did. We spent days in mutual consultation, in communicating to each

other what we had done and what we proposed to do. We undertook works in common; guided by our instincts, we translated the finest and saddest passages in Job and Lucretius upon life: the _Tædet animam meam vitæ meæ_[163], the _Homo natus de muliere_[164], the _Tum porro puer, ut sævis projectus ab undis navita_[165], and so forth. Lucile's thoughts were sheer feeling; they issued with difficulty from her soul; but when she succeeded in expressing them, there was nothing higher. She has left some thirty pages in manuscript; it is impossible to read them without profound emotion. The elegance, the suavity, the dreaminess, the passionate tenderness of these pages present a combination of the Greek and German genius[166].

*

[Sidenote: Lucile's manuscript.]

My brother sometimes vouchsafed to spend a few moments with the hermits of Combourg. He was in the habit of bringing with him a young counsellor of the Parliament of Brittany, M. de Malfilatre[167], cousin to the unfortunate poet of the same name[168]. I believe that, unknown to herself, Lucile felt a secret passion for this friend of my brother's, and that this stifled passion lay at the root of my sister's melancholy. She possessed, moreover, Rousseau's folly without his pride: she thought that everybody was in a conspiracy against her. She came to Paris in 1789, accompanied by her sister Julie, whose loss she deplored with an affection tinged with the sublime. All who knew her admired her, from M. de Malesherbes to Chamfort[169]. Thrown into the revolutionary crypts at Rennes[170], she was on the point of being imprisoned at Combourg Castle, which had been turned into a gaol during the Terror. After her release from prison, she married M. de Caud[171], who left her a widow within a year. I met the friend of my childhood on my return from my emigration: I will tell how she disappeared, when it pleased God to afflict me.

*

I have returned from Montboissier, and these are the last lines that I shall trace in my hermitage; I have to leave it, filled with the tall striplings which already hide and crown their father in their close ranks. I shall not see again the magnolia which promised its blossom to the tomb of my fair Floridan, the Jerusalem pine-tree and the cedar of Lebanon consecrated to the memory of Jerome, the laurel of Granada, the Greek plane-tree, the Armorican oak, at whose feet I drew Blanca, sang Cymodocée, invented Velléda. These trees were born and grew with my dreams, of which they were the hamadryads. They are about to pass under another's sway: will their new master love them as I have loved them? He will allow them to wither, he will cut them down perhaps: I am doomed to keep nothing upon this earth. While bidding farewell to the woods of Aulnay I shall recall the farewell which long ago I bade to the woods of Combourg: my days are all farewells.

*

The taste for poetry with which Lucile had inspired me was as fuel added to the flames. My sensations gathered new strength; vain thoughts of fame passed through my mind; for a moment I believed in my "talent," but soon recovered a proper mistrust of my own powers, and began to entertain doubts of that talent, as I have always done. I looked upon my work as a temptation of the Evil One; I was angry with Lucile for arousing an unfortunate propensity within me: I ceased writing and began to mourn my future glory as one might mourn his glory that is past.

Returning to my former state of idleness, I felt more strongly what was lacking to my youth: I was a mystery to myself. I could not see a woman without feeling confused; I blushed if she spoke to me. My shyness, already excessive with people in general, became so great in the presence of a woman that I would have preferred any torture to that of being left alone with her: no sooner was she gone than I recalled her with all my wishes. The descriptions of Virgil, Tibullus and Massillon, it is true, presented themselves to my memory; but the image of my mother and sister covered all with its purity and made thicker the veils which nature sought to raise: my filial and brotherly affection deceived me with respect to an affection less disinterested. Had the loveliest slaves of the seraglio been handed over to me, I should not have known what to ask of them. Chance enlightened me.

A neighbor of the Combourg domain came to spend a few days at the castle with his wife, a very pretty woman. Something, I know not what, happened in the village; we ran to one of the windows of the hall to look. I reached the window first, the fair visitor followed close upon my heels, I turned to give her my place. Involuntarily she obstructed my way, and I felt myself pressed between her and the window. I was no longer conscious of what was happening around me.

