In all Paris, from east to west and from north to
south, there existed an unbroken chain of female tricksters,
a system of organized theft, and all because, instead
of satisfying men at once, these women were skilled
in the subterfuges of delay.
At bottom, one might say that human wisdom consisted
in the protraction of all things, in saying “no”
before saying “yes,” for one could manage
people only by trifling with them.
“Ah! if the same were but true of the stomach,”
sighed Des Esseintes, racked by a cramp which instantly
and sharply brought back his mind, that had roved
far off, to Fontenay.
Several days slowly passed thanks to certain measures
which succeeded in tricking the stomach, but one morning
Des Esseintes could endure food no longer, and he
asked himself anxiously whether his already serious
weakness would not grow worse and force him to take
to bed. A sudden gleam of light relieved his
distress; he remembered that one of his friends, quite
ill at one time, had made use of a Papin’s digester
to overcome his anaemia and preserve what little strength
he had.
He dispatched his servant to Paris for this precious
utensil, and following the directions contained in
the prospectus which the manufacturer had enclosed,
he himself instructed the cook how to cut the roast
beef into bits, put it into the pewter pot, with a
slice of leek and carrot, and screw on the cover to
let it boil for four hours.
At the end of this time the meat fibres were strained.
He drank a spoonful of the thick salty juice deposited
at the bottom of the pot. Then he felt a warmth,
like a smooth caress, descend upon him.
This nourishment relieved his pain and nausea, and
even strengthened his stomach which did not refuse
to accept these few drops of soup.
Thanks to this digester, his neurosis was arrested
and Des Esseintes said to himself: “Well,
it is so much gained; perhaps the temperature will
change, the sky will throw some ashes upon this abominable
sun which exhausts me, and I shall hold out without
accident till the first fogs and frosts of winter.”
In the torpor and listless ennui in which he was sunk,
the disorder of his library, whose arrangement had
never been completed, irritated him. Helpless
in his armchair, he had constantly in sight the books
set awry on the shelves propped against each other
or lying flat on their sides, like a tumbled pack
of cards. This disorder offended him the more
when he contrasted it with the perfect order of his
religious works, carefully placed on parade along
the walls.
He tried to clear up the confusion, but after ten
minutes of work, perspiration covered him; the effort
weakened him. He stretched himself on a couch
and rang for his servant.
Following his directions, the old man continued the
task, bringing each book in turn to Des Esseintes
who examined it and directed where it was to be placed.
