“And the old image of the Scriptures suddenly
came back to my mind. It seemed to me that I
had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge, that all the
mysteries were unveiled, so much did I find myself
under the sway of a new, strange and irrefutable logic.
And arguments, reasonings, proofs rose up in a heap
before my brain only to be immediately displaced by
some stronger proof, reasoning, argument. My head
had, in fact, become a battleground of ideas.
I was a superior being, armed with invincible intelligence,
and I experienced a huge delight at the manifestation
of my power.
“It lasted a long, long time. I still kept
inhaling the ether from my flagon. Suddenly I
perceived that it was empty.”
The four men exclaimed at the same time:
“Doctor, a prescription at once for a liter
of ether!”
But the doctor, putting on his hat, replied:
“As to that, certainly not; go and let some
one else poison you!”
And he left them.
Ladies and gentlemen, what is your opinion on the
subject?
Noon had just struck. The school door opened
and the youngsters darted out, jostling each other
in their haste to get out quickly. But instead
of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as
usual, they stopped a few paces off, broke up into
knots, and began whispering.
The fact was that, that morning, Simon, the son of
La Blanchotte, had, for the first time, attended school.
They had all of them in their families heard talk
of La Blanchotte; and, although in public she was
welcome enough, the mothers among themselves treated
her with a somewhat disdainful compassion, which the
children had imitated without in the least knowing
why.
As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he
never went out, and did not run about with them in
the streets of the village, or along the banks of
the river. And they did not care for him; so it
was with a certain delight, mingled with considerable
astonishment, that they met and repeated to each other
what had been said by a lad of fourteen or fifteen
who appeared to know all about it, so sagaciously did
he wink. “You know—Simon—well,
he has no papa.”
Just then La Blanchotte’s son appeared in the
doorway of the school.
He was seven or eight years old, rather pale, very
neat, with a timid and almost awkward manner.
He was starting home to his mother’s house when
the groups of his schoolmates, whispering and watching
him with the mischievous and heartless eyes of children
bent upon playing a nasty trick, gradually closed
in around him and ended by surrounding him altogether.
There he stood in their midst, surprised and embarrassed,
not understanding what they were going to do with
him. But the lad who had brought the news, puffed
up with the success he had met with already, demanded:
“What is your name, you?”
