mpossible, nothing is improbable;
fairyland is a constant quantity and the supernatural quite familiar. The
old rampart, logic; the old wall, reason; the old main stay of thought,
good sense, break down, fall and crumble before their imagination, set
free and escaped into the limitless realm of fancy, and advancing with
fabulous bounds, and nothing can check it. For them everything happens,
and anything may happen. They make no effort to conquer events, to
overcome resistance, to overturn obstacles. By a sudden caprice of their
flighty imagination they become princes, emperors, or gods, are possessed
of all the wealth of the world, all the delightful things of life, enjoy
all pleasures, are always strong, always beautiful, always young, always
beloved! They, alone, can be happy in this world; for, as far as they are
concerned, reality does not exist. I love to look into their wandering
intelligence as one leans over an abyss at the bottom of which seethes a
foaming torrent whose source and destination are both unknown.

But it is in vain that we lean over these abysses, for we shall never
discover the source nor the destination of this water. After all, it is
only water, just like what is flowing in the sunlight, and we shall learn
nothing by looking at it.

It is likewise of no use to ponder over the intelligence of crazy people,
for their most weird notions are, in fact, only ideas that are already
known, which appear strange simply because they are no longer under the
restraint of reason. Their whimsical source surprises us because we do
not see it bubbling up. Doubtless the dropping of a little stone into the
current was sufficient to cause these ebullitions. Nevertheless crazy
people attract me and I always return to them, drawn in spite of myself
by this trivial mystery of dementia.

One day as I was visiting one of the asylums the physician who was my
guide said:

"Come, I will show you an interesting case."

And he opened the door of a cell where a woman of about forty, still
handsome, was seated in a large armchair, looking persistently at her
face in a little hand mirror.

As soon as she saw us she rose to her feet, ran to the other end of the
room, picked up a veil that lay on a chair, wrapped it carefully round
her face, then came back, nodding her head in reply to our greeting.

"Well," said the doctor, "how are you this morning?"

She gave a deep sigh.

"Oh, ill, monsieur, very ill. The marks are