These reversions to religion, these intimations of faith tormented him particularly since the changes that had lately taken place in his health.  Their progress coincided with that of his recent nervous disorders.

He had been tortured since his youth by inexplicable aversions, by shudderings which chilled his spine and made him grit his teeth, as, for example, when he saw a girl wringing wet linen.  These reactions had long persisted.  Even now he suffered poignantly when he heard the tearing of cloth, the rubbing of a finger against a piece of chalk, or a hand touching a bit of moire.

The excesses of his youthful life, the exaggerated tension of his mind had strangely aggravated his earliest nervous disorder, and had thinned the already impoverished blood of his race.  In Paris, he had been compelled to submit to hydrotherapic treatments for his trembling fingers, frightful pains, neuralgic strokes which cut his face in two, drummed maddeningly against his temples, pricked his eyelids agonizingly and induced a nausea which could be dispelled only by lying flat on his back in the dark.

These afflictions had gradually disappeared, thanks to a more regulated and sane mode of living.  They now returned in another form, attacking his whole body.  The pains left his head, but affected his inflated stomach.  His entrails seemed pierced by hot bars of iron.  A nervous cough racked him at regular intervals, awakening and almost strangling him in his bed.  Then his appetite forsook him; gaseous, hot acids and dry heats coursed through his stomach.  He grew swollen, was choked for breath, and could not endure his clothes after each attempt at eating.

He shunned alcoholic beverages, coffee and tea, and drank only milk.  And he took recourse to baths of cold water and dosed himself with assafoetida, valerian and quinine.  He even felt a desire to go out, and strolled about the country when the rainy days came to make it desolate and still.  He obliged himself to take exercise.  As a last resort, he temporarily abandoned his books and, corroded with ennui, determined to make his listless life tolerable by realizing a project he had long deferred through laziness and a dislike of change, since his installment at Fontenay.

Being no longer able to intoxicate himself with the felicities of style, with the delicious witchery of the rare epithet which, while remaining precise, yet opens to the imagination of the initiate infinite and distant vistas, he determined to give the finishing touches to the decorations of his home.  He would procure precious hot-house flowers and thus permit himself a material occupation which might distract him, calm his nerves and rest his brain.  He also hoped that the sight of their strange and splendid nuances would in some degree atone for the fanciful and genuine colors of style which he was for the time to lose from his literary diet.

Chapter 8