Castle to Castle (5 page)

But let's get back to serious things . . . I was talking about the winter in Bellevue . . . the cold . . . . don't make me laugh . . . I hear people griping . . . I'd like to see them for two minutes under Scandinavian conditions . . . in the Baltic winds, with holes in the roof and the thatch blowing away . . . and twenty below . . . not for a weekend, for five years, Madame! partly in a cell . . . I'd like to see Loukoum cracking the Baltic pack ice . . . Or Achille, for instance, and his gang . . . oh, oh! . . . But first of all, give those birds two years of stir at the Venstre, and Article 75 on their ass . . . I can see the look on their faces . . . it would do them a world of good . . . you could stand to look at them and shake their hands . . . they'd finally get to know something else beside words . . .

I was talking about the island down below . . . there are certain things that need saying . . . things that interest old men . . . they haven't very many seventy-five percent disability cases down there, or men who enlisted in 1912 . . . I'm not finding fault, only saying what's what . . . If I'd been a bit of a drunk from the start, beginning in public school for instance, I'd never have had any trouble, I'd be a sweeper at Dreyfus's now . . . with fringe benefits, security, status . . .

Let's talk about medicine . . . a few patients still come around . . . I won't deny it . . . I can never boast of having no patients at all . . . no! they come around from time to time . . . fine . . . I examine them . . . no worse than other doctors . . . no better . . . I'm friendly, oh, very friendly! and extremely conscientious! . . . never a phony diagnosis . . . never a capricious treatment, in thirty-five years never a risky prescription . . . thirty-five years is a long time when you come to think of it . . . it's not that I don't keep abreast of developments . . . I do, I do . . . I read all the prospectuses from start to finish . . . five, six pounds a week . . . I throw them all in the fire . . . Nobody's going to accuse me of "irre
sponsible medication" . . . once you stray from the old Pharmacopia . . . suffering catfish! . . . where do you think you'll end up? . . . In the criminal courts . . . the Tenth Chamber? . . . Buchenwald? Siberia? . . . No, thank you . . . nobody's going to put me on trial as a cabalist, as a dangerous alchemist. I've got nothing on my conscience. Except one little thing . . . that I never ask for money! I simply can't hold out my hand . . . not even for the Social Security . . . not even for my war pension . . . and I'll never change . . . idiotic pride! And what about the grocer? . . . for noodles? for a package of zwieback? . . . and the coal? . . . or even tap water? . . . I've hurt my reputation more by never taking a cent from my patients than Pétiot° did by cooking them in the oven! . . . I'm an aristocrat, that's all . . . an aristocrat from la Rampe du Pont . . . Mr. Schweitzer, Abbé Pierre,
°
Juanovici,° Latzareff° can afford grand gestures . . . mine just look batty and shady . . . especially in a character that's just out of stir, nobody knows exactly how.

These patients I've been telling you about, the ones that still come around, they tell me all about the state of their health, the ailments that beset them . . . I listen . . . it never stops!

. . . the details, the circumstances . . . compared to what Lili and I have been through in the last twenty years . . . they're amateurs, beginners . . . and the condition it's left us in . . . tender rosebuds . . . give them a third . . . a tenth of it . . . they'd be crawling under the furniture . . . all the furniture . . . bellowing with horror the rest of their lives!

. . . Listening to their jeremiads, I can't help saying to myself, "You numbskull, how did you get yourself into such a mess? What's wrong with you?" I give up. Ask the cat . . . Thomine here that's purring away . . .
brrr
. . .
brrr
. . . on my paper . . . she doesn't give a good goddamn about all my headaches!
brrr!
brrr!
the whole world is indifferent! animals! men! they want a fat man! . . . that's right! . . . as fat as Churchill, Claudel, Picasso, Bulganin all in one! posteri posteras! and
brrr!
brrr!
you'll make it too! . . . Communist- capitalists! All champion belly builders! Coupon-clipping commissars! ghosts of 1900, but improved . . . try and tell my patients for their own good! . . . it's always for their own good! . . . that they might try eating a little less meat . . . to go easy on their digestion! you'll see what hatred is . . . You've stepped on the toes of the gods . . . Food and Drink! no political passion can hold a candle . . . devotion, fervor! . . . an atheist of the beef-steak! an enemy of whiskey? Wipe him out.

