereignty and, for that very reason, can judge it from outside.
What does power exist for? Saint Thomas answers in his treatise On Kingship: government is right when it leads a multitude of free men toward their common good. When the ruler uses power for a particular good—his own, his party’s, or his class’s—government is perverted and becomes tyranny.[10]
What makes a law just? Not the will of the person who enacts it, but reason. Law is an ordering of reason toward the common good (ordinatio rationis ad bonum commune), promulgated by the person who has charge of the community.[11] The legislator does not arbitrarily create what is just: he must recognize it and prudently determine it on the basis of the order of things and the common good.
What limits power? Its end. When the ruler commands against the common good, his command loses, to that extent, the character of a just law (ratio legis) and may cease to bind in conscience; but the injustice of a command does not in itself extinguish the ruler’s authority.[12] And above every human power is God, from whose order no authority is exempt.
Larramendi opened his chapter on legitimacy with an image of rare teaching power. Imagine the freest man possible: suspended in the air, without ties, with nothing holding him. What can he do? Only fall. There is a law, that of gravity, which does not depend on his will. Freedom, he concludes, does not consist in being subject to nothing, but in conforming to laws above whim and in being able to do, even with effort, what is good according to the nature of man and things.[13] Political life also has its laws, and whoever ignores them does not become free: he falls.
Another image completes the first. The traditional ruler resembles an orchestra conductor. He directs, determines the tempo, corrects the musicians, and truly commands. But he did not write the score. The music exists before him, and if he conducts against it, the orchestra does not sound better for obeying him. The modern sovereign tends to be something else: a conductor who ends up writing the score while conducting.
The Italian philosopher Danilo Castellano calls the first model kingship: a power that governs knowing that the end does not depend on its will. He calls sovereignty, in its modern sense, the power that ultimately determines itself from within itself. And he adds something that will be the key to this essay: changing the holder of sovereignty does not change its nature.[14] Whether the last word belongs to an absolute king, an assembly, the people, the Nation, or the State is secondary. As long as will is the principle of law rather than its servant, the logic is the same.
In France there were men who fought the Revolution with enormous courage and who, without realizing it, retained its score. They changed the conductor, but not the music.
IV. The First Opponents: The Counter-Revolution
Joseph de Maistre, a Savoyard and direct witness to the Revolution, left the most precise definition of what would follow. The counter-revolution, he wrote, would not be a contrary revolution, but the contrary of revolution.[15]
The difference is enormous. A contrary revolution is another rupture in the opposite direction: the same methods, the same violence, and the same will to remake everything from scratch, merely under another flag. The contrary of revolution is the restoration of the order the Revolution had denied.
De Maistre and the Vicomte de Bonald belonged to the generation directly wounded by 1789.[16] Within a few years, they saw the Crown, the Church, property, the guilds, the calendar, and even the vocabulary for naming authority fall. Their responses do not agree in everything, and they must not be confused with Saint Thomas: Bonald’s philosophical traditionalism, which made reason depend on a primitive revelation transmitted through language, is an error of its own, distinct from political tradition.[17] But at the center of their concerns was not the Nation, but legitimacy, God, the family, continuity, inherited communities, and the criticism of rationalism that claimed to manufacture societies at a desk.
After 1830, when the Orleans branch took the throne, those who remained faithful to the senior branch were called Legitimists. Many gave up offices and careers out of fidelity. They withdrew to their provinces and preserved a world there.
Legitimacy, in tradition, is not simply a family title. It is respect for an order that does not depend on human choice: divine law, natural law, and the real conditions of political life, without which there is no common good. That is why legitimacy forms part of tradition, and when it is lost, Christendom itself breaks apart.[18]
What it saw. That the legitimacy of power arises neither from the vote nor from success, but from an order prior to human will, and that society is not a sum of individuals.
What it lacked. For decades, legitimism trusted that order would return with the king, while the nineteenth century dismantled, piece by piece, the society that sustained that fidelity: industry emptied the countryside, schooling standardized, administration grew, and suffrage spread. When the opportunity came in 1873, Chambord saw the principle clearly, but the country he was to rule no longer shared it. It would be unfair, however, to stop the judgment here. Chambord’s followers devoted themselves to the social question, and men such as La Tour du Pin made a decisive contribution to the social Catholicism movement that prepared the doctrinal ground for Rerum novarum. Some, known as the ‘Blancs d’Espagne,’ subsequently recognized the Carlist princes as heirs, thus linking French fidelity with Spanish tradition.[19] Legitimism discovered, albeit late, that defending the summit was not enough: the hillside had to be rebuilt.
