mistake, no delusion, no sham; the oval face, the lips tightened over
the mouth, the eyelids tight over the corner of the eyes, the exquisite
alabaster complexion! She raised the curtain and glided out. I
followed; the curtain alone separated me from her. I saw the wooden
door swing to behind her. One step ahead of me! I tore open the door;
she must be on the steps, within reach of my arm!

I stood outside the church. All was empty, merely the wet pavement and
the yellow reflections in the pools: a sudden cold seized me; I could
not go on. I tried to re-enter the church; it was shut. I rushed home,
my hair standing on end, and trembling in all my limbs, and remained
for an hour like a maniac. Is it a delusion? Am I too going mad? O God,
God! am I going mad?

_Dec. 19th.--_

A brilliant, sunny day; all the black snow-slush has disappeared out of
the town, off the bushes and trees. The snow-clad mountains sparkle
against the bright blue sky. A Sunday, and Sunday weather; all the
bells are ringing for the approach of Christmas. They are preparing for
a kind of fair in the square with the colonnade, putting up booths
filled with colored cotton and woolen ware, bright shawls and
kerchiefs, mirrors, ribbons, brilliant pewter lamps; the whole turn-out
of the peddler in "Winter's Tale." The pork-shops are all garlanded
with green and with paper flowers, the hams and cheeses stuck full of
little flags and green twigs. I strolled out to see the cattle-fair
outside the gate; a forest of interlacing horns, an ocean of lowing and
stamping: hundreds of immense white bullocks, with horns a yard long
and red tassels, packed close together on the little piazza d'armi
under the city walls. Bah! Why do I write this trash? What's the use of