“In the first place,” the Hofrat complied, putting his elbows on the table and bowing over his folded hands, “in the first place, your belly bursts. You lie there on your chips and sawdust, and you bloat; the gases swell you up, puff you all out, the way frogs do when bad little boys fill them up with air. You get to be a regular balloon; the skin of your belly can’t stand it any more, it bursts. You go pop. You relieve yourself mightily, like Judas Iscariot when he fell from the bough and all his bowels gushed out. And after that you are fit for society again. If you got leave to come back, you could visit your friends without being offensive. You are thoroughly stunk out. After that you’re perfectly refined, like the burghers of Palermo, hanging in the cellars of the Capuchins outside Porta Nuova: quite the gentlemen they are, all dried up and elegant, everybody respects them. The main thing is to get well stunk out.”

“Certainly, of course,” said the Consul. “Thanks very much.” The next morning he had vanished.