V. The King with a Contract and the Emperor with a Plebiscite
To understand what followed, we must examine two formulas the nineteenth century tried and that would reappear under other names.
The first is Orleanism: a king, yes, but a king who accepts national sovereignty and governs with a parliament of property owners. It is monarchy converted into a liberal institution, with a crown but with the score written by the Nation. Chambord knew this, and that is why the tricolor was unacceptable to him: it was the emblem of that formula. Orleanism understood well that a country needs order and continuity, but sought to obtain them without touching the principle of 1789.
The second is Bonapartism. Napoleon I and then his nephew Napoleon III invented something new: a strong authority that was not traditional and a popular government that was not parliamentary. The leader spoke directly to the people, and the people answered in plebiscites, yes-or-no votes on the leader himself or his decisions.
This allows us to dispel an error that still confuses almost everyone today: rejecting parliamentarianism is not the same as returning to tradition. One can hate parliament and end up in Caesarism. One can despise parties and manufacture a State stronger than the one one was fighting. Bonapartism is fully modern: its authority comes from below, from the people turned into an acclaiming mass. The assembly’s ballot box was replaced by the plebiscite’s ballot box, but sovereignty remained popular. One put a king atop the deed of 1789; the other, a strongman. Neither restored the score.
Larramendi said it in 1937 with a provocative formula: dictatorship is a democratic invention. When the party regime can no longer govern, it resorts to personal power, but not to someone with titles and tradition—rather, to anyone who appears. Parliaments themselves, he noted, grant full powers in crises. And the dictator lacks true political unity, because his arrival is always a leap: he interrupts a life and brings with him his class, his clique, and his beneficiaries.[20] The strongman is not parliament’s opposite, but its emergency recourse.
VI. Boulanger: Protest without Doctrine
Between 1886 and 1889, a handsome general, Georges Boulanger, became the name around which France’s discontented gathered. A former Minister of War, popular for his air of revenge against Germany, he attracted monarchists, Bonapartists, disappointed radical republicans, workers, and patriots. Each saw in him what he wanted to see.
What united those people was not an idea of France, but an enemy: the parliamentary Republic, its scandals, and its weakness. And a simple watchword: revise the Constitution. Boulanger won one by-election after another. In January 1889, he triumphed in Paris, and a crowd expected him to march on the Élysée. He did not. He fled to Belgium shortly afterward, and in 1891 killed himself on his mistress’s grave.
The episode resembles an operetta, but it left something lasting. For the first time, opposition to the regime no longer spoke of legitimacy, the king, or God. It spoke of energy, the people, the army, revenge, the nation. A language had been born. And so had a type of politics we shall see repeated to this day: the politics of discontent, which gathers different grievances around a name and disintegrates when that name fails. A protest is not a project, and a man is not a principle.
The French historian Olivier Dard places the birth of French political nationalism as a doctrine precisely after Boulanger’s failure, in the 1890s, with two fathers: Maurice Barrès and Charles Maurras.[21]
VII. The Ralliement: The Church before the Republic
While the monarchists scattered, Rome made a decision that would weigh upon this entire history. On November 12, 1890, in Algiers, Cardinal Lavigerie raised a toast before officers of the French Navy and called on Catholics to adhere without ulterior motives to ‘this form of government,’ without even naming the Republic. In February 1892, Leo XIII published the encyclical Au milieu des sollicitudes and, in May, wrote to the French cardinals in the same vein: Catholics were to accept the constituted power. That policy became known as ralliement, adherence.[22]
It should be read precisely, because it has been distorted in both directions. Leo XIII did not ask Catholics to become republicans or to adopt republican ideology. His doctrine on power, liberty, and the Christian constitution of States, set forth in Diuturnum, Immortale Dei, and Libertas, remained intact. The encyclical itself distinguished between the constituted power, which was to be obeyed, and iniquitous laws, which were to be opposed, and described the separation of Church and State as absurd. The reasons for the ralliement were not doctrinal but prudential: to cease dividing over the form of government and unite in defense of religion.[23]
But prudence is also judged by its fruits. Miguel Ayuso, who defends Leo XIII’s orthodoxy against those who deny it, judges the tactic mistaken and unsuccessful: immediately converted into a strategy, it served above all to detach the Church from traditionalist movements, which in France were Legitimist, and prepared the ground for Christian democracy.[24] Thirteen years later came the separation law of 1905, the very separation the encyclical had called absurd.