[Sidenote: Vague longings.]

From that moment I was aware that to love and be loved in a manner unknown to me must be the supreme happiness. Had I done what other men do, I should soon have become acquainted with the pains and pleasures of the passion whose germs I bore within me; but everything in me assumed an extraordinary character. The ardor of my imagination, my shyness, the solitude in which I lived caused me, rather than rush out of doors, to fall back upon myself; for want of a real object, I evoked, by the strength of my vague longings, a phantom which never left my side. I do not know whether the history of the human heart offers another instance of this nature.

*

And so I built up a woman out of all the women whom I had seen: she had the figure, the hair, the smile of the stranger who had pressed me to her bosom; I gave her the eyes of one of the young girls of the Village, the complexion of another. The portraits of the fine ladies of the time of François I., Henry IV. and Louis XIV. which adorned the drawing-room supplied me with other features, and I even borrowed graces from the pictures of the Virgins that hung upon the church walls.

This invisible charmer accompanied me wherever I went; I communed with her as with a real being; she varied in the measure of my folly: Aphrodite unveiled; Diana clad in the dew and the blue of heaven; Thalia with her laughing mask; Hebe bearing the cup of youth; sometimes she became a fairy who laid nature at my feet. I touched and retouched my canvas; I took one attraction from my beauty to replace it with another. I also changed her finery; I borrowed it from every country, every century, every art, every religion. Then, when I had completed a masterpiece, I dispersed my drawings and paints again; my one woman turned into a crowd of women in whom I idolized separately the charms I had adored when united.

Pygmalion was less enamored of his statue: my difficulty was how to please mine. Recognizing in myself none of the qualities calculated to awaken love, I lavished upon myself all that I lacked. I rode like Castor and Pollux; I played the lyre like Apollo; Mars wielded his arms with less power and skill: a hero of romance or history, I heaped fictitious adventures on fiction itself! The shades of Morven's daughters, the sultanas of Bagdad and Granada, the ladies of the castles of olden time; baths, perfumes, dances, Asiatic delights were all borne to me by a magic wand.

See this young queen coming, decked in diamonds and flowers (it was still my sylph): she fetches me at midnight, across gardens of orange-trees, in the galleries of a palace bathed by the waves of the sea, on the balmy shore of Naples or Messina, beneath a sky of love pierced by the light of Endymion's star; she advances, an animated statue by Praxiteles, amidst motionless statues, pale pictures and frescoes white and silent in the moonlight: the soft sound of her progress over the marble mosaic mingles with the imperceptible murmurs of the deep. The royal jealousy encompasses us. I fall at the knees of the sovereign of Enna's plains; the silk waves from her loosened diadem fall caressingly upon my brow as she bends her girlish head over my face, and her hands rest upon my breast, throbbing with respect and with desire.

On emerging from these dreams, when I found myself once more a poor little obscure Breton lad, without fame, beauty, or talents, who would attract the looks of none, who would pass unknown, whom no woman would ever love, I was seized with despair: I no longer dared lift my eyes to the dazzling image I had attached to my steps.

This delirium lasted two whole years, during which the faculties of my soul attained the loftiest pitch of exaltation. I used to speak little, I now spoke not at all; I used still to study, I flung my books aside; my taste for solitude redoubled. I had all the symptoms of a violent passion: my eyes grew hollow; I fell away; I could not sleep; I was absent, melancholy, ardent, fierce. My days slipped by in a manner that was wild, odd, insensate, and yet full of delights.

To the north of the castle stretched a waste land strewn with druidical stones; I would go and sit upon one of these stones at sunset. The gilded summit of the woods, the splendor of the earth, the evening star twinkling through the rosy clouds brought me back to my dreams: I longed to enjoy this sight with the ideal object of my desires. I followed in thought the luminary of the day; I gave him my beauty to escort, so that he might present her all radiant with himself to the homage of the universe. The evening breeze shattering the web woven by insects upon the tips of the blades of grass, the field-lark alighting upon a pebble recalled me to reality: I turned my steps back to the castle, with heart oppressed and downcast face.

