When we left for Bricquebec that day my body offered no objection to this journey so long as I had been content, when I thought about it, to gaze out at the Persian church by the edge of the storm from the warmth of my bed in Paris.
My body only began to object as soon as it understood that it would be of the party, and that on my arrival I would be shown to a room which would be called "my" room, which I would have never seen before. On the day of departure I looked so unhappy that the new doctor who was treating me and who had advised me to accustom myself to everything which his precursor had prescribed me to avoid, told me: "You don't seem pleased to be leaving.
Doesn't Bricquebec mean anything to you? It is very strange to dislike journeys. I find that exquisite which he pronounced esquisite. I don't mind telling you that if I could only manage a week to get some sea air at the coast, I wouldn't need asking twice.
And then there will be races, regattas, you will have a wonderful time. The contemplation of Cricquebec did not seem to me to be any the less desirable because it had to be bought at a heavy cost, which on the contrary was like a symbol of the reality of the impression I was going there to seek, an impression which no equivalent spectacle, no stereoscopic image, which would not have prevented me from returning home to sleep in my own bed, could have replaced.
And as I understood that whatever it was, later, that I loved, that it would never be attained other than at the end of a painful pursuit, which initially I would have to overcome, to sacrifice my pleasure to the paramount good instead of seeking it therein, and to overcome like an obstacle, my own health, I would not have wished to ask to avoid taking this journey - while secretly hoping that some unforeseen accident was going to prevent it - which would have seemed to me to detract from the initial experience, if not to feel the sensation - because I never put it to the test - at least to possess the object of happiness.