For my part, as I was telling you, life . . . even a very ascetic life . . . is very expensive . . . considering that nobody helps us . . . neither the town hall nor the Social Security, nor any political party, nor the police. . . . far from it . . . all the people I see get help . . . they all pimp . . . one way or another . . . more or less . . . a fat envelope . . . free premises . . . like Abbe Pierre . . . like Boileau
°
. . . the Companions of this . . . the Companions of that . . . of the King or the Salvation Army! . . . like Schweitzer, Racine,° Loukoum . . . there's always some feed bag . . . the gravy brothers . . . a penny, if you please.

It would only be funny, and no more . . . I wouldn't gripe if I hadn't been bugged so much on the subject of racism! for ten years, I'm telling you . . . ten years! too crummy to believe! they gripe about their Suez Canal? . . . if they'd dug it with their hands . . . they'd have something to complain about! what they stole from me on the rue Girardon was the work of my hands! . . . will they take it with them to Paradise? . . . maybe . . . ten years of misery, two of them in a cell . . . while they, Racine, Loukoum, Tartre, and Schweitzer were passing the hat one place or another, picking up the dough and the Nobel prizes! . . . enormous sums! stuffed, bloated like Goering, Churchill, Buddha! Superstuffed, plethoric commissars! Ten years, I say! it sticks in my craw . . . including two in the clink . . . with Article 75 on my tail! Who gives a damn? writers of my asshole! . . . nobody bats an eyelash, I can talk myself hoarse, it's as if I'd been having a "unit party" up there, as if I'd given everything I owned to the alcoholics of Montmartre on purpose! . . . and they're not fixing to put up a plaque, with the neighborhood band and a reception at the town hall, saying: "This place was robbed." I know those customers, what doesn't touch them personally, them and their bowels, doesn't exist! never mind! . . . I haven't forgotten a thing . . . the petty thefts or the big ones . . . or the names either . . . not a thing. Like everybody who's a little soft in the head I make up for it by my memory . . . what a laugh! . . . taking advantage of my absence . . . in the clink with Article 75 on my ass . . . to walk off with everything I owned! I've had news of my looters, I keep informed, they're doing all right! Crime has agreed with them . . . the agent Tartre, for instance! . . . down on his knees to me while the Krauts . . . idol of the Youth, Grand Sar of Blah-Blah . . . flabby chin, flabby ass, glasses, smell and all! crossbreed of Mauriac and crab-louse . . . a little of Claudel Gnome et Rhône! ° fragile hybrids . . . scavengers of the plague! crime pays! . . .

While we're on the subject of literature, let me tell you about Denoël° . . . Denoël, who was assassinated . . . oh, he had his nasty ways . . .! There's no denying it, he sold you down the river when necessary . . . given the right time and circumstances, he tied you hand and foot, and sold you out . . . after which he was perfectly capable of changing his mind and apologizing . . . like . . . like (a hundred names) . . . but he had one saving grace . . . his passion for literature . . . he really recognized good work, he had respect for writers . . . Brottin is a horse of a different color . . . Achille Brottin is your sordid grocer, an implacable idiot . . . the only thing he can think about is his dough! more dough! still more! the complete millionaire! More and more flunkeys around him . . . with their tongues hanging out and their pants down . . .