The lesson will reappear in this history. Accepting a framework in order to change it from within seems a tactic, but over time the framework educates those who accept it. We shall see this again, in the secular sphere, with the National Front.
VIII. Barrès: The Earth and the Dead
Maurice Barrès came to the nation through the self.
As a young man, he wrote a trilogy entitled The Cult of the Self: the individual as the center of the world, sensibility as the only law. It was the spirit of the fin de siècle. But Barrès was too intelligent not to see the emptiness: a self that receives nothing has nothing to give. He passed through Boulangism, became a deputy, and in 1897 published The Uprooted, the story of seven young men from Lorraine torn from their land by an abstract education and thrust into Paris, where they lose their way.[25]
His discovery fits into a sentence: no one begins in himself.
Before choosing anything, we have already received almost everything. A language we did not invent, a body we did not choose, parents, a house, a landscape, a way of praying or not praying, words coined by dead people we never knew. Even the adolescent who rebels against his family does so in the language his family taught him.
Barrès summed all this up in a famous formula: the earth and the dead. We are children of a soil and a succession of generations.
Thus far, he is right, and profoundly right. Catholic tradition had an ancient name for that truth: piety (pietas). Saint Thomas teaches that, after God, we are indebted above all to our parents and our homeland, because from them we receive existence and upbringing.[26] That debt is not a contract, because no one signed anything in order to be born. That is why the fourth commandment, honor your father and mother, extends to the homeland.
But here a crack appears. Saint Augustine defined virtue as ordo amoris, the order of love; hence the most dangerous political errors arise not from loving bad things, but from loving good things in a disordered way.[27] Human freedom is a good insofar as it is a rational faculty ordered toward truth and goodness; converted into autonomy of the will from that order, it becomes a liberal principle. Equality is true insofar as it derives from our common human nature and the justice owed to each person; converted into egalitarianism, it destroys legitimate differences, functions, and hierarchies. Love of humanity is good; disembodied, it becomes cosmopolitanism, which loves humankind in general and cannot stand the actual neighbor. And love of the homeland is good; put in God’s place, it becomes nationalism.
Let us think of a tree. Roots are indispensable, because without them the tree dies. But they exist so that the tree can grow toward the light. A tree devoted to worshipping its roots and sinking ever deeper into the earth would cease to bear fruit. Barrès saw the roots with admirable clarity, but he did not always see the light.
There is a revealing detail. Barrès was not a believer for most of his life, but he passionately defended France’s churches, wrote of the sorrow of seeing them abandoned, and valued Catholicism as part of the French heritage.[28] He loved the Church as one loves one’s grandparents’ house: because it is ours, not necessarily because it is true.
What he saw. That man is an heir, that uprootedness makes peoples ill, and that abstract education manufactures orphans.
What he lacked. A criterion for judging the inheritance. If the earth and the dead are the ultimate measure, everything inherited is justified because it is inherited. And religion becomes heritage rather than truth.
To be continued.●
Notes
[1] Letter of the Count of Chambord to Charles Chesnelong, Salzburg, October 27, 1873, published in L’Union on October 30, 1873. Chambord had already stated his position on the flag in the manifesto of July 5, 1871.
[2] Mac-Mahon’s election took place on May 24, 1873. The constitutional laws date from February 24 and 25 and July 16, 1875. The crisis opened on May 16, 1877, and Mac-Mahon resigned on January 30, 1879.
[3] Jean Bodin, Les six livres de la République, Paris, Jacques du Puys, 1576, book I, chapter VIII.
[4] Francisco Elías de Tejada, El Franco Condado hispánico, 2nd edition, Seville, Jurra, 1975, appendix 4, p. 228; cf. Juan Vallet de Goytisolo, ‘Organic Constitution of the Nation,’ Verbo (Madrid), nos. 233–234 (1985), pp. 305–382, here p. 337.
[5] Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen, August 26, 1789, articles 3 and 6; Constitution française of September 3, 1791, title III, article 1.
[6] Decree of the National Assembly of June 14, 1791, known as the Le Chapelier Law.
[7] J. Vallet de Goytisolo, ‘Organic Constitution of the Nation,’ cited above, especially pp. 305–309 and 333–334; see also his Sociedad de masas y derecho, Madrid, Taurus, 1969.
