He seemed to suffer a great deal more than the day before.
His broken murmurs disclosed all sorts of ailments.
Thousands of pins were pricking him.
He felt something heavy all about his body; some cold, wet animal was crawling over his thighs and digging its fangs into his flesh.
Then there were other animals sticking to his shoulders, tearing his back with their claws.
“I’m thirsty, oh!
I’m thirsty!” groaned he continually.
The house surgeon handed him a little lemonade from a small shelf; Coupeau seized the mug in both hands and greedily took a mouthful, spilling half the liquid over himself; but he spat it out at once with furious disgust, exclaiming:
“Damnation!
It’s brandy!”
Then, on a sign from the doctor, the house surgeon tried to make him drink some water without leaving go of the bottle.
This time he swallowed the mouthful, yelling as though he had swallowed fire.
“It’s brandy; damnation!
It’s brandy!”
Since the night before, everything he had had to drink was brandy.
It redoubled his thirst and he could no longer drink, because everything burnt him.
They had brought him some broth, but they were evidently trying to poison him, for the broth smelt of vitriol.
The bread was sour and moldy.
There was nothing but poison around him.
The cell stank of sulphur.
He even accused persons of rubbing matches under his nose to infect him.
All on a sudden he exclaimed:
“Oh! the rats, there’re the rats now!”
There were black balls that were changing into rats.
These filthy animals got fatter and fatter, then they jumped onto the mattress and disappeared.
There was also a monkey which came out of the wall, and went back into the wall, and which approached so near him each time, that he drew back through fear of having his nose bitten off.
Suddenly there was another change, the walls were probably cutting capers, for he yelled out, choking with terror and rage:
“That’s it, gee up!
Shake me, I don’t care!
Gee up!
Tumble down!
Yes, ring the bells, you black crows!
Play the organ to prevent my calling the police.
They’ve put a bomb behind the wall, the lousy scoundrels!
I can hear it, it snorts, they’re going to blow us up! Fire!
Damnation, fire!
There’s a cry of fire! There it blazes.
Oh, it’s getting lighter, lighter!
All the sky’s burning, red fires, green fires, yellow fires. Hi!
Help!
Fire!”
His cries became lost in a rattle.
He now only mumbled disconnected words, foaming at the mouth, his chin wet with saliva.
The doctor rubbed his nose with his finger, a movement no doubt habitual with him in the presence of serious cases.
He turned to the house surgeon, and asked him in a low voice:
“And the temperature, still the hundred degrees, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor pursed his lips.
He continued there another two minutes, his eyes fixed on Coupeau.
Then he shrugged his shoulders, adding: