Little Poems in Prose

tional need of the open air and of refreshment. As I was about to enter a cabaret, a beggar held out his hat to me with one of those unfor- gettable looks which would overturn thrones if spirit could move matter, and if the eye of a mesmerist could ripen grapes. At the same time I heard a voice whispering in my ear; a voice I knew well. It was that of a good angel, or of a good daimon, who accom- panies me everywhere. Since Socrates had his daimon, why should I not have my good angel, and why should I not have the honour, like Socrates, of obtaining my certificate of insanity signed by the subtle Lélut and the well-advised Baillarger? There exists this difference between the daimon of Socrates and my own; that his only manifested itself to him to forbid, warn, pre- vent, and that mine condescends to counsel, suggest, persuade. The unfortunate Socrates had only the demon of the everlasting NO; mine serves the everlasting YES. Mine is a de- mon of action and of combat. Now his voice whispered this to me: “He alone is the equal of another, who proves it; and he alone is worthy of liberty, who can win it.” Instantly I leapt upon the beggar-man: with a single blow of my fist I bunged up one of his