had the noblest and most beautiful soul that I ever
knew. No, no. . . a man who accuses himself as you
do. . . who puts into his confession of sin the heart-rending
accents which you have put in yours just
now. . . why no that man is never lost. On the
contrary, he finds himself again and he is near redemption. Love has passed over you and has left all the more filth in its wake because of your extremely
delicate nature. Well! You must wash this filth off
and I know where the water is that will wash it off.
You are going to leave this place. . . leave Paris."
"Lirat!" I entreated, "don't ask me to leave! I have tried it twenty times and I cannot do it."
"You are going away," repeated Lirat, whose face suddenly darkened. "Or else I am mistaken about you, and you are a scamp!"
He resumed:
"In the heart of Brittany there is a fishing village, which is called Le Ploch. The air there is pure, nature is superb, man rugged and kind. It is there that you are going to live three months, six months, a year if necessary. You will walk along the sandy shore, across the heath, through pine forests, over rocks; you will dig the soil, you will catch sea wrack, you will lift logs, you will shout in the wind. There, at last, you will subdue this poisoned body insane with love. In the beginning it will be hard for you and you will perhaps feel homesick. . . you will rebel, you will be seized with passionate desires to return. Don't be discouraged, I beseech you. On days especially hard to bear, walk all the more. . . spend nights out on the sea with the brave people of the place. . . and when your heart is heavy, weep, weep. Above all, keep from leading an indolent life, from dreaming, from reading, from carving your name on the rocks and tracing it on the sand. Don't think of anything, don't think at
