the other dream-producers continue their action for hours.
“I will try to analyse as clearly as possible the feelings experienced by the use of ether, but so delicate and fleeting are those sensations that it is not an easy task.
“I first tried this remedy when I was suffering from violent neuralgia, and I have perhaps rather abused it since. I had sharp pains in the head and neck, and my skin became unbearably hot and feverish. I took a large flask of ether, and lying down, I began slowly to inhale it. After a few minutes, I thought I heard a vague murmur, which soon became a kind of drone, and it seemed to me that the inside of my body was getting lighter—as light as air—and dissolving in vapour.
“Then came a sort of stupor, a drowsy feeling of comfort, in spite of the pains which were still present, but were no longer acute. They were pains such as one could endure with resignation, and no longer that terrible excruciating agony against which the whole tortured body protests.
“Soon that curious and delightful feeling of buoyancy spread from my body to my limbs, which in turn became light as a feather, as if the flesh and bones had disappeared and had left only the skin to enable me to feel the pleasure of living and resting in such comfort. I then realised that I was no longer in agony, the pain had vanished, melted away. I heard four voices, as if two conversations were going on at the same time, but I could not understand a single word; sometimes there was a confused jumble of sounds; sometimes I could distinguish words; but it was evident that what I heard was nothing but the intensified drumming in my ears. Far from being asleep, I was very much awake; my ideas, my sensations and my thoughts were marvellously clear and strong, aided by a feeling of exhilaration, a curious intoxication arising from a tenfold increase in my mental powers.
“It was not like the dreams produced by hashish, or the morbid illusions of opium; it was a wonderful clearness of thought, a new way of regarding and appreciating the important things in life, with the absolute certainty that this way was the right one.
“And I suddenly remembered the old Biblical idea. It seemed to me that I had eaten of the Tree of Knowledge and that all mysteries were solved, so powerful and irrefutable was this strange new logic. Arguments, reasons and proofs crowded upon me, only to be upset by still stronger ones. My brain became a battlefield of ideas; I saw myself as a superior being, armed with an invincible intelligence, and I experienced a fierce joy in the discovery of my power.
“All this lasted a very long time, while I continued to inhale the ether in my flask. Suddenly I realised that it was empty, and felt most terribly grieved.”
The four men spoke together:
“Doctor, give me a prescription for a pint of ether!”
But the doctor put on his hat and retorted:
“Certainly not! Go and be poisoned by somebody else!”
And he went out.
Ladies and gentlemen, if you feel inclined to try?—
A True Story
A gale was blowing out of doors; the autumn wind moaned and careered round the house, one of those winds which kill the last leaves and carry them off into the clouds.
The shooting-party were finishing their dinner, still in their boots, flushed, animated, and inflamed. They were Normans, of a class between the nobles and the yeomen, half country-squires, half peasants, rich and strong, capable of breaking the horns of the bulls when they catch hold of them at fairs.
All day long they had been shooting over the land of Maître Blondel, the mayor of Éparville, and were now at their meal round the large table, in the sort of half farmhouse, half country-seat owned by their host.
They spoke as ordinary men shout, laughed like wild beasts roaring, and drank like cisterns, their legs outstretched, their elbows on the tablecloth, their eyes shining beneath the flame of the lamps, warmed by a huge fire which cast blood-coloured gleams over the ceiling; they were talking of shooting and of dogs. But they had reached the period when other ideas come into the heads of half-drunk men, and all eyes were turned on a sturdy, plump-cheeked girl who was carrying the great dishes of food in her red hands.
Suddenly a hefty fellow, named Séjour, who, after studying for the Church, had become a veterinary surgeon, and looked after all the animals in the locality, exclaimed:
“By Gad, Blundel, there’s no flies on that filly you’ve got there!”
There was a resounding laugh. Then an old nobleman, Monsieur de Vernetot, who had lost caste through taking to drink, lifted up his voice:
“Once upon a time I had a funny affair with a girl like that. I really must tell you the tale. Whenever I think of it, it reminds me of Mirza, the bitch I sold to the Comte d’Haussonnel: she returned every day as soon as she was unchained, she found it so hard to leave me. In the end I grew angry, and asked the comte to keep her chained up. Well, do you know what the poor beast did? She died of grief.
“But, to return to my maid, here’s the story.
“I was twenty-five at the time, and was living a bachelor life on my Villebon estate. When a man’s young, you know, and has money, and bores himself to tears every evening after dinner, he keeps his eyes open on every side.
“I soon discovered a young thing in service with Déboultot of Canville. You knew Déboultot, Blondel, didn’t you? In short, the hussy took my fancy to such an extent that one day I went off to see her master, and suggested a bit of business to him. He was to let me have his servant, and I was to sell him my black mare, Cocote, which he’d
