BRISACIER.
How dispose now of this hero deserted by his mistress and his companions? Is he, in truth, only a strolling player, rightly punished for insulting the public, for indulging in his mad jealousy and alleging ridiculous claims? How can he prove that he is the legitimate son of the Khan of the Crimea, according to the crafty recital of La Rancune? How, from the depths of misery where he is plunged, can he rise to the highest destiny? These are points which would, doubtless, trouble you but little, but which have thrown my mind into a strange disorder. Once persuaded that I was writing my own history, I was touched by this love for a fugitive star which deserted me in the dark night of my destiny; I have wept and shuddered over these visions. Then a ray divine illumined my inferno; surrounded by dim and monstrous shapes of horror against which I struggled blindly, I seized at last the magic clue, the thread of Ariadne, and since then all my visions have become celestial. One day, I shall write the history of this "Descent to Hades," and you will see that it has not been entirely devoid of reason, if it has always been wanting in fact. And, since you have been so rash as to cite one of my sonnets composed in this state of supernatural trance, as the Germans call it, you must hear the rest. You will find them among my poems. They are little more obscure than the metaphysics of Hegel or the Visions of Swedenborg, and would lose their charm with any attempt at explanation, were that possible;—probably my last illusion will be that of thinking myself a poet; criticism must dispel it.
1854.