The only
thing that caused him anxiety was the persistent trembling of his legs
which were refusing to sustain him. . . .
Something fell behind him. It was raining ruin. Turning his head, he
saw his castle completely transformed. Half of the tower had just been
carried off. The pieces of slate were scattered everywhere in tiny
chips; the walls were crumbling; loose window frames were balancing on
edge like fragments of stage scenery, and the old wood of the tower hood
was beginning to burn like a torch.
The spectacle of this instantaneous change in his property impressed him
more than the ravages of death, making him realize the Cyclopean power
of the blind, avenging forces raging around him. The vital force that
had been concentrated in his eyes, now spread to his feet . . . and he
started to run without knowing whither, feeling the same necessity to
hide himself as had those men enchained by discipline who were trying to
flatten themselves into the earth in imitation of the reptile's pliant
invisibility.
His instinct was pushing him toward the lodge, but half way up the
avenue, he was stopped by another lot of astounding transformations. An
unseen hand had just snatched away half of the cottage roof. The entire
side wall doubled over, forming a cascade of bricks and dust. The
interior rooms were now exposed to view like a theatrical setting--the
kitchen where he had eaten, the upper floor with the room in which he
descried his still unmade bed.
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