My mother was seven months gone in pregnancy when she went to see Polichinelle. The showman was a man of some imagination, and instead of simply calling his devil the devil, he gave him a name.
He called him Berlick.
The sight of Berlick impressed my mother terribly. Berlick was as black as a devil. Berlick had a scarlet tongue and tail. Berlick spoke with a sort of growl, like the noise made by a syphon of Seltzer water when the bottle is just running empty; an unknown sound in those days, before the invention of syphons, and therefore all the more awful.
My mother's mind was so taken up with this queer figure, that, on leaving the booth, she leant on a neighbour and exclaimed:
"Oh! my dear, it is all up with me. I shall give birth to a Berlick!"
Her neighbour, who was also in the same condition, was called Madame Duez. She replied:
"Then, my dear, if you give birth to a Berlick, I, who have been with you, shall give birth to a Berlock."
The two friends returned home laughing. But my mother's laugh was half-hearted, and she remained convinced that she would bring forth a black-faced child with a red tail and a tongue of flame.
The day of her confinement drew near, and, the nearer it came, the firmer grew my mother's belief. She imagined I leapt inside her womb as only a demon could, and when I kicked she could feel the claws with which my feet were furnished.
At length the 24th of July arrived. It struck half-past four in the morning, and I was born.