[Sidenote: The Sylph of my dreams.]

On stormy days in summer, I climbed to the top of the great west tower. The thunder roaring beneath the castle lofts, the torrents of rain which fell dashing upon the cone-shaped roof of the towers, the lightning which furrowed the clouds and marked the brass weathercocks with its electric flame aroused my enthusiasm: like Ismen on the ramparts of Jerusalem, I invoked the thunder, I hoped that it would bring Armida to me.

If the sky was clear, I crossed the Great Mall, around which lay meadows divided by hedges of willow-trees. In one of these willows, I had contrived a seat, like a nest: here, isolated between heaven and earth, I spent hours with the singing birds; my nymph was by my side. I also associated her image with the beauty of those spring nights filled with the freshness of the dew, the sighs of the nightingale and the murmuring of the breeze.

At other times I followed a deserted path, a stream adorned with its river-side plants; I listened to the sounds that issued from unfrequented parts; I lent an ear to every tree; I thought I heard the moonlight singing in the woods: I tried to tell these pleasures, and the words died upon my lips. I know not how I found my goddess again in the accents of a voice, the vibration of a harp, the velvety or liquid sounds of a horn or an harmonica. It would take too long to describe the fine journeys I took with my flower of love; how, hand in hand, we visited famous ruins, Venice, Rome, Athens, Jerusalem, Memphis, Carthage; how we crossed the seas; how we asked happiness of the palm-trees of Otaheite, of the scented groves of Timor and Amboyna; how, on the summit of the Himalayas, we went to wake the dawn; how we descended the sacred rivers whose spreading waves encircle gilt-domed pagodas; how we slept on the banks of the Ganges, while the Bengali, perched on the mast of a bamboo wherry, sang his Hindoo boat-song. Earth and Heaven no longer existed for me; above all, I forgot the latter; but though it no longer received my prayers, it heard the voice of my secret misery: for I suffered, and sufferings pray.

*

The sadder the season, the greater its harmony with myself; the time of hoar-frost makes communication less easy and isolates those who dwell in country-places: one feels more beyond the reach of men.

A moral character clings to autumn scenery: those leaves which fall like our years, those flowers which fade like our days, those clouds which fleet like our illusions, that light which fails like our intelligence, that sun which cools like our love, those streams which freeze like our life bear a secret relation to our destinies.

I beheld with ineffable pleasure the return of the season of storms, the passing of the swans and the ring-doves, the muster of the crows on the pond field, and their perching at nightfall on the tallest oaks in the Great Mall. When the evening raised a bluish vapor in the cross-roads of the forest, and the plaintive lays of the wind moaned in the withered moss, I entered into full possession of the sympathies of my nature. If I met some ploughman at the end of a field, I stopped to look at that man who had shot up in the shadow of the wheat with which he was to be reaped, and who, turning over the earth of his tomb with the plough-share, mingled his burning sweat with the icy rains of autumn: the furrow which he dug was the monument intended to outlive him. What did my elegant dæmon then do? By means of her magic, she wafted me to the banks of the Nile, and showed me the Egyptian pyramid sunk beneath the dust, as one day the Armorican furrow would lie hidden beneath the heather: I congratulated myself on having placed the fables of my felicity beyond the circle of human realities.

In the evening I embarked upon the pond, and, alone in my boat, rowed amidst the rushes and the broad floating leaves of the water-lilies. Overhead was the meeting-place of the swallows preparing to quit our climes. Not one of their twitterings did I lose; the child Tavernier[172] followed less closely the traveller's tale. They played on the water at sundown, chased the flies, darted together into the air, as though to test their wings, dropped down upon the surface of the lake, and then perched upon the reeds, which scarcely bent beneath their weight, and which were filled with their warbling turmoil.

