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Updated: June 3, 2025
'Tis a funny life that he leads, M. Porriquet, you understand. An inconciliable life. He rises every day at the same time. I am the only person, you see, that may enter his room. I open all the shutters at seven o'clock, summer or winter. It is all arranged very oddly. As I come in I say to him: "'You must get up and dress, my Lord Marquis. "Then he rises and dresses himself.
Only yesterday he was looking at a tulip while he was dressing, and he said to me: "'There is my own life I am vergetating, my poor Jonathan. Now, some of them insist that that is monomania. It is inconciliable!"
It is quite inconciliable!" "He is writing a poem!" exclaimed the old professor. "You think he is writing a poem, sir? It's a very absorbing affair, then! But, you know, I don't think he is. He often tells me that he wants to live like a vergetation; he wants to vergetate.
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