[8] Marcel De Corte, ‘From Society to the Termite Colony by Way of Dissociety,’ Verbo (Madrid), nos. 131–132 (1975), pp. 93–138; cf. J. Vallet de Goytisolo, ‘Organic Constitution of the Nation,’ cited above, p. 334. The French text was reissued as De la dissociété, Paris, Rémi Perrin, 2002.
[9] Luis Hernando de Larramendi, Cristiandad, Tradición, Realeza, Madrid, Fundación Ignacio Larramendi, 2011 (1st edition, Madrid, Cálamo, 1952), pp. 62–65. The book was written in 1937.
[10] Saint Thomas Aquinas, De regno ad regem Cypri, book I, chapter 1.
[11] Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 90, articles 3 and 4.
[12] Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 96, a. 4.
[13] L. Hernando de Larramendi, Cristiandad, Tradición, Realeza, cited above, pp. 49–50.
[14] Danilo Castellano, La naturaleza de la política, Barcelona, Scire (De regno series), 2006, chapter ‘The “Kingship” of Politics’; idem, Constitución y constitucionalismo, Madrid, Marcial Pons, 2013.
[15] Joseph de Maistre, Considérations sur la France, London [Basel], 1797, chapter X.
[16] See, in particular, Louis de Bonald, Théorie du pouvoir politique et religieux dans la société civile, Constance, 1796.
[17] On philosophical traditionalism and its correction by the magisterium, see the propositions subscribed by Augustin Bonnetty at the request of the Sacred Congregation of the Index (June 11, 1855) and the dogmatic constitution Dei Filius of the First Vatican Council (April 24, 1870), chapter 2.
[18] L. Hernando de Larramendi, Cristiandad, Tradición, Realeza, cited above, pp. 53–55.
[19] Ignacio Hernando de Larramendi y Montiano, ‘Luis Hernando de Larramendi in His Son’s Writings,’ in L. Hernando de Larramendi, Cristiandad, Tradición, Realeza, cited above, p. LVII, where he goes so far as to attribute drafts of the encyclical to the Legitimists. The immediate drafting of Rerum novarum is usually attributed to the theologians Matteo Liberatore, Tommaso Zigliara, and Camillo Mazzella. Ayuso emphasizes that the French social Catholics came largely from legitimism: Miguel Ayuso, ‘Ciudad Católica and the Political Action of the Laity,’ Verbo (Madrid), nos. 559–560 (2017), pp. 869–909, here p. 889.
[20] L. Hernando de Larramendi, Cristiandad, Tradición, Realeza, cited above, pp. 89–92.
[21] Olivier Dard, Charles Maurras. Le maître et l’action, Paris, Armand Colin (Nouvelles biographies historiques series), 2013.
[22] Leo XIII, encyclical Au milieu des sollicitudes, February 16, 1892, and the letter Notre consolation to the French cardinals, May 3, 1892. On the Algiers toast, cf. M. Ayuso, ‘Ciudad Católica and the Political Action of the Laity,’ cited above, pp. 881–882.
[23] Leo XIII, encyclicals Diuturnum illud (1881), Immortale Dei (1885), and Libertas (1888); cf. M. Ayuso, article cited, pp. 882–883.
[24] M. Ayuso, article cited, pp. 883, n. 35, 885, and 891. Ayuso disagrees with Roberto de Mattei’s thesis in Il ralliement di Leone XIII. Il fallimento di un progetto pastorale, Florence, Le Lettere, 2014, insofar as it denies Leo XIII’s doctrinal continuity. Cf. also Andrés Gambra, ‘Catholics and Democracy: The Historical Genesis of Christian Democracy,’ in various authors, Los católicos y la acción política, Madrid, Speiro, 1982, pp. 222 ff.
[25] Maurice Barrès, Le Culte du moi, Paris, 1888–1891 (Sous l’œil des barbares, Un homme libre, Le Jardin de Bérénice); idem, Les Déracinés, Paris, Fasquelle, 1897.
[26] Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 101, a. 1.
[27] Saint Augustine, De civitate Dei, XV, 22.
[28] Maurice Barrès, La Grande Pitié des églises de France, Paris, Émile-Paul, 1914.
Documentary Record
The displayed signature is standardized as Lic. Oscar Méndez O. The source’s variant is retained as provenance information.
View the Original Publication →You May Also Enjoy
Comments
Post a Comment