d of light emerged above my head from the lighthouse. The
clear ray left the island in complete darkness as it fell far out to
sea, and I, too, was lost to sight in the night, under the great
luminous sweeps which barely caught me as they passed.... But the wind
was freshening again. Time to go indoors. I groped to close the huge
door, I secured the iron bars, and then, still feeling my way, took the
small cast-iron stairs, which trembled and rang under my feet, to the
top of the lighthouse. Here, as you can imagine, there was plenty of
light.

Picture a gigantic lamp with six rows of wicks with the inner facets of
the lantern arranged around them, some with an enormous crystal glass
lens, others opened onto a large fixed glass panel which protected the
flame from the wind.... When I came in, I was completely dazzled, and
the coppers, tins, white metal reflectors, rotating walls of convex
crystal glass, with large blue-tinged circles, and all the flickering
lights, gave me a touch of vertigo.

However, gradually my eyes got used to it, and I settled down at the
foot of the lamp, beside the keeper who was reading his Plutarch--for
fear of falling asleep....

Outside, all was dark and desperate. On the small turning balcony, a
maddening gust of wind howled. The lighthouse creaked; the sea roared.
Out on the point, the breakers on the shoals sounded like cannon
shots.... At times, an invisible finger tapped at the panes; it was
some bird of the night, drawn by the light, braining itself against the
glass....

Inside the sparkling, hot lantern, nothing was heard except the
crackling flame, the dripping oil, the chain unwinding and the
monotonous intoning of the life of Demetrius of Phaleron....

* * * * *

At midnight, the keeper stood up, took a last peek at the wicks and we
went below. We passed the keeper of the second watch, rubbing his eyes
as he came up. We gave him the flask and the Petrarch. Then, before
retiring, we briefly entered the locker-room below, which was full of
chains, heavy weights, metal tanks, and rope. By the light of his small
lamp, the keeper wrote in the large lighthouse log, always left open at
the last entry:

_Midnight. Heavy seas. Tempest. Ship at sea_.

THE WRECK OF THE _SEMILLANTE_

The other night the mistral took us off course to the Corsican coast,
so to speak. Let's stay there, as it were, while I tell you of an
horrific event, often talked about