memories and hopes. He was
the embalmer of Catholicism and the proclaimer of liberty. Although he
was a man of old traditions and illusions, he was constitutional in
politics and revolutionary in literature. Religious by instinct and
education, it is he, who, in advance of everyone else, in advance of
Byron, gave vent to the most savage pride and frightful despair.

He was an artist, and had this in common with the artists of the
eighteenth century: he was always hampered by narrow laws which,
however, were always broken by the power of his genius. As a man, he
shared the misery of his fellow-men of the nineteenth century. He had
the same turbulent preoccupations and futile gravity. Not satisfied with
being great, he wished to appear grandiose, and it seems that this
conceited mania did not in the least efface his real grandeur. He
certainly does not belong to the race of dreamers who have made no
incursion into life, masters with calm brows who have had neither
period, nor country nor family. But this man cannot be separated from
the passions of his time; they made him what he was, and he in turn
created a number of them. Perhaps the future will not give him credit
for his heroic stubbornness and no doubt it will be the episodes of his
books that will immortalise their titles with the names of the causes
they upheld.

I stayed at the window enjoying the night and feeling with delight the
cold morning air on my lids. Little by little the day dawned; the wick
of the candle grew longer and longer and its flame slowly faded away.
The roof of the market appeared in the distance and a cock crowed; the
storm had passed; a few drops of water remained in the dust of the road
and made large round spots on it. As I was very tired, I went back to
bed and slept.

We felt very sad on leaving Combourg, and besides, the end of our
journey was at hand. Soon this delightful trip which we had enjoyed for
three months would be over. The return, like the leave-taking, produces
an anticipated sadness, which gives one a proof of the insipid life we
lead.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Gustave Flaubert was twenty-six years old when he started
on this journey. He travelled on foot and was accompanied by M. Maxime
Ducamp. When they returned, they wrote an account of their journey. It
is by far the most important of the unpublished writings, for in it the
author gives his personal genius full sway and it abounds in picturesque
descriptions