also, and, seated motionless at his side, gazed at him with its threatening countenance.  He suffered from terrible headaches, followed by nights of insomnia.  He had nervous attacks, which he soothed with narcotics and anesthetics, which he used freely.  His sight, which had troubled him at intervals, became affected, and a celebrated oculist spoke of abnormality, asymmetry of the pupils.  The famous young man trembled in secret and was haunted by all kinds of terrors.

The reader is charmed at the saneness of this revived art and yet, here and there, he is surprised to discover, amid descriptions of nature that are full of humanity, disquieting flights towards the supernatural, distressing conjurations, veiled at first, of the most commonplace, the most vertiginous shuddering fits of fear, as old as the world and as eternal as the unknown.  But, instead of being alarmed, he thinks that the author must be gifted with infallible intuition to follow out thus the taints in his characters, even through their most dangerous mazes.  The reader does not know that these hallucinations which he describes so minutely were experienced by Maupassant himself; he does not know that the fear is in himself, the anguish of fear “which is not caused by the presence of danger, or of inevitable death, but by certain abnormal conditions, by certain mysterious influences in presence of vague dangers,” the “fear of fear, the dread of that horrible sensation of incomprehensible terror.”

How can one explain these physical sufferings and this morbid distress that were known for some time to his intimates alone?  Alas! the explanation is only too simple.  All his life, consciously or unconsciously, Maupassant fought this malady, hidden as yet, which was latent in him.

As his malady began to take a more definite form, he turned his steps towards the south, only visiting Paris to see his physicians and publishers.  In the old port of Antibes beyond the causeway of Cannes, his yacht, Bel Ami, which he cherished as a brother, lay at anchor and awaited him.  He took it to the white cities of the Genoese Gulf, towards the palm trees of Hyeres, or the red bay trees of Antheor.

After several tragic weeks in which, from instinct, he made a desperate fight, on the 1st of January, 1892, he felt he was hopelessly vanquished, and in a moment of supreme clearness of intellect, like Gerard de Nerval, he attempted suicide.  Less fortunate than the author of Sylvia, he was unsuccessful.  But his mind, henceforth “indifferent to all unhappiness,” had entered into eternal darkness.

He was taken back to Paris and placed in Dr. Meuriot’s sanatorium, where, after eighteen months of mechanical existence, the “meteor” quietly passed away.

BOULE DE SUIF