ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Indiscretions of Archie, by P. G. WodehouseThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Indiscretions of ArchieAuthor: P. G. WodehouseRelease Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #3756]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INDISCRETIONS OF ARCHIE ***Produced by Charles Franks, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading TeamINDISCRETIONS OF ARCHIEBy P. G.WodehouseIt wasn't Archie's fault really. Its true he went to America and fell inlove with Lucille, the daughter of a millionaire hotel proprietor and ifhe did marry her--well, what else was there to do?From his point ofview, the whole thing was a thoroughly good egg; butMr. Brewster, his father-in-law, thought differently, Archie hadneither money nor occupation, which was distasteful in the eyes of theindustrious Mr. Brewster; butthe real bar was the fact that he had onceadversely criticised one of his hotels.Archie does his best to heal the breach; but, being something of an ass,genus priceless, he finds it almost beyond his powers to placate"theman-eating fish" whom Providence has given him as a father-in-lawP. G. WodehouseAUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE WARRIOR," "A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS," "UNEASY MONEY,"ETC.NEW YORKGEORGE H. DORANCOMPANYCOPYRIGHT,1921, BY GEORGE H, DORAN COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1920, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY (COSMOPOLITANMAGAZINE)PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICADEDICATION TOB. W. KING-HALL My dear Buddy,-- We have been friends for eighteen years. A considerable proportion of my books were written under your hospitable roof. And yet I have never dedicated one to you. What will be theverdict of Posterity on this? The fact is, I have become rather superstitious about dedications. No sooner do you label a book with the legend--                          TO MY                        BEST FRIEND                            Xthan X cuts you in Piccadilly, or you bring a lawsuit against him. There is a fatality about it. However, I can't imagine anyone quarrelling with you, and I am getting more attractive all the time, so let's take a chance.Yours ever, P. G. WODEHOUSE.CONTENTS         I   DISTRESSING SCENE IN A HOTEL        II   A SHOCK FOR MR. BREWSTER       III   MR. BREWSTER DELIVERS SENTENCE        IV   WORK WANTED         V   STRANGEEXPERIENCE OF AN ARTIST'S MODEL        VI   THE BOMB       VII   MR. ROSCOE SHERRIFF HAS AN IDEA      VIII   A DISTURBED NIGHT FOR DEAR OLD SQUIFFY        IX   A LETTER FROM PARKER         X   DOINGFATHER A BIT OF GOOD        XI   SALVATORE CHOOSES THE WRONG MOMENT       XII   BRIGHT EYES-AND A FLY      XIII   RALLYING ROUND PERCY       XIV   THE SAD CASE OF LOONEY BIDDLE        XV   SUMMERSTORMS       XVI   ARCHIE ACCEPTS A SITUATION      XVII   BROTHER BILL'S ROMANCE     XVIII   THE SAUSAGE CHAPPIE       XIX   REGGIE COMES TO LIFE        XX   THE SAUSAGE CHAPPIECLICKS       XXI   THE-GROWING BOY      XXII   WASHY STEPS INTO THE HALL OF FAME     XXIII   MOTHER'S-KNEE      XXIV   THE MELTING OF MR. CONNOLLY       XXV   THE WIGMORE VENUS      XXVI   A TALE OF AGRANDFATHERCHAPTER I. DISTRESSING SCENE"I say, laddie!" said Archie."Sir?" replied the desk-clerk alertly. All the employes of the HotelCosmopolis were alert. It was one of the things on which Mr. DanielBrewster,the proprietor, insisted. And as he was always wandering aboutthe lobby of the hotel keeping a personal eye on affairs, it was neversafe to relax."I want to see the manager.""Is there anything I could do, sir?"Archielooked at him doubtfully."Well, as a matter of fact, my dear old desk-clerk," he said, "I want tokick up a fearful row, and it hardly seems fair to lug you into it. Whyyou, I mean to say? The blighter whose head I want ona charger is thebally manager."At this point a massive, grey-haired man, who had been standing closeby, gazing on the lobby with an air of restrained severity, as if daringit to start anything, joined in theconversation."I am the manager," he said.His eye was cold and hostile. Others, it seemed to say, might likeArchie Moffam, but not he. Daniel Brewster was bristling for combat.What he had overheard had shocked himto the core of his being. TheHotel Cosmopolis was his own private, personal property, and the thingdearest to him in the world, after his daughter Lucille. He pridedhimself on the fact that his hotel was not like otherNew York hotels,which were run by impersonal