Denoël the assassinated read everything . . . Brottin is like Claudel, all he reads is the financial page . . . his reading is done by the "Pin-brain-Trust": Norbert Loukoum, president . . . ah! . . . their idea of reading is to smoke, wash their feet, and play the trumpet! they decide heads or tails . . . who cares? another author more or less . . . they've got thousands and thousands in the cellar . . . toss the whole mess in the garbage? . . . the garbage collectors won't read it! . . . what do I care? . . . garbage pail! what does that make me look like? Emptying garbage? Me with two garbage cans waiting for me . . . if I don't, who will? . . . not Brottin . . . it's my lookout . . . chin up, boy! not Loukoum! he'd sooner die . . . I've been taking the "chin up, boy" routine for going on sixty-four years . . . and it's time to do it again . . . the garbage can and "chin up, boy" . . . from my place to the road it's a good two hundred yards . . . downhill, I have to admit . . . I take them down in the dark so as not to be seen . . . I leave them on the road . . . but people walk off with them . . . I've had at least ten garbage cans swiped . . . It's not just the "Purges"° . . . but this constant robbery . . . everywhere and always! Besides, toting my own garbage cans doesn't help my reputation any . . . people have stopped calling me "Doctor" . . . just plain "Monsieur" . . . pretty soon they'll be calling me "you old bum!" I'm prepared . . . a doctor without a maid, without a housekeeper, without a car, who hauls his own garbage . . . and to top it off writes books . . . and who's been in prison . . . just think it over . . .

And in the meantime, while you're thinking it over, if you'd buy one or two of my books, it would be a help . . .

Never mind about that . . . what really burns me with hatred . . . especially on this road! is the cars! . . . they never
stop!
there you can see real madness . . . the rush to Versailles! the charge of the motorcars . . . weekdays! Sundays . . . as if gasoline were free . . . one-seaters . . . three-seaters . . . six-seaters! . . . All jam-packed, so help me! . . . where are they all going? . . . to eat, to drink, and worse! . . . more, more! . . . Businessmen's lunches . . . munch, munch . . . business trips . . . biz, biz . . . business belches,
wrp
,
wrp
, it's pitiful . . . and they've stolen three garbage cans from me! millionaires in a fury because their engines won't burst! they splash me . . . and my garbage cans . . . all the while belching
canard aux navets!
plutocrats, Poujadists, Communists, belching and farting all over the freeway! the coalition of
canard aux navets
. Eighty miles an hour! belching and farting harder for the peace of the world than a hundred million pedestrians! Historical duck . . . historical inns! historical menus! . . . you're so drunk when you get up from table (
Château Trompette 1900
) it's a pure miracle! . . . a flick of the wheel . . . if you don't demolish the whole embankment, and the maple tree and the poplar with it! not to mention your steering geer! bingo! two thousand poplars! wild expedition! autopunitive! screeching stinking brakes! . . . the whole freeway and the tunnel! . . . roaring drunk . . . passing, double-passing, plunging into the chasm! ah, the delirium, the fervor of it! . . . ah, 
Château Trompette 1900!
. . . new life in your veins! . . . into the chasm!
Canard aux navets!
. . . thirteen hundred cars bumper to bumper! Christ almighty Jesus, flesh bursting with blood, ready to roast! step on the gas! the oven opens! The Mass is ready! Not with holy water . . . with hot blood, the whole tunnel full of blood and guts . . . the rare bird who escapes will never really know whether he's killed the others or not . . . Crusade! Off to the wars! pilgrims of the accelerator! Seize the moment, crush the poplars! farting, belching, furious, drunk as lords! 
Château Trompette!
duckling maison! The cops look on . . . grumble . . . wave their arms . . . stir up the air! . . . From thirty miles around the faithful have come . . . to see it all! to take it in! both embankments are full of them . . . mamas, papas, aunties, babies! sadistic sheep! the abyss at eighty miles an hour, the fire-balls, the cops in despair . . . stirring the atmosphere! . . . smoking tunnel! 
Château
 
Trompette!
. . . burning asphalt! . . .

