and ascribes the impulse to the beetle. He finally goes mad and generally commits murder or suicide, or both. That is one form of cafard, and the other is mere fed-upness, a combination of liverish temper, boredom and utter hatred and loathing of the terrible ennui of the life."
"Have you had it?" asked the other.
"Everyone has it at times," was the reply, "especially in the tiny desert-stations where the awful heat, monotony, and lack of employment leave one the choice of drink or madness. If you drink you're certain to go mad, and if you don't drink you're sure to. Of course, men like ourselves—educated, intelligent, and all that—have more chance than the average 'Tommy' type, but it's very dangerous for the highly strung excitable sort. He's apt to go mad and stay mad. We only get fits of it."
"Don't the authorities do anything to amuse and employ the men in desert stations, like we do in India?" enquired the younger man.
"Absolutely nothing. They prohibit the Village Négre in every station, compel men to lie on their cots from eleven till four, and do nothing at all to relieve the maddening monotony of drill, sentry-go and punishment. On the other hand, cafard is so recognised an institution that punishments for offences committed under its influence are comparatively light. It takes different people differently, and is sometimes comic—though generally tragic."
"I should think you're bound to get something of the sort wherever men lead a very hard and very monotonous life, in great heat," said Rupert.
"Oh yes," agreed John Bull. "After all le cafard