companies and shareholders and boards ofdirectors, and consequently lacked the paternal touch which made theCosmopolis what it was. At other hotels things wentwrong, and clientscomplained. At the Cosmopolis things never went wrong, because he wason the spot to see that they didn't, and as a result clients nevercomplained. Yet here was this long, thin, string-bean of anEnglishmanactually registering annoyance and dissatisfaction before his very eyes."What is your complaint?" he enquired frigidly.Archie attached himself to the top button of Mr. Brewster's coat,and was immediatelydislodged by an irritable jerk of the other'ssubstantial body."Listen, old thing! I came over to this country to nose about in searchof a job, because there doesn't seem what you might call a generaldemand for myservices in England. Directly I was demobbed, the familystarted talking about the Land of Opportunity and shot me on to a liner.The idea was that I might get hold of something in America--"He got hold of Mr.Brewster's coat-button, and was again shaken off."Between ourselves, I've never done anything much in England, and Ifancy the family were getting a bit fed. At any rate, they sent me overhere--"Mr. Brewsterdisentangled himself for the third time."I would prefer to postpone the story of your life," he said coldly,"and be informed what is your specific complaint against the HotelCosmopolis.""Of course, yes. The jolly old hotel.I'm coming to that. Well, it waslike this. A chappie on the boat told me that this was the best place tostop at in New York--""He was quite right," said Mr. Brewster."Was he, by Jove! Well, all I can say, then, is that theother New Yorkhotels must be pretty mouldy, if this is the best of the lot! I took aroom here last night," said Archie quivering with self-pity, "and therewas a beastly tap outside somewhere which went drip-drip-drip allnightand kept me awake."Mr. Brewster's annoyance deepened. He felt that a chink had been foundin his armour. Not even the most paternal hotel-proprietor can keep aneye on every tap in hisestablishment."Drip-drip-drip!" repeated Archie firmly. "And I put my boots outsidethe door when I went to bed, and this morning they hadn't been touched.I give you my solemn word! Not touched.""Naturally," saidMr. Brewster. "My employes are honest""But I wanted them cleaned, dash it!""There is a shoe-shining parlour in the basement. At the Cosmopolisshoes left outside bedroom doors are not cleaned.""Then I think theCosmopolis is a bally rotten hotel!"Mr. Brewster's compact frame quivered. The unforgivable insult had beenoffered. Question the legitimacy of Mr. Brewster's parentage, knock Mr.Brewster down and walk on his facewith spiked shoes, and you did notirremediably close all avenues to a peaceful settlement. But make aremark like that about his hotel, and war was definitely declared."In that case," he said, stiffening, "I must ask youto give up yourroom.""I'm going to give it up! I wouldn't stay in the bally place anotherminute."Mr. Brewster walked away, and Archie charged round to the cashier'sdesk to get his bill. It had been his intention in anycase, though fordramatic purposes he concealed it from his adversary, to leave the hotelthat morning. One of the letters of introduction which he had broughtover from England had resulted in an invitation from a Mrs.van Tuyl toher house-party at Miami, and he had decided to go there at once."Well," mused Archie, on his way to the station, "one thing's certain.I'll never set foot in THAT bally place again!"But nothing in this world iscertain.CHAPTER II. A SHOCK FOR MR. BREWSTERMr. Daniel Brewster sat in his luxurious suite at the Cosmopolis,smoking one of his admirable cigars and chatting with his old friend,Professor Binstead. A stranger whohad only encountered Mr. Brewster inthe lobby of the hotel would have been surprised at the appearance ofhis sitting-room, for it had none of the rugged simplicity which was thekeynote of its owner's personalappearance. Daniel Brewster was a manwith a hobby. He was what Parker, his valet, termed a connoozer. Hiseducated taste in Art was one of the things which went to make theCosmopolis different from and superior toother New York hotels. He hadpersonally selected the tapestries in the dining-room and the variouspaintings throughout the building. And in his private capacity he was anenthusiastic collector of things which ProfessorBinstead, whosetastes lay in the same direction, would have stolen without a twinge ofconscience if he could have got the chance.The professor, a small man of middle age who wore