Oh, if I were rich, I tell you, or if I even had Social Security, I'd watch all this disorder, all this dilapidation of hydrocarbon, lipides, and rubber, this crusade of gasoline, duck, and super-booze, with Napoleonic calm! mamas, papas, jalopies . . . let them all be swallowed up . . . why not? Three cheers! But the trouble is . . . I haven't the wherewithal . . . can't afford it . . . that's all . . . and you're taken with resentment, bitterness, hatred . . . being splattered by those swine . . . knowing that at every stopover, every Yquem, every spin of their wheels they run through enough for us to live a month on! . . . without even smashing up! uprooting a hedge! . . . Their masochistic rage doesn't impress me! . . . hell no . . . or Loukoum's corset! or Tartre's crummy tricks . . . or Achille's googoo eyes . . . any more than Vaillant!°. . . what makes him valiant, I'd like to know? . . . who tried to murder me . . . that's right . . . he went up there with exactly that in mind! so he runs around telling all and sundry . . . he even writes about it! . . . hell! I'm here! it's not too late! let him come, I'm waiting for him. I'm always here, I never go out, I stay in especially for the latecomers . . . another spring . . . two . . . or three . . . I won't be here any more . . . it'll be too late . . . I'll have died a natural death . . .

Drinking water? . . . sure, sure . . . taste it . . . tastes like chlorine, you say? . . . might go down with plenty of wine in it . . . but straight? . . . it's a joke, but it's not funny . . . this alleged drinking water saturated with chlorine . . . it's undrinkable, I say . . . oh, there are plenty of other things to complain about . . . my situation in general . . . and anyway I bore everybody with my lamentations . . . I have my nerve . . . Achille Brottin said exactly that the other night: "Make them laugh! You used to know how. Can't you do it anymore? . . ." He was surprised. "Everybody has his little troubles! you're not the only one! . . . I've got mine too, don't worry . . . If you'd lost a hundred and thirty million on de Beers . . . forty-seven million on Suez! and listen . . . in two sessions! and fourteen million on the "Croix"—that I had to take to Geneva myself . . . at my age! crosses
°
to the buyer . . . luckily my son helped me . . . fourteen million in 20-Swiss-franc pieces! . . . can you imagine?" I thought it over, I tried to imagine . . . Norbert imagined too . . . he was present . . . Norbert Loukoum, president of his "Pin-brain-Trust" . . . he said it was awful . . . the tears came to his eyes! . . . Achille, the poor dear old man, toting fourteen million crosses . . . conclusion: "Céline, you're washed up! . . . You owe us enormous sums of money, and you've got no more verve! . . . Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" When Loukoum says "verve" . . . his mouth is so thick and blubbery . . . what you hear is pretty funny . . . it's his age! besides, his words come out like marbles of shit . . ."cloaca diction" . . . in feeble spasms . . . Anyway, Norbert Loukoum crows in feeble spasms . . . that nobody reads my books anymore . . . he, president of the "Pin-brain-Trust"! nonentity triumphant!

Okay! . . . I know where I stand . . . they hate me . . . nothing to be surprised at . . . but what about my friends? . . . supposedly heartbroken that I can't manage to make up for it with my medicine . . . as a practitioner . . . that I ought . . . blah! . . . pure devotion . . . balls! with my intuition! my miraculous cures! . . . and blah! . . . the truth of the matter is that my old friends are mostly waiting for me to kick off . . . they all picked up a few manuscripts, papers, dibs and dabs, at the time of the great pillage . . . on stairways . . . in garbage cans . . . in safekeeping foreseeing that once I kicked off it was all bound to be valuable . . . but couldn't I kick off right away, Christ almighty! . . .

