I begin my report by giving an account of the attack in the Rue de la Clef, which I ascribe to enemies, who persecute me by means of electricity.
"Stop, unhappy man! Your mind is affected!"
"The devil it is! Test my intelligence; read what I write daily and what is printed——"
"Stop! not a word to anyone! These stories of electricity are frequent in asylum reports."
"All the better! I care so little for your asylum reports that in order to clear the matter up, I am willing to be examined to-morrow in the asylum at Lund."
"Then you are lost! Not a word more now! Lie down and sleep."
I refuse to do so, and insist on his hearing me; he refuses to listen.
When I am alone, I ask myself, "Is it possible that my friend, an honourable man, who has always kept aloof from dirty transactions, at the close of a blameless career should succumb to temptation? But who has tempted him?" I have no answer to this question, but many surmises. "Every man has his price," says the proverb, but a large sum must have been necessary to bribe this strong character. But one does not pay very highly for an ordinary piece of revenge. Therefore he must have a strong interest in the matter himself. Stop! I have it! I have made gold; the doctor has half-accomplished it also, although, when asked, he denies having repeated the experiments regarding which I had corresponded with him. He denies it, and yet as I stepped across the pavement of the courtyard last evening I found proofs that he had been experimenting. Therefore he is lying. Moreover, in conversation the same evening, he enlarged on the sad consequences which the possible manufacture of gold would entail upon mankind. Universal bankruptcy, universal confusion, anarchy, ruin. "One would have to kill the discoverer of the process," he concluded.
Moreover, I know the fairly modest private means of my friend. I am astonished to hear him speak of his intended purchase of the ground on which his dwelling stands. He is in debt, must even economise, and yet means to be a landowner. Everything combines to render me suspicious of my good friend.
Grant that I am suffering from persecution-mania, but what smith forges the links of these hellish syllogisms?