tortoiseshell-rimmedspectacles,flitted covetously about the room, inspecting its treasureswith a glistening eye. In a corner, Parker, a grave, lean individual,bent over the chafing-dish, in which he was preparing for his employerand his guest theirsimple lunch."Brewster," said Professor Binstead, pausing at the mantelpiece.Mr. Brewster looked up amiably. He was in placid mood to-day. Twoweeks and more had passed since the meeting with Archie recorded intheprevious chapter, and he had been able to dismiss that disturbing affairfrom his mind. Since then, everything had gone splendidly with DanielBrewster, for he had just accomplished his ambition of the momentbycompleting the negotiations for the purchase of a site furtherdown-town, on which he proposed to erect a new hotel. He liked buildinghotels. He had the Cosmopolis, his first-born, a summer hotel in themountains,purchased in the previous year, and he was toying with theidea of running over to England and putting up another in London, That,however, would have to wait. Meanwhile, he would concentrate on this newonedown-town. It had kept him busy and worried, arranging for securingthe site; but his troubles were over now."Yes?" he said.Professor Binstead had picked up a small china figure of delicateworkmanship. It representeda warrior of pre-khaki days advancing with aspear upon some adversary who, judging from the contented expression onthe warrior's face, was smaller than himself."Where did you get this?""That? Mawson, my agent,found it in a little shop on the east side.""Where's the other? There ought to be another. These things go in pairs.They're valueless alone."Mr. Brewster's brow clouded."I know that," he said shortly. "Mawson's lookingfor the other oneeverywhere. If you happen across it, I give you carte blanche to buy itfor me.""It must be somewhere.""Yes. If you find it, don't worry about the expense. I'll settle up, nomatter what it is.""I'll bear it inmind," said Professor Binstead. "It may cost you a lotof money. I suppose you know that.""I told you I don't care what it costs.""It's nice to be a millionaire," sighed Professor Binstead."Luncheon is served, sir," saidParker.He had stationed himself in a statutesque pose behind Mr. Brewster'schair, when there was a knock at the door. He went to the door, andreturned with a telegram."Telegram for you, sir."Mr. Brewster noddedcarelessly. The contents of the chafing-dish hadjustified the advance advertising of their odour, and he was too busy tobe interrupted."Put it down. And you needn't wait, Parker.""Very good, sir."The valet withdrew, andMr. Brewster resumed his lunch."Aren't you going to open it?" asked Professor Binstead, to whom atelegram was a telegram."It can wait. I get them all day long. I expect it's from Lucille,saying what train she'smaking.""She returns to-day?""Yes, Been at Miami." Mr. Brewster, having dwelt at adequate length onthe contents of the chafing-dish, adjusted his glasses and took up theenvelope. "I shall be glad--Great Godfrey!"Hesat staring at the telegram, his mouth open. His friend eyed himsolicitously."No bad news, I hope?"Mr. Brewster gurgled in a strangled way."Bad news? Bad--? Here, read it for yourself."Professor Binstead, one of thethree most inquisitive men in New York,took the slip of paper with gratitude."'Returning New York to-day with darling Archie,'" he read. "'Lots oflove from us both. Lucille.'" He gaped at his host. "Who is Archie?"heenquired."Who is Archie?" echoed Mr. Brewster helplessly. "Who is--? That's justwhat I would like to know.""'Darling Archie,'" murmured the professor, musing over the telegram."'Returning to-day with darlingArchie.' Strange!"Mr. Brewster continued to stare before him. When you send your onlydaughter on a visit to Miami minus any entanglements and she mentionsin a telegram that she has acquired a darling Archie, youare naturallystartled. He rose from the table with a bound. It had occurred to himthat by neglecting a careful study of his mail during the past week,as was his bad habit when busy, he had lost an opportunity ofkeepingabreast with current happenings. He recollected now that a letter hadarrived from Lucille some time ago, and that he had put it away unopenedtill he should have leisure to read it. Lucille was a dear girl, hehadfelt, but her letters when on a vacation seldom contained anything thatcouldn't wait a few days for a reading. He sprang for his desk, rummagedamong his papers, and found what he was seeking.It was a longletter, and there was silence in the room for somemoments while he mastered its contents. Then