These words, so full of harmony and rhythm,[4] seemed to present a perfect picture of the place, and though Homer was not born there—­nor, perhaps, anywhere—­they gave me a better idea of the beautiful (and now so hapless) isle of Greece than I could have derived from a whole mass of material description.

I must not omit to mention another book, which together with Telemaque, I for a long time regarded as the highest expression of literature.  M. Gosselin one day called me aside, and after much beating about the bush, told me that he had thought of letting me read a book which some people might regard as dangerous, and which, as a matter of fact, might be in certain cases on account of the vivacity with which the author expresses passion.  He had, however, decided that I might be trusted with this book, which was called the Comte de Valmont.  Many people will no doubt wonder what could have been the book which my worthy director thought could only be read after a special preparation as regards judgment and maturity. Le Comte de Valmont; ou, Les Egarements de la Raison, is a novel by Abbe Gerard, in which, under the cover of a very innocent plot, the author refutes the doctrines of the eighteenth century, and inculcates the principles of an enlightened religion.  Sainte-Beuve, who knew the Comte de Valmont, as he knew everything, was consumed with laughter when I told him this story.  But for all that the Comtede Valmont was a rather dangerous book.  The Christianity set forth in it is no more than Deism, the religion of Telemaque, a sort of sentiment in the abstract, without being any particular kind of religion.[5] Thus everything tended to lull me into a state of fancied security.  I thought that by copying the politeness of M. Gosselin and the moderation of M. Manier I was a Christian.

I cannot honestly say, moreover, that my faith in Christianity was in reality diminished.  My faith has been destroyed by historical criticism, not by scholasticism nor by philosophy.  The history of philosophy and the sort of scepticism by which I had been caught rather maintained me within the limits of Christianity than drove me beyond them.  I often repeated to myself the lines which I had read in Brucker:—­

  “Percurri, fateor, sectas attentius omnes,
  Plurima qusesivi, per singula quaque cucurri,
  Nee quidquam invent melius quam credere Christo.”

A certain amount of modesty kept me back.  The capital question as to the truth of the Christian dogmas and of the Bible never forced itself upon me.  I admitted the revelation in a general sense, like Leibnitz and Malebranche.  There can be no doubt that my fieri philosophy was the height of heterodoxy, but I did not stop to reason out the consequences.  However, all said and done, my masters were satisfied with me.  M. Pinault rarely interfered with me.  More of a mystic than a fanatic, he concerned himself but little with those who did not come immediately in his way.  The finishing stroke was given by M. Gottofrey with a degree of boldness and precision which I did not thoroughly appreciate until afterwards.  In the twinkling of an eye, this truly gifted man tore away the veils which the prudent M. Gosselin and the honest M. Manier had adjusted around my conscience in order to tranquillise it, and to lull it to sleep.