Night fell; the reeds shook their fields of swords and distaves, among which the feathered caravan of moor-fowl, teal, kingfishers, snipe lay silent; the lake washed against its shores; the loud voices of autumn issued from the woods and marshes; I ran my boat aground and returned to the castle. Ten o'clock struck. I went to my room, and at once opened the windows, fixed my eyes upon the sky, and commenced an incantation. In company with my witch I mounted the clouds: enveloped in her tresses and her veil, I was swept along by the tempest, shaking the forest-tops, hustling the mountain-summits, whirling upon the seas. I plunged into space, I dropped from the Throne of God to the gates of the abyss, and the worlds were surrendered to the power of my love. Amid the disorder of the elements, I frenzically wedded the idea of danger to that of pleasure. The breath of the north wind brought to me but the sighs of voluptuousness; the murmur of the rain summoned me to sleep upon a woman's breast. The words which I addressed to that woman would have revived the senses of old age and warmed the marble of the tombs. Nothing-knowing and all-knowing, at once maid and lover, Eve before and after the fall, the enchantress from whom I derived my madness was a commixture of mystery and passion: I placed her on an altar and worshipped her. The pride of being loved by her yet further increased my love. When she walked, I prostrated myself to be trod beneath her feet or kiss their traces. I grew confused at her smile; I trembled at the sound of her voice; I thrilled with desire if I touched what she had touched. The air exhaled from her moist mouth penetrated into the marrow of my bones, coursed through my veins instead of blood. At a look from her I would have flown to the ends of the earth: a desert would have sufficed me with her! With her at my side, the lions' den would have changed into a palace, and millions of centuries would have been too short to exhaust the fires with which I felt myself consumed.

[Sidenote: Nocturnal incantations.]

To this madness was added a moral idolatry: by a further play of my imagination, the Phryne that clasped me in her arms also represented glory to me and, above all, honour; virtue performing its noblest sacrifices, genius conceiving the rarest thoughts would scarcely give an idea of this other kind of happiness. I found at one and the same time in my marvelous creation all the blandishments of the senses and all the joys of the soul. Overwhelmed and as it were submerged beneath these dual delights, I no longer knew which was my true existence: I was a man and was not a man; I became cloud, wind, sound; I was a pure spirit, a creature of the air, singing the sovereign felicity. I divested myself of my nature to become one with the maiden of my desires, to be transmuted into her, to touch beauty more closely, to be at once passion given and received, love and the object of love. Suddenly, struck with my madness, I flung myself upon my couch; I rolled myself in my grief; I watered my pillow with scalding tears which none saw, piteous tears which flowed for a nonexistent thing.

*

Soon, no longer able to remain in my tower, I climbed down through the darkness, furtively opened the door leading to the steps, like a murderer, and went to wander in the great wood. After walking at random, waving my hands, embracing the winds which escaped me like the shadow, the object of my pursuit, I leant against the trunk of a beech-tree; I watched the crows which I made fly from one tree to settle on another, or the moon lingering over the unclothed summits of the forest: I would have liked to inhabit this dead world, which reflected the pallor of the tomb. I felt neither the cold nor the dampness of the night; not even the icy breath of dawn would have drawn me from the depth of my thoughts, if at that hour the village bell had not made itself heard.

In most of the villages of Brittany, it is the custom at daybreak to toll the bell for the dead. The peal consists of three repeated notes, which give a monotonous, melancholy, rustic little tune. Nothing suited my sick and wounded soul better than to be recalled to the tribulations of existence by the bell which announced its end. I pictured to myself the herdsman expiring in his unknown hut, and laid in a graveyard no less unknown. What had he come to do in the world? And I, what was I doing in this world? Since I should have to go at last, was it not better to depart in the cool of morning, to arrive early, than to complete the journey beneath the weight and in the heat of day? The blush of longing mantled on my face; the idea of ceasing to exist took possession of my heart in the manner of a sudden joy. At the period of the errors of my youth, I often hoped not to outlive happiness: there lay in the first success a measure of felicity that led me to aspire to destruction.