he turned to the professor,breathing heavily."Good heavens!""Yes?" said Professor Binstead eagerly. "Yes?""GoodLord!""Well?""Good gracious!""What is it?" demanded the professor in an agony.Mr. Brewster sat down again with a thud."She's married!""Married!""Married! To an Englishman!""Bless my soul!""She says," proceededMr. Brewster, referring to the letter again, "thatthey were both so much in love that they simply had to slip off and getmarried, and she hopes I won't be cross. Cross!" gasped Mr. Brewster,gazing wildly at hisfriend."Very disturbing!""Disturbing! You bet it's disturbing! I don't know anything aboutthe fellow. Never heard of him in my life. She says he wanted a quietwedding because he thought a fellow looked such a chumpgetting married!And I must love him, because he's all set to love me very much!""Extraordinary!"Mr. Brewster put the letter down."An Englishman!""I have met some very agreeable Englishmen," said ProfessorBinstead."I don't like Englishmen," growled Mr. Brewster. "Parker's anEnglishman.""Your valet?""Yes. I believe he wears my shirts on the sly,'" said Mr. Brewsterbroodingly, "If I catch him--! What would you do aboutthis, Binstead?""Do?" The professor considered the point judiciary. "Well, really,Brewster, I do not see that there is anything you can do. You mustsimply wait and meet the man. Perhaps he will turn out anadmirableson-in-law.""H'm!" Mr. Brewster declined to take an optimistic view. "But anEnglishman, Binstead!" he said with pathos. "Why," he went on, memorysuddenly stirring, "there was an Englishman at this hotelonly a week ortwo ago who went about knocking it in a way that would have amazed you!Said it was a rotten place! MY hotel!"Professor Binstead clicked his tongue sympathetically. He understood hisfriend'swarmth.CHAPTER III. MR. BREWSTER DELIVERS SENTENCEAt about the same moment that Professor Binstead was clicking his tonguein Mr. Brewster's sitting-room, Archie Moffam sat contemplating hisbride in adrawing-room on the express from Miami. He was thinking thatthis was too good to be true. His brain had been in something of awhirl these last few days, but this was one thought that never failed toemerge clearlyfrom the welter.Mrs. Archie Moffam, nee Lucille Brewster, was small and slender. Shehad a little animated face, set in a cloud of dark hair. She was soaltogether perfect that Archie had frequently found himselfcompelledto take the marriage-certificate out of his inside pocket and study itfurtively, to make himself realise that this miracle of good fortune hadactually happened to him."Honestly, old bean--I mean, dear oldthing,--I mean, darling," saidArchie, "I can't believe it!""What?""What I mean is, I can't understand why you should have married ablighter like me."Lucille's eyes opened. She squeezed his hand."Why, you're the mostwonderful thing in the world, precious!--Surelyyou know that?""Absolutely escaped my notice. Are you sure?""Of course I'm sure! You wonder-child! Nobody could see you withoutloving you!"Archie heaved an ecstaticsigh. Then a thought crossed his mind. It wasa thought which frequently came to mar his bliss."I say, I wonder if your father will think that!""Of course he will!""We rather sprung this, as it were, on the old lad," saidArchiedubiously. "What sort of a man IS your father?""Father's a darling, too.""Rummy thing he should own that hotel," said Archie. "I had a frightfulrow with a blighter of a manager there just before I left forMiami.Your father ought to sack that chap. He was a blot on the landscape!"It had been settled by Lucille during the journey that Archie should bebroken gently to his father-in-law. That is to say, instead ofboundingblithely into Mr. Brewster's presence hand in hand, the happy pairshould separate for half an hour or so, Archie hanging around in theoffing while Lucille saw her father and told him the whole story, orthosechapters of it which she had omitted from her letter for want ofspace. Then, having impressed Mr. Brewster sufficiently with his luck inhaving acquired Archie for a son-in-law, she would lead him to where hisbit of goodfortune awaited him.The programme worked out admirably in its earlier stages. When the twoemerged from Mr. Brewster's room to meet Archie, Mr. Brewster's generalidea was that fortune had smiled upon him in analmost unbelievablefashion and had presented him with a son-in-law who combined in almostequal parts the more admirable characteristics of Apollo, Sir Galahad,and Marcus Aurelius. True, he had gathered in thecourse of theconversation that dear Archie had no occupation