There is Maugredie
suspending his judgment on the line that divides facts from words,
mind from matter. Man's 'it is,' and 'it is not,' is always on my
track; it is the _Carymary Carymara_ of Rabelais for evermore: my
disorder is spiritual, _Carymary_, or material, _Carymara_. Shall I live?
They have no idea. Planchette was more straightforward with me, at any
rate, when he said, 'I do not know.'"
Just then Valentin heard Maugredie's voice.
"The patient suffers from monomania; very good, I am quite of that
opinion," he said, "but he has two hundred thousand a year;
monomaniacs of that kind are very uncommon. As for knowing whether his
epigastric region has affected his brain, or his brain his epigastric
region, we shall find that out, perhaps, whenever he dies. But to
resume. There is no disputing the fact that he is ill; some sort of
treatment he must have. Let us leave theories alone, and put leeches
on him, to counteract the nervous and intestinal irritation, as to the
existence of which we all agree; and let us send him to drink the
waters, in that way we shall act on both systems at once. If there
really is tubercular disease, we can hardly expect to save his life;
so that----"
Raphael abruptly left the passage, and went back to his armchair.
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