Why, however, am I so persistently possessed with
this idea? His feet were close to the fire!
He haunts me; it is very stupid, but who and what
is he? I know that he does not exist except in
my cowardly imagination, in my fears, and in my agony.
There—enough of that!
Yes, it is all very well for me to reason with myself,
to stiffen my backbone, so to say; but I cannot remain
at home because I know he is there. I know I
shall not see him again; he will not show himself again;
that is all over. But he is there, all the same,
in my thoughts. He remains invisible, but that
does not prevent his being there. He is behind
the doors, in the closed cupboard, in the wardrobe,
under the bed, in every dark corner. If I open
the door or the cupboard, if I take the candle to
look under the bed and throw a light on the dark places
he is there no longer, but I feel that he is behind
me. I turn round, certain that I shall not see
him, that I shall never see him again; but for all
that, he is behind me.
It is very stupid, it is dreadful; but what am I to
do? I cannot help it.
But if there were two of us in the place I feel certain
that he would not be there any longer, for he is there
just because I am alone, simply and solely because
I am alone!
I had first seen it from Cancale, this fairy castle
in the sea. I got an indistinct impression of
it as of a gray shadow outlined against the misty
sky. I saw it again from Avranches at sunset.
The immense stretch of sand was red, the horizon was
red, the whole boundless bay was red. The rocky
castle rising out there in the distance like a weird,
seignorial residence, like a dream palace, strange
and beautiful-this alone remained black in the crimson
light of the dying day.
The following morning at dawn I went toward it across
the sands, my eyes fastened on this, gigantic jewel,
as big as a mountain, cut like a cameo, and as dainty
as lace. The nearer I approached the greater my
admiration grew, for nothing in the world could be
more wonderful or more perfect.
As surprised as if I had discovered the habitation
of a god, I wandered through those halls supported
by frail or massive columns, raising my eyes in wonder
to those spires which looked like rockets starting
for the sky, and to that marvellous assemblage of
towers, of gargoyles, of slender and charming ornaments,
a regular fireworks of stone, granite lace, a masterpiece
of colossal and delicate architecture.
As I was looking up in ecstasy a Lower Normandy peasant
came up to me and told me the story of the great quarrel
between Saint Michael and the devil.
A sceptical genius has said: “God made
man in his image and man has returned the compliment.”
This saying is an eternal truth, and it would be very
curious to write the history of the local divinity
of every continent as well as the history of the patron
saints in each one of our provinces. The negro
has his ferocious man-eating idols; the polygamous
Mahometan fills his paradise with women; the Greeks,
like a practical people, deified all the passions.
