of us may in like manner say,—­days of Valentine, days of Lelia[315], days never to return!  They are gone, we shall read the books no more, and yet how ineffaceable is their impression!  How the sentences from George Sand’s works of that period still linger in our memory and haunt the ear with their cadences!  Grandiose and moving, they come, those cadences, like the sighing of the wind through the forest, like the breaking of the waves on the seashore.  Lelia in her cell on the mountain of the Camaldoli—­

“Sibyl, Sibyl forsaken; spirit of the days of old, joined to a brain which rebels against the divine inspiration; broken lyre, mute instrument, whose tones the world of to-day, if it heard them, could not understand, but yet in whose depth the eternal harmony murmurs imprisoned; priestess of death, I, I who feel and know that before now I have been Pythia, have wept before now, before now have spoken, but who cannot recollect, alas, cannot utter the word of healing!  Yes, yes!  I remember the cavern of truth and the access of revelation; but the word of human destiny, I have forgotten it; but the talisman of deliverance, it is lost from my hand.  And yet, indeed, much, much have I seen! and when suffering presses me sore, when indignation takes hold of me, when I feel Prometheus wake up in my heart and beat his puissant wings against the stone which confines him,—­oh! then, in prey to a frenzy without a name, to a despair without bounds, I invoke the unknown master and friend who might illumine my spirit and set free my tongue; but I grope in darkness, and my tired arms grasp nothing save delusive shadows.  And for ten thousand years, as the sole answer to my cries, as the sole comfort in my agony, I hear astir, over this earth accurst, the despairing sob of impotent agony.  For ten thousand years I have cried in infinite space:  Truth!  Truth! For ten thousand years infinite space keeps answering me:  Desire, Desire.  O Sibyl forsaken!  O mute Pythia! dash then thy head against the rocks of thy cavern, and mingle thy raging blood with the foam of the sea; for thou deemest thyself to have possessed the almighty Word, and these ten thousand years thou art seeking him in vain."[316]

Or Sylvia’s cry over Jacques[317] by his glacier in the Tyrol—­

“When such a man as thou art is born into a world where he can do no true service; when, with the soul of an apostle and the courage of a martyr, he has simply to push his way among the heartless and aimless crowds which vegetate without living; the atmosphere suffocates him and he dies.  Hated by sinners, the mock of fools, disliked by the envious, abandoned by the weak, what can he do but return to God, weary with having labored in vain, in sorrow at having accomplished nothing?  The world remains in all its vileness and in all its hatefulness; this is what men call, ‘the triumph of good sense over enthusiasm.’"[318]

Or Jacques himself, and his doctrine—­