and no private means;but Mr. Brewster felt that a great-souled man like Archie didn't needthem. You can't have everything, and Archie, according toLucille'saccount, was practically a hundred per cent man in soul, looks, manners,amiability, and breeding. These are the things that count. Mr. Brewsterproceeded to the lobby in a glow of optimism andgeniality.Consequently, when he perceived Archie, he got a bit of a shock."Hullo--ullo--ullo!" said Archie, advancing happily."Archie, darling, this is father," said Lucille."Good Lord!" said Archie.There was one of thosesilences. Mr. Brewster looked at Archie. Archiegazed at Mr. Brewster. Lucille, perceiving without understanding whythat the big introduction scene had stubbed its toe on some unlooked-forobstacle, waited anxiously forenlightenment. Meanwhile, Archiecontinued to inspect Mr. Brewster, and Mr. Brewster continued to drinkin Archie.After an awkward pause of about three and a quarter minutes, Mr.Brewster swallowed once or twice,and finally spoke."Lu!""Yes, father?""Is this true?"Lucille's grey eyes clouded over with perplexity and apprehension."True?""Have you really inflicted this--THIS on me for a son-in-law?" Mr.Brewster swallowed a fewmore times, Archie the while watching witha frozen fascination the rapid shimmying of his new relative'sAdam's-apple. "Go away! I want to have a few words alone withthis--This--WASSYOURDAMNAME?" he demanded,in an overwrought manner,addressing Archie for the first time."I told you, father. It's Moom.""Moom?""It's spelt M-o-f-f-a-m, but pronounced Moom.""To rhyme," said Archie, helpfully, "with Bluffinghame.""Lu," said Mr.Brewster, "run away! I want to speak to-to-to--""You called me THIS before," said Archie."You aren't angry, father, dear?" said Lucilla."Oh no! Oh no! I'm tickled to death!"When his daughter had withdrawn, Mr.Brewster drew a long breath."Now then!" he said."Bit embarrassing, all this, what!" said Archie, chattily. "I meanto say, having met before in less happy circs. and what not. Rumcoincidence and so forth! How would itbe to bury the jolly oldhatchet--start a new life--forgive and forget--learn to love eachother--and all that sort of rot? I'm game if you are. How do we go? Isit a bet?"Mr. Brewster remained entirely unsoftened by thismanly appeal to hisbetter feelings."What the devil do you mean by marrying my daughter?"Archie reflected."Well, it sort of happened, don't you know! You know how these thingsARE! Young yourself once, and all that.


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<title>ChasingAmy</title>
 Chasing Amy Written by Kevin Smith INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - DAY A pile of COMIC BOOKS are on a shelf next to myriad others. The most prominent one is called BLUNTMANAND CHRONIC'.  A hand reaches in and pulls one out of frame. HOLDEN opens the comic and flips through it He shakes his head.  BANKY looks over his shoulder. BANKY Felt Like this fucking day would nevercome.  Issue two - on the shelf. HOLDEN Yippee. BANKY Don't start, alright!  This is a cool moment, and I'd appreciate you not trying to ruin it.  How often does a guy get the opportunity to purchasesomething with his name on it! (points to name on cover) Banky Edwards- right! (points to the other) Holden McNeil. HOLDEN I know my name. BANKY C'mon, sour puss.  We got the rest of our livesto be artists.  But it's supply and demand.  And right now, the unwashed masses demand this. HOLDEN (off comic) This is easy, alright!  And right now it pays the bills.  Just don't forget that we're better thanthis. BANKY I'll tell you who we're better than: these two fags right here. They approach the counter, where STEVE-DAVE, the store manager, and WALT the Fan-boy, play a card game. BANKY (laysbooks on the counter) Alright Old-Maid's - take a break from the Crazy-8's marathon and ring us up. STEVE-DAVE (not looking up) Well, well,well, Walt Did you see who it is!  The local celebrities.  Quick - getthem to autograph one of their books so we can sell it for triple it's value. WALT I'm not that in need of fifteen cents right now. They snicker and high-five one another.  Holden rolls his eyes. BANKYYou guys operate the smallest, ladies' bridge circle I've ever seen. WALT For your information, we're playing Crimson Mystical Mages' - an overpower card game. Not that either of you would give a shit aboutsomething as advanced as this - there are no dick or poopie jokes involved. BANKY (to Holden) I don't think they're fans. WALT No, we're not.  