Bound ever more closely to my phantom, unable to enjoy what did not exist, I was like those mutilated men who contemplate a state of bliss to them unattainable and conjure up dreams whose pleasures rival the tortures of hell. I had, moreover, a presentiment of the misery of my future lot; ingenious in the fabrication of sufferings, I had placed myself between two forms of despair: sometimes I thought myself a mere nullity, incapable of rising above the vulgar herd; sometimes I seemed to feel within myself qualities which would never be appreciated. A secret instinct warned me that, as I moved onward through the world, I should find no part of that which I sought.

Everything furnished food for the bitterness of my disgust: Lucile was unhappy; my mother did not console me; my father made me feel the terrors of life. His moroseness increased with years; old age stiffened his soul as it did his body; he constantly spied upon me to chide me. When I returned from my wild rounds and saw him sitting on the steps, one might have killed me rather than make me enter the castle. Yet this but postponed my torture: obliged as I was to appear at supper, I sat down sheepishly upon the edge of my chair, my cheeks wet with the rain, my hair entangled. I sat motionless beneath my father's glances, and the perspiration stood upon my brow: the last glimmer of reason escaped me.

[Sidenote: I attempt my life.]

I now come to a moment when I shall need some strength to confess my weakness. The man who attempts to take his own life displays less the vigor of his soul than the exhaustion of his nature. I owned a fowling-piece whose worn trigger often went off when uncocked. I loaded this gun with three bullets, and went to a remote part of the Great Mall. I cocked the gun, placed the muzzle of the barrel in my mouth, and struck the butt-end against the ground; I several times repeated the ordeal; the charge did not go off; the appearance of a keeper stopped my resolve. Involuntary and unconscious fatalist that I was, I presumed that my hour had not come, and I deferred the execution of my project to another day. Had I killed myself, all that I have been would have been buried with me; none would have known of the history that led to my catastrophe; I should have swelled the crowd of nameless unfortunates, I should not have let myself be followed by the traces of my sorrows as a wounded man is followed by the traces of his blood.

Those who might be troubled by these descriptions and tempted to imitate these follies, those who might attach themselves to my memory through my illusions, must remember that they are listening only to a dead man's voice. Reader, whom I shall never know, nothing remains: nought is left of me save that I am in the hands of the living God who has judged me.

An illness, the fruits of this unruly life, put an end to the torments which brought me the first inspirations of the Muse and the first attacks of the passions. These passions with which my soul was overwrought, these yet vague passions resembled the storms at sea which rush from every point of the horizon: inexperienced pilot that I was, I knew not in which direction to spread my sail to the uncertain winds. My chest swelled, a fever laid hold of me; they sent to Bazouges, a small town some five or six leagues from Combourg, for an excellent doctor called Cheftel, whose son[173] played a part in the affair of the Marquis de La Rouërie. He examined me attentively, ordered remedies, and declared that it was essential that I should be removed from my present mode of life. I lay six weeks in danger. One morning my mother came and sat on my bed, and said:

"It is time for you to take a decision; your brother is in a position to obtain a benefice for you; but before going to the seminary, you must take good counsel with yourself, for although I wish you to adopt the ecclesiastical state, I would rather see you a man of the world than a scandalous priest."

Those who have read the foregoing pages will be able to judge if the proposal of my pious mother came at a good moment. I have always, in the more important events of my life, at once known what to avoid: I am prompted by a movement of honor. As a priest, I struck myself as ridiculous. As a bishop, the majesty of the sacerdotal office overawed me, and I respectfully recoiled before the altar. Should I, as a bishop, make efforts to acquire virtues, or content myself with hiding my vices? I felt myself too weak to take the first course, too candid to adopt the second. They who treat me as a hypocrite and an ambitious man know me but little; I shall never succeed in the world, precisely because I lack one passion and one vice: ambition and hypocrisy. The first of these would with me be at the most a form of injured self-love; I might sometimes wish to be a minister or king in order to laugh at my enemies; but in twenty-four hours I should throw my portfolio or my crown out of window.

[Sidenote: My new career.]

