He again reached the dining room and sadly compared himself, in this cabin, to passengers seized with sea-sickness.  Stumbling, he made his way to the closet, examined the mouth organ without opening any of the stops, but instead took from a high shelf a bottle of benedictine which he kept because of its form which to him seemed suggestive of thoughts that were at once gently wanton and vaguely mystic.

But at this moment he remained indifferent, gazing with lack-lustre, staring eyes at this squat, dark-green bottle which, at other times, had brought before him images of the medieval priories by its old-fashioned monkish paunch, its head and neck covered with a parchment hood, its red wax stamp quartered with three silver mitres against a field of azure and fastened at the neck, like a papal bull, with bands of lead, its label inscribed in sonorous Latin, on paper that seemed to have yellowed with age:  Liquor Monachorum Benedictinorum Abbatiae Fiscannensis.

Under this thoroughly abbatial robe, signed with a cross and the ecclesiastic initials ‘D.O.M.’, pressed in between its parchments and ligatures, slept an exquisitely fine saffron-colored liquid.  It breathed an aroma that seemed the quintessence of angelica and hyssop blended with sea-weeds and of iodines and bromes hidden in sweet essences, and it stimulated the palate with a spiritous ardor concealed under a virginal daintiness, and charmed the sense of smell by a pungency enveloped in a caress innocent and devout.

This deceit which resulted from the extraordinary disharmony between contents and container, between the liturgic form of the flask and its so feminine and modern soul, had formerly stimulated Des Esseintes to revery and, facing the bottle, he was inclined to think at great length of the monks who sold it, the Benedictines of the Abbey of Fecamp who, belonging to the brotherhood of Saint-Maur which had been celebrated for its controversial works under the rule of Saint Benoit, followed neither the observances of the white monks of Citeaux nor of the black monks of Cluny.  He could not but think of them as being like their brethren of the Middle Ages, cultivating simples, heating retorts and distilling faultless panaceas and prescriptions.

He tasted a drop of this liquor and, for a few moments, had relief.  But soon the fire, which the dash of wine had lit in his bowels, revived.  He threw down his napkin, returned to his study, and paced the floor.  He felt as if he were under a pneumatic clock, and a numbing weakness stole from his brain through his limbs.  Unable to endure it longer, he betook himself to the garden.  It was the first time he had done this since his arrival at Fontenay.  There he found shelter beneath a tree which radiated a circle of shadow.  Seated on the lawn, he looked around with a besotted air at the square beds of vegetables planted by the servants.  He gazed, but it was only at the end of an hour that he really saw them, for a greenish film floated before his eyes, permitting him only to see, as in the depths of water, flickering images of shifting tones.