You're both a couple of fucking no talents that gotlucky. STEVE-DAVE And obviously your handlers or hangers- on convinced you that your first comic was good which it was not it was thoroughly mediocre with a few spiky bits of dialogue.  And when you getyour foot in the door of the business, what do you do!  You turn out a piece of shit like Bluntman and Chronic'. WALT Tell him, Steve-Dave. STEVE-DAVE (off comic) Bluntman and Chronic'.  Pah.  What was that thing the little stoner pulled on the villain in the last issue! WALT The Stinky-palm. STEVE-DAVE Stinky-palm.  You give comics a bad name I tell all my customers not to buy it, tospend their money on a real comic book. WALT Fucking one hit wonder, dime-store Frank Miller's. STEVE-DAVE This is the reality at Comic-Toast - you're not going to get your ass kissed here,because both me and Walt think you suck. WALT And me. STEVE-DAVE I said that. Steve-Dave offers the boys his two middle fingers, then goes back to playing his game with Walt.  Holden andBanky stare, shocked.  Banky nudges Holden and they both exit Steve-Dave and the Fan-boy slap hands and go back to playing. WALT I've got a dragon card - forty power- ups and twelve life points!  Ha!  Iget your elf card! STEVE-DAVE You're such a bitch!  But thankfully, I've saved a dark forces Shaman card for just such an occasion. WALT You suck!  Eighty six life-power points to my twentytwo! STEVE-DAVE I schooled their asses, now I'm schooling your's. Suddenly.  A trash can crashes through the front window. Steve-Dave and Walt hit the deck like bitches, covering one another.  They look upslowly. Steve-Dave leaps to his feet and looks at the shattered mess.  He pulls something off the garbage can and reads it. WALT You know it was those two fucks!   Let's call the cops and have them busted!  Iknow where their studio is!   Or better yet, let's sue!  You can sue them, Steve-Dave! STEVE-DAVE (still reading note) That won't be necessary. WALT What?!  Why the hell not!STEVE-DAVE (holds up check) Because this is a check for three times what that window cost. (reading note) Dear critics - thanks for the insight. But like my grandmother always said - Fuck 'em if they can'ttake a joke.. and break their window.'   Kiss it, Banky the Hack. P.S. - Your card game blows. WALT He said Kiss it! CREDITS INT. COMIC BOOK: CONVENTION SIGNING BOOTH - DAYA physically large FAN - sweaty brow, tote bag bursting with comics - leans forward, smiling. FAN Could you sign it To a really big fan! Holden sits at a table.  Across from the barely-managing- to-standFan.  He offers him a patronizingly kind, half- smile in return, HOLDEN You bet. We're at a Comic Book show, specifically at a book- signing. Behind Holden hangs a large banner, heralding HOLDEN McNEILAND BANKY EDWARDS - CREATORS OF BLUNTMAN AND CHRONIC'. Beside it is a large mock-up of the comic book cover which features two stoner super-heroes who bear a striking resemblance to a pair of veryfamiliar friendly neighborhood drug dealers, Holden hands the book back to the Fan. FAN I love this book man!  This shit's awesome.  I wish I was like these guys - getting stoned, talking all raw about chicksand fighting supervillains!  I love these guys!   They're like Cheech and Chong' meet Bill and fed'! HOLDEN I like to chink of them as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern' meet Vladimir and Estragon'.FAN Yeah! (beat) Who! BANKY signs the book of another COLLECTOR. COLLECTOR So you draw this! BANKY (signing the comic) I ink it and I'm also the colorist.   The guy next to me drawsit.  But we both came up with the characters, COLLECTOR What's that mean - you ink it'! BANKY Well.  It means that Holden draws the pictures in pencil, and then he gives it to me to go over inink COLLECTOR So you just trace! Banky freezes up.  He composes himself and continues signing. BANKY It's not tracing.  I add depth and shading to give the image mere definition. Only then doesthe drawing really take shape. COLLECTOR You go over what he draws with a pen - that's tracing. BANKY (hands book back to Collector) Not really. (calling out) Next! A LITTLE KID steps up but theCollector lingers. COLLECTOR Hey man.  If somebody draws something and then you draw the same thing right on top of it, not going out-side the designated original art what do call that! LITTLEKID (shrugs) I don't know.  Tracing? COLLECTOR (to Banky) See? BANKY It's not tracing. COLLECTOR Oh, but it is. BANKY (to Little Kid) Do you want Lour book signed orwhat? COLLECTOR Hey - don't get all testy with him just because you have a problem with your station in life. BANKY I'm secure with what I do. COLLECTOR Then say it - you're atracer. BANKY (grabbing Little Kid's book) How should I sign this? LITTLE KID (grabs book back) I don't want you to sign it, I want the guy that draws Bluntman and Chronic to sign it.  