I therefore told my mother that my religious vocation was not sufficiently strong. For the second time I changed my plans: I had refused to become a sailor, and now I was no longer willing to be a priest. There remained the military career, which I loved: but how to suffer the loss of my independence and the restraint of European discipline? I took an absurd idea into my head: I declared that I would go to Canada and clear forests, or to India and take service in the armies of the princes of that country. By one of those contrasts which we perceive in all men, my father, so reasonable in other respects, was never greatly shocked by an adventurous project. He chided my mother for my fickleness, but decided to ship me to India. I was dispatched to Saint-Malo, where an expedition was being fitted out for Pondicherry.

*

Two months elapsed: I found myself back and alone in my maternal island. Villeneuve had just died there. I went to weep for her beside the poor, empty bed on which she had breathed her last, and saw the little wicker go-cart in which I had learnt to stand upright upon this world of sorrows. I pictured my old nurse lying on her pillow and fixing her feeble gaze upon that basket on wheels: this first memorial of my life opposite the last memorial of the life of my second mother, the thought of the wishes for the happiness of her nursling which the kind Villeneuve addressed to Heaven on leaving this world, this proof of an attachment so constant, disinterested and pure broke my heart with tenderness, gratitude and regret.

I found nothing else to remind me of my past at Saint-Malo: in the harbor I sought in vain for the ships in whose rigging I had played; they were gone or broken up; in the town, the house where I was born had been turned into an inn. I was scarce out of my cradle, and already a whole world had fallen into decay. I was a stranger in the parts of my childhood; people who met me asked who I was, for the sole reason that my head rose a few inches higher above the ground towards which it will sink again in a few years. How rapidly and how often we change our manner of existence and our illusions! Friends leave us, others take their place; our ties alter: there is always a time at which we possessed nothing of what we now possess, at which we have nothing of what we once had. Man has not one self-same life: he has several on end, and that is his calamity.

*

Henceforward friendless and alone, I explored the beach which had borne my sand-castles: _campos ubi Troja fuit._ I walked on the shore deserted by the sea. The strand abandoned by the rising tide offered me the picture of those desolate places which our illusions leave around us when they go. Abailard, my fellow-Breton[174], like myself watched these rollers eight hundred years ago, thinking of his Héloïse; like me, he saw some vessel speed (_ad horizontis undas_), and his ear, like mine, was lulled with the monotone of the waves. I exposed myself to the breakers while indulging in the baleful imaginings which I had brought with me from the woods at Combourg. A head called Cap Lavarde was the limit of my walks: seated at the extremity of this head, I remembered with the bitterest reflections that these same rocks had served to hide me as a child during the fairs; I had there gulped down my tears, while my playmates elated themselves with joy. I felt neither better loved nor happier than at that time. Soon I was to leave the country of my birth to crumble away my days in various climes. These reflections wounded me to death, and I was tempted to let myself fall into the waves.

A letter called me back to Combourg: I arrived, I supped with my family, monsieur my father did not speak a word, my mother sighed, Lucile appeared dismayed. At ten o'clock we retired. I questioned my sister; she knew nothing. At eight o'clock the next morning I was sent for. I went downstairs: my father was waiting for me in his study.

"Monsieur le chevalier," he said, "you must renounce your follies. Your brother has procured you a sub-lieutenant's commission in the Navarre Regiment. You will go first to Rennes, and thence to Cambrai. Here are a hundred louis: be sparing with them. I am old and ill; I have not long to live. Conduct yourself as a good man and never disgrace your name."

He kissed me. I felt that severe, wrinkled face press with emotion against mine: it was the last paternal embrace I was to receive.

At that moment the Comte de Chateaubriand, a man so formidable in my eyes, appeared to me only as a father most worthy of my affection. I flung myself upon his emaciated hand and wept. He was threatened with an approaching attack of paralysis, which brought him to the grave; his left arm had a convulsive movement which he was obliged to check with his right hand. He was thus holding his arm when, after giving me his old sword, without leaving me time to recover myself, he led me to the cabriolet which was waiting for me in the Cour Verte. He made me get in before him. The post-boy drove off, while I with my eyes bade farewell to my mother and sister, who dissolved into tears on the steps.

I drove along the road by the pond; I saw the reeds of my swallows, the mill-stream and the meadow; I cast a look at the castle. Then, like Adam after his sin, I proceeded towards unknown ground, and "the world was all before me[175]."

