/0/1886/coverbig.jpg?v=fe46427dcd7cc4fdc766e002df419a13)
Conscience -- Volume 4 by Hector Malot
Conscience -- Volume 4 by Hector Malot
During the first years of his sojourn in Paris, Saniel had published in a Latin Quarter review an article on the "Pharmacy of Shakespeare"-the poison of Hamlet, and of Romeo and Juliet; and although since his choice of medicine he read but little besides books of science, at that time he was obliged to study the plays of his author. From this study there lingered in his memory a phrase that for ten years had not risen to his lips, and which all at once forced itself uppermost in his mind with exasperating persistency. It was the words of Macbeth:
"Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds."
He also had lost it, "the innocent sleep, sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds." He had never been a great sleeper; at least he had accustomed himself to the habit, hard at first, of passing only a few hours in bed. But he employed these few hours well, sleeping as the weary sleep, hands clenched, without dreaming, waking, or moving; and the thought that occupied his mind in the evening was with him on waking in the morning, not having been put to flight by others, any more than by dreams.
After Caffie's death this tranquil and refreshing sleep continued the same; but suddenly, after Madame Dammauville's death, it became broken.
At first it did not bother him. He did not sleep, so much the better! He would work more. But one can no more work all the time than one can live without eating. Saniel knew better than any one that the life of every organ is composed of alternate periods of repose and activity, and he did not suppose that he would be able to work indefinitely without sleep. He only hoped that after some days of twenty hours of work daily, overcome by fatigue, he would have, in spite of everything, four hours of solid sleep, that Shakespeare called "sore labor's bath."
He had not had these four hours, and the law that every state of prolonged excitement brings exhaustion that should be refreshed by a functional rest, was proved false in his case. After a hard day's work he would go to bed at one o'clock in the morning and would go to sleep immediately. But very soon he awoke with a start, suffocating, covered with perspiration, in a state of extreme anxiety, his mind agitated by hallucinations of which he could not rid himself all at once. If he did not wake suddenly, he dreamed frightful dreams, always of Madame Dammauville or Caffie. Was it not curious that Caffie, who until then had been completely effaced from his memory, was resuscitated by Madame Dammauville in the night, ghost of the darkness that the daylight dissipated?
Believing that one of the causes of these dreams was the excitement of the brain, occasioned by excessive work at the hour when he should not exercise it, but on the contrary should allow it to rest, he decided to change a plan which produced so little success. Instead of intellectual work he would engage in physical exercise, which, by exhausting his muscular functions, would procure him the sleep of the laboring class; and as he could not roll a wheelbarrow nor chop wood, every evening after dinner he walked seven or eight miles rapidly.
Physical work succeeded no better than intellectual; he endured the fatigue of butchers and wood-choppers, but he did not obtain their sleep. Decidedly, bodily fatigue was worth no more than that of the brain. It was worth even less. At his table, plunged in his books, or in his laboratory over his microscope, he absorbed himself in his work, and, by the force of a will that had been long exercised and submissive to obedience, he was able to keep his thoughts on the subject in hand, without distraction as without dreams. Time passed. But when walking in the streets of Paris, in the deserted roads on the outskirts, by the Seine or Marne, his mind wandered where it would; it was the mistress, and it always dwelt on Madame Dammauville, Caffie, and Florentin. It seemed as if the heat of walking started his brain. When he returned in this state, after many hours of cerebral excitability, how could he find the tranquil and refreshing sleep, complete and profound, of the laboring classes who work only with their muscles?
Never having been ill, he had never examined nor treated himself: medicine was good for others but useless for him. With a machine organized like his he need fear only accidents, and until now he had been spared them; a true son of peasants, he victoriously resisted Paris life as the destroyer of the intellect. But the time had come to undertake an examination and to try a treatment that would give him rest. He was not a sceptical doctor, and he believed that what he ordered for others was good for himself.
The misfortune was that he could not find in himself any of the causes which resolve into insomnia; he had neither meningitis nor brain fever, nor anything that indicated a cerebral tumor; he was not anaemic; he ate well; he did not suffer with neuralgia, nor with any acute or chronic affection that generally accompanied the absence of sleep; he drank neither tea nor alcohol; and without this state of over-excitement of the encephalic centres, he might have said that he was in good health, a little thin, but that was all.
It was this excitement that he must cure, and as there are many remedies for insomnia, he tried those which, it seemed to him, were suitable to his case; but bromide of potassium, in spite of its hypnotic properties, produced no more effect than the over-working of the brain and body. When he realized this he replaced it with chloral; but chloral, which should create a desire to sleep, after several days had no more effect than the bromide. Then he tried injections of morphine.
It was not without a certain uneasiness that he made this third trial, the first two having met with so little success; and since it is acknowledged that chloral produces a calmer sleep than morphine, it seemed as if the latter would prove as useless as the former. However, he slept without being tormented by dreams or wakings, and the next day he still slept.
But he knew too well the effects produced by a prolonged use of these injections to continue them beyond what was strictly indispensable; he therefore omitted them, and sleep left him.