I know all that's been taken, I have the inventory in my head . . . "Casse Pipe" . . . "Volonté du Roi Krogold" . . . plus two or three rough drafts . . . not lost at all . . . not for everybody! Certainly not! And I know something else, but I don't let on . . . I listen to my friends . . . sure . . . I'm waiting for them to kick off too! Them first! They all eat a lot more than I do! just let one little arteriole burst! hope! hope! . . . and I'll meet them all in Charon's boat, enemies, friends, all with their guts around their necks! . . . Charon smashing their faces in . . . good! . . . ah, sadistic Norbert! he had it coming to him . . . Brutal! He and Achille . . . they'll be torn open from ear to ear . . . they'll have a kind of loudspeaker for their nasty remarks! each one of them!
bingo!
and
wham!
atta boy, Charon! . . . it's all set up! ah, Achille won't be thinking of his Suez stock any more! or his de Beers! or his crosses! . . . square in the face! bang! Ah, they'll look sweet in Charon's bark! and the whole "Brain Trust" with them, don't forget! . . . their mugs wide open and their eyes dangling . . . That's how Charon treats his passengers . . . won't it be comical! . . . much funnier than Renault in Fresnes!° . . . When my old friends come to take a little look . . . to see if I won't be passing on soon, I get a good laugh, I see them on the Styx, and Charon tickling them! . . .
boom
. . .
bam!
that's for their thieving ways! Those little faces! Oh, they're so clever! . . . Loukoum's rosebud mouth is just right for it . . . so blubbery and twisted the only sounds you can make out are 
vuâââ! wâââ! . . . profuse buca! cloaca! . . .
hell look lovely
split from ear to ear! The whimsical Norbert . . . and Achille! with his lascivious googoo eye hanging behind his ear! . . . I can see it . . . or a charm on his watch chain . . . or around his neck . . . Fetching! . . .

Confidentially, my friends don't know a thing . . . sure! sure! . . . they rub their hands over the Renault business . . . let them! But what about the Charon business? . . . hell . . . they suspect nothing . . . they deny, they smoke, they fart . . . smug . . . sardonic . . . practically sure of living a hundred years thanks to those little pills . . . and. those Mirador super-drops . . . I may be a sap, but never mind . . . one thing I know . . . I know how Charon'll get to them . . . Boy, will they look funny in his boat! . . . Split, that's right!
smash
and
wham
, from ear to ear . . . meanwhile they give me a pain in the ass . . . they hand me a line, they perorate, they get drunk on hot air . . . and so sure of themselves . . . their fifteen-shelf cabinets full of suppositories and drops . . . not to mention the apéritIt's! what a selection! . . . sweet ones, bitter ones! total optimism! ah! ah! . . . a dab of foie gras, a cigarette, two glasses of Mumm's . . . you wouldn't believe it . . . the roadside restaurant at home! . . . the freeway at home! . . . they think you look pale and worn! depressed, neurasthenic! and they gave
you
advice . . . those diets you recommend are no good! in the first place! the living proof! their wives keep telling them to stop seeing you! that you're wrecking their stomachs, their livers, their spleens . . . that you, singlehanded, are capable of darkening all the fireworks in the world . . . with your gloom . . . that you ought to be forbidden to practice . . . because you've been in prison, and why not put you back? . . . in a way they're right . . . but I'm not wrong either . . . drooling and doddering, okay! . . . but plenty of ardor and passion about one thing . . . having them all croak before me . . . the whole lot of them! Let them wallow in steaks . . . etcetera, etcetera! until they burst . . . with all the trimmings!

I'm only thinking, anticipating . . . the two of them . . . Achille and Loukoum . . . are still talking . . . I'd stopped listening . . . they repeat themselves . . . "How funny you used to be!" I agree that I was rather droll, that maybe I'd be droll again . . . with a bit of a bank account . . . like Achille, for instance . . . that's right, like Achille . . . with his "hundredth" all tucked up in the bank . . . hallelujah! or like Loukoum, his grand castrator . . . punks if there ever were, both of them . . . but situated, glory be, where the manna falls . . . honors, dividends, security! . . . "Family, Work, Country"?° Shit! . . . It was a good idea to rub him out . . . Verdun, blah blah . . . I knew him with his sixteen "maps" in Siegmaringen, I know what I'm talking about.