*

[Sidenote: Last visits to Combourg.]

From that day I saw Combourg but three times: after my father's death we met, in mourning, to share our inheritance and take leave of each other. On another occasion I accompanied my mother to Combourg: she was engaged in furnishing the castle, in expectation of the arrival of my brother, who was to bring my sister-in-law to Brittany. My brother did not come; he was soon, with his young wife, to receive at the hands of the executioner a different pillow from that prepared by my mother's hands. Lastly, I passed through Combourg a third time on my road to Saint-Malo to embark for America. The castle was abandoned, I had to put up at the steward's lodge. Wandering through the Great Mall, from the bottom of a dark avenue I caught sight of the deserted steps, the closed door and windows, and fainted away. I had difficulty in making my way back to the village: I sent for my horses and left in the middle of the night.

After an absence of fifteen years, and before again leaving France on my visit to the Holy Land, I went to Fougères to embrace what remained of my family. I had not the courage to undertake the pilgrimage to the fields to which the most vivid portion of my existence was attached. It is in the woods of Combourg that I became what I am, that I began to feel the first attacks of the weariness which I have dragged with me through life, of the sadness which has been my torment and my felicity. There I sought for a heart that could beat in touch with mine; there I saw my family united only to disperse. My father there dreamt of his name restored, of the fortunes of his house revived: another illusion which time and the revolutions have dispelled. Of six children that we were, we remain but three: my brother, Julie and Lucile are no more, my mother died of grief, my father's ashes were snatched from his grave.

If my works survive me, if I am to leave a name behind me, perhaps one day, prompted by these Memoirs, some traveller will come to visit the spots I have depicted. He will be able to recognize the castle; but he will look in vain for the great wood: the cradle of my dreams has vanished like those dreams. Left standing alone upon its rock, the ancient keep mourns the oaks, the old friends that surrounded it and protected it against the storm. Isolated also, I too have seen falling around me the family which beautified my days and lent me its shelter: fortunately my life is not built upon the earth so solidly as the towers in which I spent my youth, nor does man offer to the tempests a resistance so great as that of the monuments raised by his hands.

[147] This book was written at the Château de Montboissier (July-August 1817) and at the Vallée-aux-Loups (November 1817), and revised in December 1846.--T.

[148] Florio's MONTAIGNE, Booke III. chap. 5: _Of Diverting and Diversions._--T.

[149] In the Orléannais.--T. The castle stands in the commune of Montboissier, canton of Bonneval, Arrondissement of Châteaudun (Eure-et-Loire).--B.

[150] The Comtesse de Colbert-Montboissier, grand-daughter of Malesherbes, and daughter of the Marquis de Montboissier. In 1803 she married Édouard Charles Victornien Comte de Colbert de Maulevrier, who was descended from the Comte de Maulevrier, brother to the great Colbert.--B.

[151] Gabrielle d'Estrées (_circa_ 1565-1599), mistress to Henry IV., who created her Duchesse de Beaufort--T.

[152] André de Chénier (1762-1794), son of the French Consul at Constantinople, and elder brother of the better-known Marie Joseph de Chénier. A poet of some merit, and a courageous antagonist of the Revolution.--T. He was a secretary at the London Embassy when M. de La Luzerne took it over in 1788.--B.

[153] The States of Brittany, which held their sittings at Rennes.--T.

[154] Charles Pineau Duclos (1704-1772), historiographer of France (1745), member of the French Academy (1747), and perpetual secretary of that body (1755).--T. Mayor of his native city from 1744 to 1750.--B.

[155] Broussais belonged to the school which carried the use of dieting and leeches to excess.--T.

[156] François Jean Raphaël de Brunes, Comte (not Marquis) de Montlouet (1728-1787), Commissary of the States of Brittany.--B.

[157] Luc Jean Comte de Gouyon-Beaufort (1725-1794), Knight of St Louis. Guillotined 15 February 1794.--B.