You're just atracer. COLLECTOR Tell him, Little Shaver. Holden accepts a comic from another Fan. HOLDEN (off comic) Who do I sign it to! Before Holden can finish, a loud crash is heard.  He looks to his left andfreaks. Banky is throttling the Collector from across the table. The Collector attempts to fight him off.  SECURITY GUARDS pull them apart. Holden grabs Banky. COLLECTOR Jesus!  All I did was call him atracer! BANKY (to Collector) I'LL TRACE A CHALK LINE AROUND YOUR  DEAD FUCKING BODY, YOU FUCK?! HOLDEN (to Security Guard) Could you get him out of here! TheSecurity Guards drag the collector away. COLLECTOR Hey, wait a sec!  He jumped me!  And you're dragging me away!! (exiting) Fucking tracer! BANKY (calling OC) YOUR MOTHER'S ATRACER!!  HOLDEN Can I explain the audience principle to you!  If you insult and accost them, then we have no audience. BANKY He started it!  Fucking cock-knocker! He's lucky Ididn't put my pen through his thorax! HOLDEN Need I remind you... (holds up watch) Curtain's in ten minutes. INT. COMIC BOOK CONVENTION LECTURE HALL - DAY HOOPER fills the frame.  Hecomes off like a typical, pro- black/anti-white homeboy. HOOPER For years in this industry whenever an African-American character - hero or villain - was introduced usually by white artists and writers - theygot slapped with racist names that singled them out as negroes: Black Panther, Black Lightning, Black Goliath, Black Mantra, Black Talon, Black Spider, Black Hand, Black Falcon, Black Cat.. VOICE FROMCROWD She's white. HOOPER She is? (beat) Well bust this - regardless. We're at a panel discussion.  The room is full.  Five creators sit at a long table, their names on placards in front of them.   (One ofthem is a very striking Girl.)  The banner behind them reads WORDS UP - MINORITY VOICES IN COMICS'. HOOPER (holds up comic) Now my book, White-Hating Coon', doesn't have any of that bullshit.The hero's name is Maleekwa, and he's a descendant of the black tribe that established the first society on the planet, while all you European mother fuckers were still hiding in caves and shit, all terrified of the sun.He's a strong role model that a young black reader can look up to, Cause I'm here to tell you - the chickens are comin' home to roost, ya'll: the black man's no longer gonna play the minstrel in the medium of comicsand Sci- Fi/Fantasy!  We're keeping it real, and we're gonna get respect - by any means necessary! During the speech, Holden and Banky enter and sit up front. HOLDEN (calling out) Bullshit!  Lando Calrissianwas a black man, and he got to fly the Millennium Falcon! Hooper whips his head around, looking for the source of the comment HOOPER Who said that?!? HOLDEN (standing) I did!  Lando Calrissianis a positive black role model in the realm of Science Fiction/Fantasy. HOOPER Fuck Lando Calrissian!  Uncle Tom nigger!  Always some white boy gotta invoke the holy trilogy'! Bust this - those movies areabout how the white man keeps the brother man down - even in a galaxy far, far away.  Check this shit.  You got cracker farm-boy Luke Skywalker, Nazi poster boy - blond hair, blue eyes.   And then you've got DarthVader: the blackest brother in the galaxy.  Nubian God. BANKY What's a Nubian? HOOPER Shut the fuck up!  Now Vader, he's a spiritual brother, with the force and all that shit.  Then this crackerSkywalker gets his hands on a light- saber, and the boy decides he's gonna run the fucking universe - gets a whole Klan of whites together, and they're gonna bust up Vader's hood the Death Star.  Now what the fuckdo you call that! BANKY Intergalactic Civil War! HOOPER Gentrification.  They're gonna drive our the black element, to make the galaxy quote, unquote safe' for white folks. HOLDEN But