He tried them again; then, soon, as the small doses lost their efficacy, he gradually increased them. At the end of a certain time what he feared came to pass-his leanness increased; he lost his appetite, his muscular force, and his moral energy; his pale face began to wear the characteristic expression of the morphomaniac.
Then he stopped, frightened.
Should he continue, he would become a morphomaniac in a given time, and the apathy into which he fell prevented him from resisting the desire to absorb new doses of poison, a desire as imperious, as irresistible in morphinism as that of alcohol for the alcoholic, and more terrible in its effects-the perversion of the intellectual faculties, loss of will, of memory, of judgment, paralysis, or the mania that leads to suicide.
If he did not continue, and these sleepless nights or the agitated sleep which maddened him should return, and following them, this over- excitement of the brain in troubling the nutrition of the encephalic mass, it might be the prelude of some grave cerebral affection.
On one side the morphine habit; on the other, dementia from the constant excitement and disorganization of the brain.
Between a fatally certain result and one that was possible he did not hesitate. He must give up morphine, and this choice forced itself upon him with so much more strength, because if morphine assured him sleep at night, it by no means gave him tranquil days-quite the contrary.
He began to use this remedy at night when he fell under the influence of certain ideas; during the day when applying himself to work, by an effort of will he escaped from these ideas, and was the man he had always been, master of his strength and mind. But the action of the morphine rapidly weakened this all-powerful will, so much so, that when these ideas crossed his mind during his working hours he had not the energy to drive them away. He tried to shake them off, but in vain; they would not leave his brain, to which they clung and encompassed it with increasing strength.
Truly, those two corpses troubled him horribly. Was it not exasperating for a man who had seen and dissected so many, that there should be always two before his eyes, even when they were closed-that of this old rascal and of this unfortunate woman? In order not to complicate this impression with another that humiliated him, he got rid of the packages of bank bills taken from Caffie, by sending them "as restitution" to the director of public charities. But this had no appreciable effect.
The thought of Florentin troubled him also; and if he saw Caffie lying in his chair, Madame Dammauville motionless and pink on her bed, to him it was not less cruel to see Florentin between the decks of the vessel that would soon carry him to New Caledonia.
The ideas on conscience that he had expressed at Crozat's, and those that he explained to Phillis about remorse, were still his; but he was not the less certain that these two dead persons and the condemned one weighed upon him with a terrible weight, frightful, suffocating, like a nightmare. It was not in accordance with his education nor with his environment to have these corpses behind him and this victim before him.
But where his former ideas were overthrown, since these dead bodies seized hold of his life, was in his confidence in his strength.
The strong man that he believed himself, he who follows his ambition regardless of things and of persons, looking only before him and never behind, master of his mind as of his heart and of his arm, was not at all the one that reality revealed.
On the contrary, he had been weak in action and yet weaker afterward.
And it was not only humiliation in the present that he felt in acknowledging this weakness, it was also in uneasiness for the future; for, if he lacked this strength that he attributed to himself before having tested it, he should, if his beliefs were true, succumb some day.
Evidently, if he were perfectly strong he would not have complicated his life with love. The strong walk alone because they need no one. And he needed a woman; and so great was the need that it was through her only, near her, when he looked at her, when he listened to her, that he experienced a little calm.
Was he weak and cowardly on account of this? Perhaps not, but only human.
Un roman habilement construit, où Hector Malot dénonce sans concession les intrigues du prince Louis-Napoléon, et nous brosse un portrait riche en couleurs de la société et des caractères du début du Second EmpireLe capitaine Guillaume de Saint-Nérée, officier rigoureux, honnête et loyal au régime républicain, se trouve à Paris au moment du coup d'Etat du 2 décembre 1851 ; il assiste impuissant et révolté au déroulement du complot et en décrit avec précision les mécanismes.De retour en garnison à Marseille, il est chargé de pacifier le pays varois, où se sont insurgés les partisans de la République. Il se retrouve écartelé entre son sens de l'honneur et l'amour qu'il porte à Clotilde, jeune Provençale, charmante, irrésistible et pleine de finesse, fille d'un vieux général de Napoléon Ier.Découvrez les oeuvres d'Hector Malot, publiées par Encrage Edition. Des romans réalistes et sociaux pour plonger au coeur du 19e siècleEXTRAITQuand on a passé six années en Algérie à courir après les Arabes, les Kabyles et les Marocains, on éprouve une véritable béatitude à se retrouver au milieu du monde civilisé.C'est ce qui m'est arrivé en débarquant à Marseille. Parti de France en juin 1845, je revenais en juillet 1851. Il y avait donc six années que j'étais absent ; et ces années-là, prises de vingt-trois à vingt-neuf ans, peuvent, il me semble, compter double. Je ne mets pas en doute la légende des anachorètes, mais je me figure que ces sages avaient dépassé la trentaine, quand ils allaient chercher la solitude dans les déserts de la Thébaïde. S'il est un âge où l'on éprouve le besoin de s'ensevelir dans la continuelle admiration des œuvres divines, il en est un aussi où l'on préfère les distractions du monde aux pratiques de la pénitence. Je suis précisément dans celui-là.A PROPOS DE L'AUTEURHector Malot, né à la Bouille (près de Rouen), le 20 mai 1830, mort à Fontenay-sous-Bois, le 17 juillet 1907, devint, après des études de droit et des emplois de clerc de notaire puis de journaliste, l'auteur d'environ soixante-dix romans de veine réaliste, dans lesquels il offre un panorama fidèle de tous les milieux de la société de son siècle.