[158] The Abbé Michel de Marolles (1600-1681), an indifferent but indefatigable translator, and author of some historical works, including the Memoirs from which this reference is taken.--T.

[159] The Grande-Chartreuse is the waste-land near Grenoble which gives its name to the Carthusian Order.--T.

[160] "A solitary incident would vary these evenings, which might figure in a romance of the eleventh century. Sometimes my father would interrupt his walk and come and sit down by the hearth to tell us the story of his youthful distress and the crosses of his life. He described storms and dangers, a journey in Italy, a shipwreck on the Spanish coast.

"He had seen Paris; he spoke of it as he might speak of a haunt of abomination and of a foreign country. The Bretons looked upon China as being in their neighbourhood, but Paris seemed to them the end of the world. I eagerly listened to my father. When I heard this man who was so hard to himself regret that he had not done enough for his family and complain in short but bitter words of his fate, when I saw him at the conclusion of his recital rise brusquely, wrap himself in his cloak, and renew his tramp, first hastening his steps and then slowing them to correspond with the movements of his heart, filial love would fill my eyes with tears; I revolved my father's troubles in my mind, and it seemed to me that the sufferings undergone by the author of my days should have fallen upon me and me alone."--_Manuscript of_ 1826.

[161] _Cf_ Florio's MONTAIGNE, Booke I. chap. 25: _Of the Institution and Education of Children._--T.

[162] See my Complete Works.-_Author's Note._

[163] JOB, X. I.--T.

[164] JOB, XIV. I.--T.

[165] LUCR., V. 223.--T.

[166] I omit three short prose poems by Lucile de Chateaubriand. The curious will find them in a volume entitled, _Lucile de Chateaubriand, ses contes, ses poèmes, ses lettres, précédés d'une Étude sur sa vie_, edited by M. Anatole France (Paris: 1879).--T.

[167] Alexandre Henri de Malfilatre (1757-1803). He took orders during the Emigration, and died at Somers Town, London.--B.

[168] Jacques Charles Louis de Clinchamp de Malfilatre (1733-1767), a minor poet and translator, who died of hunger and the results of his excesses at the early age of thirty-four.--T.

[169] Sebastien Roch Nicolas (1741-1794) adopted the name of Chamfort on commencing his career as a poet and man of letters. He was private secretary to the Prince de Condé, and later reader to the Princesse Élisabeth. On the outbreak of the Revolution he joined Mirabeau's party. In 1794 he was arrested and tried to commit suicide; he was subsequently released, but died in a few weeks of his self-inflicted wounds.--T.

[170] She was arrested in December 1793, imprisoned in the Convent of the Good Shepherd, and released in November 1794.--B.

[171] Lieutenant-Colonel Jacques Louis René Chevalier de Caud (1727-1797), Knight of St. Louis. He was sixty-nine years of age when he married Lucile, then thirty-one, in August 1796; and he died seven months later, 16 March 1797--B.

[172] Jean Baptiste Tavernier (1605-1686), a great traveller and linguist, and author of a famous book of Voyages in Turkey, Persia, and India.--T.

[173] As I advance in years, I continue to meet persons mentioned in my Memoirs: the widow of Dr. Cheftel's son has just been admitted to the Marie-Thérèse Infirmary; this is a further proof of my veracity.--_Author's Note._ (Paris, 1834).

Doubtless from pity and from gratitude to the doctor who tended him, Chateaubriand does not describe the part played by Cheftel the Younger. He was not content with selling the Marquis de La Rouërie's secrets: he betrayed the very corpse of him who had been his friend. His perfidious operations led to the revolutionary tribunal those whose plans he had pretended to serve; and he was the cause through which three heroic women mounted the scaffold: Thérèse de Moëlien, Madame de La Motte de la Guyomarais, and Madame de La Fonchais, sister to André Desilles.--B.

[174] Pierre Abailard, or Abélard (1079-1142), the hero of the Héloïse idyll, was a native of Pallet, near Nantes, in Brittany.--T.

[175] _Cf._ MILTON, Paradise Lost, XII., 646-647:

"The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide."--T.