Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XX. Insomnia
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when he said he had done a lot of massage in
Sweden in former days.
I told the waiter to bring a bottle of Veuve
Clicquot, the best he could lay his hands on, and
raised my glass to drink to my defeat of to-day
and to his victory of to-morrow.
“I thought you told me a moment ago you
were out of cash,” said Norstrom looking at the
bottle of champagne.
“Never mind,” I laughed, “a brilliant idea,
worth a hundred bottles of Veuve Clicquot, has
just shot through my brain, have another glass
while I am working it out.”
Norstrom always used to say that I had two
different brains working alternatively in my head,
the well developed brain of a fool and the
undeveloped brain of a sort of genius. He stared
bewildered at me when I told him I would come
to Rue Pigalle the next day at his consultation
hour between two and three to explain it all.
He said it was the best hour for a quiet talk. I
was sure to find him alone. We left the Café de
la Régence arm in arm, Norstrom still pondering
over which of my two brains my brilliant idea had
sprung from, I in tearing spirits, having almost
forgotten having been turned out of the
Salpêtrière in the morning.
At two o’clock sharp the following day I
entered the sumptuous consulting-room of
Professor Guéneau de Mussy in Rue du Cirque,
the famous physician of the Orléans family whose
exile he had shared—now one of the leading
medical celebrities in Paris. The Professor, who
had always been very kind to me, asked me what
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