I cannot describe the delight of drinking it, and I think that the lamented Olympians, in their vindictive and jocular testimentary disposition, leaving men only the power of laughter, left as a legacy to other animals the tasting of ambrosia in the grass of the lawns and the drinking of nectar at every fountain. I was initiated into the delights of chewing the cud, and I understood the placid moods of those grave epicures, the oxen, during the activity of their four stomachs, when, with the scents of the fields, a whole pastoral symphony fills their nostrils. By dint of experimenting with my senses, and testing my faculties, I obtained strange impressions. The best memory that remains to me is that of my muzzle--that tactile center--that invaluable and subtle touchstone of good and bad grains--that warner of an enemy’s approach--that pilot and councilor--that sort of authoritative and dogmatic consciousness--that oracle of yes and no, which never fails, and is always obeyed. It is a question if the god Jupiter, when he put on the form of a bull, for the benefit of the Princess Europa, was not more charmed by his muzzle, than with all the rest of that scandalous escapade. It was wise of me to establish these facts straight away, for soon, as my health failed, I lost the calm, without which accuracy of observation is impossible, as well as the desire to continue them. I suffered from attacks of headache, colds, toothache--the whole sequence of indispositions which citizens of the twentieth century are heirs to. I grew thin. Dismal ideas haunted me. The cause of it was, first, the predominance of the soul over the body, which my uncle had mentioned, and secondly, two incidents which immediately aggravated my malady. After a disappearance, due, I presume to an illness following on her great fright, I saw Emma again. Without feeling any emotion, I saw her at the windows of her room, then at those of the ground floor, and finally outside. She came out every day, leaning on the servant’s arm, and went round the park, avoiding the laboratory, where Lerne and his assistants were steadily working. I had expected features less drawn, and eyes less red. She walked along slowly--pale, and with fixed eyes--displaying to the sun her moonlight complexion, and eyes like those one opens on the night. A pathetic widow, she let one see, with a certain nobility, the revolt of her love in its mourning, and the keenness of her regrets. So, she still loved me, and not seeing me any more, supposed my fate to have been that which she imagined for Klotz, and not the destiny of Macbeth (which, however, she had misapprehended). In her thought, I could only be dead, or a fugitive. The real truth escaped her.