es cities and as it irradiates ant-hills. To fancy that
each vibration in ourselves is the echo of another vibration. To fancy a
sole principle, a primordial axiom, to think the universe envelops us
as a mother clasps her child in her two arms; and say to one's self, "I
belong to it and it to me; it would cease to be without me. I should
not exist without it." To see, in short, only the divine unity of laws,
which could not be nonexistent, where others have only seen a ruling
fancy or an individual caprice.

It is a dream. Perhaps so, but I have often dreamed it when watching the
village children rolling on the fresh grass among the ducklings.

CHAPTER XXXI. AUTUMN

Do you know the autumn, dear reader, autumn away in the country with its
squalls, its long gusts, its yellow leaves whirling in the distance, its
sodden paths, its fine sunsets, pale as an invalid's smile, its pools of
water in the roadway; do you know all these? If you have seen all these
they are certainly not indifferent to you. One either detests or else
loves them.

I am of the number of those who love them, and I would give two summers
for a single autumn. I adore the big blazing fires; I like to take
refuge in the chimney corner with my dog between my wet gaiters. I like
to watch the tall flames licking the old ironwork and lighting up the
black depths. You hear the wind whistling in the stable, the great door
creak, the dog pull at his chain and howl, and, despite the noise of the
forest trees which are groaning and bending close by, you can make out
the lugubrious cawings of a flock of rooks struggling against the storm.
The rain beats against the little panes; and, stretching your legs
toward the fire, you think of those without. You think of the sailors,
of the old doctor driving his little cabriolet, the hood of which sways
to and fro as the wheels sink into the ruts, and Cocotte neighs in
the teeth of the wind. You think of the two gendarmes, with the rain
streaming from their cocked hats; you see them, chilled and soaked,
making their way along the path among the vineyards, bent almost double
in the saddle, their horses almost covered with their long blue cloaks.
You think of the belated sportsman hastening across the heath, pursued
by the wind like a criminal by justice, and whistling to his dog, poor
beast, who is splashing through the marshland. Unfortunate doctor,
unfortunate gendarmes, unfortunate sportsman!

And all at once the