the vehemence of an irritated man who uses ten matches to light his tobacco.  He tried in vain to work.  His hand, his eye, and his brain seemed to have lost the knack of painting, as if they had forgotten it, or never had known and practised the art.  He had taken up to finish a little sketch on canvas—­a street corner, at which a blind man stood singing—­and he looked at it with unconquerable indifference, with such a lack of power to continue it that he sat down before it, palette in hand, and forgot it, though continuing to gaze at it with attention and abstracted fixity.

Then, suddenly, impatience at the slowness of time, at the interminable minutes, began to gnaw him with its intolerable fever.  What should he do until he could go to the club for dinner, since he could not work at home?  The thought of the streets tired him only to think of, filled him with disgust for the sidewalks, the pedestrians, the carriages and shops; and the idea of paying visits that day, to no matter whom, aroused in him an instantaneous hatred for everyone he knew.

Then, what should he do?  Should he pace to and fro in his studio, looking at the clock at every turn, watching the displacement of the long hand every few seconds?  Ah, he well knew those walks from the door to the cabinet, covered with ornaments.  In his hours of excitement, impulse, ambition, of fruitful and facile execution, these pacings had been delicious recreation—­these goings and comings across the large room, brightened, animated, and warmed by work; but now, in his hours of powerlessness and nausea, the miserable hours, when nothing seemed worth the trouble of an effort or a movement, it was like the terrible tramping of a prisoner in his cell.  If only he could have slept, even for an hour, on his divan!  But no, he should not sleep; he should only agitate himself until he trembled with exasperation.  Whence came this sudden attack of bad temper?  He thought:  “I am becoming excessively nervous to have worked myself into such a state for so insignificant a cause.”

Then he thought he would take a book.  The volume of La Legende des Siecles had remained on the iron chair where Annette had laid it.  He opened it and read two pages of verse without understanding them.  He understood them no more than if they had been written in a foreign tongue.  He was determined, however, and began again, only to find that what he read had not really penetrated to his mind.  “Well,” said he to himself, “it appears that I am becoming imbecile!” But a sudden inspiration reassured him as to how he should fill the two hours that must elapse before dinner-time.  He had a hot bath prepared, and there he remained stretched out, relaxed and soothed by the warm water, until his valet, bringing his clothes, roused him from a doze.  Then he went to the club, where he found the usual companions.  He was received with open arms and exclamations, for they had not seen him for several days.