of mist, wandered
over all the details of my peaceful abode; they passed from my prints to
my bookcase, resting upon the little chintz sofa, the white curtains of
the iron bedstead, and the portfolio of loose papers--those archives
of the attics; and then, returning to the book I held in my hand, they
attempted to seize once more the thread of the reading which had been
thus interrupted.

In fact, this book, the subject of which had at first interested me, had
become painful to me. I had come to the conclusion that the pictures of
the writer were too sombre. His description of the miseries of the
world appeared exaggerated to me; I could not believe in such excess of
poverty and of suffering; neither God nor man could show themselves so
harsh toward the sons of Adam. The author had yielded to an artistic
temptation: he was making a show of the sufferings of humanity, as Nero
burned Rome for the sake of the picturesque.

Taken altogether, this poor human house, so often repaired, so much
criticised, is still a pretty good abode; we may find enough in it to
satisfy our wants, if we know how to set bounds to them; the happiness
of the wise man costs but little, and asks but little space.

These consoling reflections became more and more confused. At last my
book fell on the ground without my having the resolution to stoop and
take it up again; and insensibly overcome by the luxury of the silence,
the subdued light, and the warmth, I fell asleep.

I remained for some time lost in the sort of insensibility belonging to
a first sleep; at last some vague and broken sensations came over me.
It seemed to me that the day grew darker, that the air became colder.
I half perceived bushes covered with the scarlet berries which foretell
the coming of winter. I walked on a dreary road, bordered here and there
with juniper-trees white with frost. Then the scene suddenly changed.
I was in the diligence; the cold wind shook the doors and windows; the
trees, loaded with snow, passed by like ghosts; in vain I thrust my
benumbed feet into the crushed straw. At last the carriage stopped, and,
by one of those stage effects so common in sleep, I found myself alone
in a barn, without a fireplace, and open to the winds on all sides.
I saw again my mother's gentle face, known only to me in my early
childhood, the noble and stern countenance of my father, the little fair
head of my sister, who was taken from us at ten years old; all my dead
fam