“She had understood!  Perhaps I ought rather to say that she had grasped the idea.  I had succeeded in getting the knowledge, or, rather, the sensation, of the time into her, just as is the case with carp, who certainly have no clocks, when they are fed every day exactly at the same time.

“When once I had obtained that result all the clocks and watches in the house occupied her attention almost exclusively.  She spent her time in looking at them, listening to them, and in waiting for meal time, and once something very funny happened.  The striking apparatus of a pretty little Louis XVI clock that hung at the head of her bed having got out of order, she noticed it.  She sat for twenty minutes with her eyes on the hands, waiting for it to strike ten, but when the hands passed the figure she was astonished at not hearing anything; so stupefied was she, indeed, that she sat down, no doubt overwhelmed by a feeling of violent emotion such as attacks us in the face of some terrible catastrophe.  And she had the wonderful patience to wait until eleven o’clock in order to see what would happen, and as she naturally heard nothing, she was suddenly either seized with a wild fit of rage at having been deceived and imposed upon by appearances, or else overcome by that fear which some frightened creature feels at some terrible mystery, and by the furious impatience of a passionate individual who meets with some obstacle; she took up the tongs from the fireplace and struck the clock so violently that she broke it to pieces in a moment.

“It was evident, therefore, that her, brain did act and calculate, obscurely it is true, and within very restricted limits, for I could never succeed in making her distinguish persons as she distinguished the time; and to stir her intellect, it was necessary to appeal to her passions, in the material sense of the word, and we soon had another, and alas! a very terrible proof of this!

“She had grown up into a splendid girl, a perfect type of a race, a sort of lovely and stupid Venus.  She was sixteen, and I have rarely seen such perfection of form, such suppleness and such regular features.  I said she was a Venus; yes, a fair, stout, vigorous Venus, with large, bright, vacant eyes, which were as blue as the flowers of the flax plant; she had a large mouth with full lips, the mouth of a glutton, of a sensualist, a mouth made for kisses.  Well, one morning her father came into my consulting room with a strange look on his face, and, sitting down without even replying to my greeting, he said: 

“’I want to speak to you about a very serious matter.  Would it be possible—­would it be possible for Bertha to marry?’

“‘Bertha to marry!  Why, it is quite impossible!’

“‘Yes, I know, I know,’ he replied.  ’But reflect, doctor.  Don’t you think—­perhaps—­we hoped—­if she had children—­it would be a great shock to her, but a great happiness, and—­who knows whether maternity might not rouse her intellect?’