But one fact remains . . . that my books don't sell any more . . . so they say . . . or not much . . . that I'm outmoded, senile! that's hogwash! a put-up job! . . . their idea is to buy it all up from my widow for a song! . . . sure . . . I admit it, I'm getting on! But what about Norbert? Doesn't he ever look at himself? And Achille . . . when you open the door, you've got to hold him . . . or the draft would blow him away . . . and his whole Pin-brain-Trust with him . . . they're all so doddering there's nothing else in the world . . . the only thing they understand is the way they go
mmm! pfwdh! plop!
underneath! wet farts! . . . I could go
pfwah! plop!
too! Which reminds me of Christian IV. . . . another big farter Christian IV of Denmark! all his life! . . . all he did was to fart around . . . like Brottin . . . Brottin in publishing, Christian IV in royalty . . . his tricks were the death of him! . . . like Brottin! . . . I went up there to his kingdom . . . to have a look . . . to get the feel of his prisons . . . it wasn't him any more, it was his arch-descendant Christian X, a stupid rotten double-timing Boche . . . after we got out, we lived across the way from him, in a garret: Kronprinzesssgade
°
. . . go see if you've got the nerve to live in a street with a name like that! . . . which shows that we know something about him . . . Rosenborg Castle . . . I'll tell you about it . . . but meanwhile let's get back to my present . . . not so rosy . . . and more hard days to come . . . mostly on account of Brottin! Brottin the frantic spoiler! the stamp collecting slob! Brottin with his cellar full of Prix Goncourts . . . full of worthless novels . . . maybe he shits them . . .
flop! plop!
. . . if you find him quieter, even more googoo-eyed than usual, it means that he's pondering, cogitating, shitting his thousand and thirteenth author. The King of Publishing, so to speak!

Charon will wake him out of his reflections! with an oar, dear lady . . .
wham!
. . .
smash!
. . .

I apologize for talking about myself . . . I'm overdoing it . . . troubles? . . . you have your own! . . . these literary men are the limit . . . so afflicted with me-me-ism . . . and what about doctors? Just as bad! . . . and plumbers? . . . and barbers? . . . all the same . . . no modesty . . . and cabinet ministers? . . . and Abbé Pierre, the one-man movie? . . . I keep thinking of Charon . . . the way he'll knock the me-me-ism out of them! the whole crew! with his blessed oar full in the snout!
wham!
from ear to ear! . . . you get the picture . . . their heads practically off! their eyes dangling! . . . the ferry to the other world . . . that come-on for tourists!
bingo! zing!
. . . from ear to ear! crowds of the well-heeled rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff . . . extra-small pension holders . . . very languid
dames aux camélias
, bearded magistrates, Olympian sportsmen, all pell-mell, getting their faces split!
wham!
Why wouldn't I write about the Stygian Guignol instead of my own mawkish troubles? Maybe that would boost my sales? Kramp thinks so . . . Kramp who packs the bundles at Hirsch's . . . When it comes to flair and intelligence, Kramp is a little less of a dunce than Achille . . . not quite so intent on making a mess of everything . . . he has an occupation at least . . . he delivers . . . it's unusual to find a man who does something . . .