HAUPOIS-DAGUILLON (Ch. P.), ** orfèvre fournisseur des cours d'Angleterre, d'Espagne, de Belgique, de Grèce, rue Royale, maisons à Londres Regent street, et à Madrid, calle de la Montera. - (0) 1802-6-19-23-27-31-44-40. - (P.M.) Londres, 1851. - (A) New-York, 1853. - Hors concours, Londres 1862 et Paris 1867.
Loving a man who doesn’t want to marry you is the most painful thing in the world. He is the devil who can kill you and throw you out like a piece of garbage. Hearing the news of Hunter’s marriage left Adeline devastated. Until one night, Adeline had made the mistake of delivering herself to a man who would soon be someone else’s. “Don’t you have a little me in your heart, Hunter Bennett?” Adeline asked softly. “No, you don’t. You were never in my heart. To me you’re just like every other woman I’ve slept with,” Hunter replied sharply. That night made Adeline realize that Hunter was a man she could never reach. An unrequited love made Adeline choose to leave and disappear forever from the man. After years of disappearance, the universe reunites them again. So how will Adeline and Hunter continue when Adeline’s love has been shrouded in hatred?
"Mr. Evans, please maintain some dignity. Don't forget I'm your brother's wife!" Having caught her husband and best friend together in the bed, Elena wanted nothing more than to exact revenge on the people she once called family. She refused to be a pitiful divorcee and vowed to make everyone who had once looked down on her beg for forgiveness. And to start with her newfound freedom, Elena indulges in a one-night stand with a stranger. However, what was meant to be a fleeting escape turns into a nightmare when she learns that the stranger is none other than her husband's older brother! Would Elena be free from the shackles of her marriage? Or would the mysterious stranger make her life a living hell since he seemed to have a personal vendetta against his family? [The story is 18+ and involves mature content.]
Betrayed by her mate and sister on the eve of her wedding, Makenna was handed to the ruthless Lycan Princes as a lover, her indifferent father ignoring her plight. Determined to escape and seek revenge, she captured the interest of the three Lycan princes, who desired her exclusively amid many admirers. This complicated her plans, trapping her and making her a rival to the future Lycan queen. Entwined in jealousy and vindictiveness, could Makenna achieve her vengeance in the intricate dance with the three princes?
After a heated confrontation with her husband and mistress, Brianna was pushed down to stairs. She thought she would die but when she woke up again, she realized that she traveled back two years ago, when it was not late for her to correct her path. The first thing she needed to do when she was reborn was divorce that scum. She saved from the darkest time but he lied to her and murdered her in the end. This time, she would not repeat the same mistakes anymore. She would bring the glory of her family back and make those people who betrayed her pay the price! However, in the process of climbing up to the peak of her career, she met a very intimidating and handsome man who kept on messing with her head through his bold attitude. Brianna doesn't want to be involved with another man again, for she has proven to herself that they will just drag her down, but her constant incidents with him are slowly breaking the wall she built to protect her heart. Brianna will surely choose her career over a man this time, but it's possible to choose both, right? What if he hurt her too? No! She won't risk it but. "You have to run away from me, Bree. Coz I'm done running away, I'll chase you now."
PERMISSION IS TAKEN FRIM THE ORIGINAL, BE WARNED!! Do you believe in Myths? Just when she thinks it can't get any worse, it does. Lucy lost everything four years ago in a rogue attack. She's been abused, starved, rejected, and broken. As her eighteenth birthday approaches, strange things start to happen, things that only happen once every century. She finds friendship in the most unlikely place and escapes to find her true self with the help of the most dangerous Alpha. Warning: This werewolf trilogy is not intended for anyone under the age of 18 or anyone who doesn't enjoy a good spanking. It will take you on adventures around the world, make you laugh, fall in love, crush your heart and possibly leave you drooling.
Janice, the long-forgotten legitimate heiress, made her way back to her family, pouring her heart into winning their hearts. Yet, she had to relinquish her very identity, her academic credentials, and her creative works to her foster sister. In return for her sacrifices, she found no warmth, only deeper neglect. Resolute, Janice vowed to cut off all emotional bonds. Transformed, she now stood as a master of martial arts, adept in eight languages, an esteemed medical expert, and a celebrated designer. With newfound resolve, she declared, "From this day forward, no one in this family shall cross me."
© 2018-now CHANGDU (HK) TECHNOLOGY LIMITED
6/F MANULIFE PLACE 348 KWUN TONG ROAD KL
TOP