“Louis must, no doubt, appear to be mad,” said she.  “But he is not, if the term mad ought only to be used in speaking of those whose brain is for some unknown cause diseased, and who can show no reason in their actions.  Everything in my husband is perfectly balanced.  Though he did not actively recognize you, it is not that he did not see you.  He has succeeded in detaching himself from his body, and discerns us under some other aspect—­what that is, I know not.  When he speaks, he utters wondrous things.  Only it often happens that he concludes in speech an idea that had its beginning in his mind; or he may begin a sentence and finish it in thought.  To other men he seems insane; to me, living as I do in his mind, his ideas are quite lucid.  I follow the road his spirit travels; and though I do not know every turning, I can reach the goal with him.

“Which of us has not often known what it is to think of some futile thing and be led on to some serious reflection through the ideas or memories it brings in its train?  Not unfrequently, after speaking about some trifle, the simple starting-point of a rapid train of reflections, a thinker may forget or be silent as to the abstract connection of ideas leading to his conclusion, and speak again only to utter the last link in the chain of his meditations.

“Inferior minds, to whom this swift mental vision is a thing unknown, who are ignorant of the spirit’s inner workings, laugh at the dreamer; and if he is subject to this kind of obliviousness, regard him as a madman.  Louis is always in this state; he soars perpetually through the spaces of thought, traversing them with the swiftness of a swallow; I can follow him in his flight.  This is the whole history of his madness.  Some day, perhaps, Louis will come back to the life in which we vegetate; but if he breathes the air of heaven before the time when we may be permitted to do so, why should we desire to have him down among us?  I am content to hear his heart beat, and all my happiness is to be with him.  Is he not wholly mine?  In three years, twice at intervals he was himself for a few days; once in Switzerland, where we went, and once in an island off the wilds of Brittany, where we took some sea-baths.  I have twice been very happy!  I can live on memory.”

“But do you write down the things he says?” I asked.

“Why should I?” said she.

I was silent; human knowledge was indeed as nothing in this woman’s eyes.

“At those times, when he talked a little,” she added, “I think I have recorded some of his phrases, but I left it off; I did not understand him then.”

I asked her for them by a look; she understood me.  This is what I have been able to preserve from oblivion.

I

Everything here on earth is produced by an ethereal substance which is the common element of various phenomena, known inaccurately as electricity, heat, light, the galvanic fluid, the magnetic fluid, and so forth.  The universal distribution of this substance, under various forms, constitutes what is commonly known as Matter.

II