No doubt about it . . . if I belonged to a Cell, a Synagogue, a Lodge, a Party, a Church, a Police Force . . . no matter which . . . if I'd come out of the folds of some "Iron Curtain" —I'd do all right! sure as shit! . . . to some Circus . . . that's how Maurois, Mauriac, Thorez, Tartre, Claudel do it . . . and the rest of them! . . . Abbé Pierre . . . Schweitzer . . . Barnum . . . I'd have nothing to be ashamed of . . . and no question of age! Nobel Prize and Grand Cross guaranteed . . . Doddering, decrepit, pissy, no matter, you're an "honorary this and that," a party standard bearer . . . Juanovicist? okay! anything goes, you can do what you please as long as you're a fully recognized clown! as long as it's perfectly clear that you belong to a Circus . . . you don't? . . . that's bad! No tent? The ax! . . . When I think of the "tent" I had! . . . When I think that Altaian° . . . who now calls me a sub-shit, an obscene mercenary monster, the disgrace of France, Montmartre, the Colonies, and the Soviets . . . went sick with ecstasy from reading the
Journey
. . . and not in
petto
! not at all! but in Barbusse's "Le Monde" . . . in the days when Madame Triolette° and her gastritic Larengon° translated that excellent work into Russian . . . which gave me an opportunity to take a gander at their Russia!
at my expense!
and not at the expense of the government like Gide and Malraux and all the rest, the deputies and so on . . . you can see I was sitting pretty! I'm putting the dots on the i's! . . . a little better than the agent Tartre! crypto of my balls . . . that blind crab-louse! one look at him is enough to send you to the hospital! I could have unseated Barbusse! . . . Palace hotels, Crimea, Security forever! The U.S.S.R. opened its arms to me . . . I really have something to laugh about . . . What's done is done, I know . . . History doesn't pass the platter twice . . . they settled for what they could get . . . Zola three times diluted . . . leavings of Bourget! unsalable crap! . . . Achille's cellars are full of it! . . . tomorrow Latzareff! . . . Madame! . . . Tintin! . . . tomorrow their servants . . . every last dishwasher . . . will have his little idea!

The reception they'll get from Charon?
That's the question!
. . .
Wham! Bam!
Take it from me!

But back to my story . . . now and then, I've got to admit, some stubborn bastard manages to discover me in the sub-basement of some storehouse under a pyramid of returns . . . oh, I could easily get used to the idea of being the scribbler that nobody reads any more . . . rejected by pure, purified Vrance! the doctor more monstrous than Pétiot! more criminal than Bougrat° . . . oh, I could be perfectly happy about it . . . but there's the question of noodles . . . which defy dialectics . . . the question of cash! Loukoum, Achille, and company are secure on the noodle end . . . which accounts for their philosophical airs . . . take away their noodles, you'll hear them screech all right! With the noodles there's no reprieve. "And what about the other string to your bow?" I can hear you asking. "Medicine?" The patients shun me, that's all. I admit it . . . Out of fashion? . . . Definitely . . . I'm not up on the new drugs? . . . that's a lie . . . I get them all . . . I read all the prospectuses from A to Z . . . do my colleagues know any more? Not a thing. What more do they read? Nothing. Have I got the healer's instinct? I'm saturated with it! traversed by waves and fluids . . . with a quarter of the "new drugs" I get . . . a tenth . . . I could poison all Billancourt, Issy, etc. . . . and Vaugirard! Landru° hands me a laugh . . . all the trouble he went to! . . . when it comes to "doing good," nothing escapes me! the most shattering discoveries! . . . I wouldn't be like my colleagues who let penicillin molder and rot for fifty years! a stupidity more magnificent than Suez! While I watch and wake! I can rejuvenate any nonagenarian that comes around in five seconds . . . make him twenty . . . thirty years younger . . . I've got the serum right here on my desk . . . What healer can hold a candle to me? . . . serious, guaranteed, certified, reimbursed by the Social Security! an ampul before each meal . . . make you a super-Romeo! "Relativity" in ampuls! . . . I'll make you a present of it! you drink up Time, so to speak . . . the wrinkles, the melancholia . . . the acid stomach! the hot flashes . . . What can I go into? . . . the Comedie-Francaise, young lady! Arnolphe jumping rope . . . reinvigorated! Madeleine Renaud will be Minou, Achille will go to the Luxembourg! to the puppet show! And what about the Academy? . . . Mauriac at last a choir boy . . . not bothering us any more . . . all his inhibitions exposed . . . an ampul before every meal! guaranteed by the Social Security . . .