Reason, then, is a reflex power, and as such, if, in a matter of principle, it recognizes itself as impotent and even absurd a priori, it knows that once in possession of the principle, it borrows from its light and becomes identified with it—­an incomparable power of generalization.

Let the reason of the attitudes that I had observed be once shown me, and my individual reason would possess the Archimedean lever with which I might open unknown worlds.

My reason!  Ah!  I will identify it with the reason of things!  Henceforward this shall be my method, this shall be my law.

But the reason of things—­who will give it to me?  Is it not my reason itself?  Oh, mystery!  I will follow thee to the depths of thy abyss.  Thou shalt have no more secrets from me, for God has said that He hides only from the wise and prudent man, but reveals Himself to the simple and to children.  Yes, these things shall be given to me through my reason, if it will bow itself and be attentive and humble; if it will patiently await the teachings of a mute and persevering observation; if it will subordinate itself to the intuitive lights that constitute genius; and, finally, if it knows how to estimate things other than itself.

Thus my reason, established, inflamed, consumed by the charm of its contemplation, will be transfigured in order to be more closely united to the sovereign reason toward which it ever reaches out.

The first fruit of my observation consists in making me recognize, in the facts examined, the proof of a superior and infallible reason, and then to arm against my individual reason and all its errors.  Another thing yet more strange, but easily comprehended on reflection, is that to this defiance, this contempt of self, I owe the boldness and the power of my investigations.

Let us see, now, from which observations the preceding thoughts are the direct result.

In the phrase, “How are you, etc.,” my reason dictated this triple, parallel movement:  Advancing the head, and the arms, with the torso on the fore-leg.  Now, the similar phrase, “How are you, dear cousin,” although uttered in a situation identical with that of papa Dugrand, produced phenomena diametrically opposed to those that my reason had said were the only ones admissible.  Is it not reasonable to suppose that the sight of an agreeable or loved object will excite in us a genuine feeling that before we had vainly striven to simulate?  Does it not seem natural to extend the hand to a friend when, with affectionate surprise, we exclaim:  “How are you, dear friend?” And should we ever think of drawing the body away from the object that attracts us?  Finally, does it not seem that the head should be raised, the better to see that which charms us?

Ah, no!  All these things, apparently so true and so perfectly clear, are radically false.  Facts prove this beyond a doubt, and with facts there can be on discussion, no argument.  We must admit them a priori or renounce the truth.  Here, as in all questions of principle, the greatest act of reason consists in an act of faith.  This is absolutely undeniable.