I let my hands fall in stupefaction. Had I read the conceptions of an idiot—or the inspirations of a genius which had been realized? What am I to say? to think? So this man, this miserable creature, living at the bottom of a burrow like a fox, dying of hunger, had had perhaps one of those inspirations which the Supreme Being sends on earth to enlighten future generations!
And this man had hanged himself in disgust, despair! No one had answered his prayer, though he asked only for a crust of bread in exchange for his discovery. It was horrible. Long, long I sat there dreaming, thanking Heaven for having limited my intelligence to the needs of ordinary life—for not having desired to make me a superior man in the community of martyrs. At length the rural guardsman, seeing me with fixed gaze and mouth agape, made so bold as to touch me on the shoulder.
"Mr. Christian," said he, "see—it's getting late—the burgomaster must have come back from the council."
"Ha! That's a fact," cried I, crumpling up the paper, "come on."
We descended the hill.
My worthy cousin met me, with a smiling face, at the threshold of his house.
"Well! well! Christian, so you've found no trace of the imbecile who hanged himself?"
"No."
"I thought as much. He was some lunatic who escaped from Stefansfeld or somewhere—Faith, he did well to hang himself. When one is good for nothing, that's the simplest way for it."
The following day I left Hirschwiller. I shall never return.