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Rise and Fall of Cesar BirotteauAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: Katharine Prescott WormeleyReleaseDate: October, 1999  [Etext #1942]Posting Date: March 6, 2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU ***Produced by John Bickers, andDagnyRISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAUBy Honore De BalzacTranslated by Katharine Prescott WormeleyPART I. CESAR AT HIS APOGEEIDuring winter nights noise never ceases in the Rue Saint-Honore exceptfor ashort interval. Kitchen-gardeners carrying their produce to marketcontinue the stir of carriages returning from theatres and balls. Nearthe middle of this sustained pause in the grand symphony of Parisianuproar, whichoccurs about one o'clock in the morning, the wife ofMonsieur Cesar Birotteau, a perfumer established near the Place Vendome,was startled from her sleep by a frightful dream. She had seen herdouble. She hadappeared to herself clothed in rags, turning with ashrivelled, withered hand the latch of her own shop-door, seeming to beat the threshold, yet at the same time seated in her armchair behind thecounter. She wasasking alms of herself, and heard herself speaking fromthe doorway and also from her seat at the desk.She tried to grasp her husband, but her hand fell on a cold place.Her terror became so intense that she could notmove her neck, whichstiffened as if petrified; the membranes of her throat became gluedtogether, her voice failed her. She remained sitting erect in the sameposture in the middle of the alcove, both panels of whichwere wideopen, her eyes staring and fixed, her hair quivering, her ears filledwith strange noises, her heart tightened yet palpitating, and her personbathed in perspiration though chilled to the bone.Fear is ahalf-diseased sentiment, which presses so violently upon thehuman mechanism that the faculties are suddenly excited to the highestdegree of their power or driven to utter disorganization. Physiologistshave longwondered at this phenomenon, which overturns their systemsand upsets all theories; it is in fact a thunderbolt working within thebeing, and, like all electric accidents, capricious and whimsical in itscourse. Thisexplanation will become a mere commonplace in the daywhen scientific men are brought to recognize the immense part whichelectricity plays in human thought.Madame Birotteau now passed through several of theshocks, in some sortelectrical, which are produced by terrible explosions of the will forcedout, or held under, by some mysterious mechanism. Thus during aperiod of time, very short if judged by a watch, butimmeasurable whencalculated by the rapidity of her impressions, the poor woman had thesupernatural power of emitting more ideas and bringing to the surfacemore recollections than, under any ordinary use of herfaculties, shecould put forth in the course of a whole day. The poignant tale of hermonologue may be abridged into a few absurd sentences, as contradictoryand bare of meaning as the monologue itself."There is noreason why Birotteau should leave my bed! He has eaten somuch veal that he may be ill. But if he were ill he would have wakedme. For nineteen years that we have slept together in this bed, in thishouse, it has neverhappened that he left his place without tellingme,--poor sheep! He never slept away except to pass the night in theguard-room. Did he come to bed to-night? Why, of course; goodness! howstupid I am."She cast hereyes upon the bed and saw her husband's night-cap, whichstill retained the almost conical shape of his head."Can he be dead? Has he killed himself? Why?" she went on. "For thelast two years, since they made himdeputy-mayor, he is_all-I-don't-know-how_. To put him into public life! On the word of anhonest woman, isn't it pitiable? His business is doing well, for he gaveme a shawl. But perhaps it isn't doing well? Bah! I shouldknow ofit. Does one ever know what a man has got in his head; or a womaneither?--there is no harm in that. Didn't we sell five thousand francs'worth to-day? Besides, a deputy mayor couldn't kill himself; he knowsthelaws too well. Where is he then?"She could neither turn her neck, nor stretch out her hand to pullthe bell, which would have put in motion a cook, three clerks, and ashop-boy. A prey to the nightmare, which still lastedthough hermind was wide awake, she forgot her daughter peacefully asleep in anadjoining room, the door of which opened at the foot of her bed. At lastshe cried "Birotteau!" but got no answer. She thought she hadcalled thename aloud, though in fact she had only uttered it mentally."Has he a mistress? He is too stupid," she added. "Besides, he loves metoo well for that. Didn't he tell Madame Roguin that he had neverbeenunfaithful to me, even in thought? He is virtue upon earth, that man. Ifany one ever deserved paradise he does. What does he accuse himself ofto his confessor, I wonder? He must tell him a lot offiddle-faddle.Royalist as he is, though he doesn't know why, he can't froth up hisreligion. Poor dear cat! he creeps to Mass at eight o'clock as slyly asif he were going to a bad house. He fears God for God's sake; hellisnothing to him. How could he have a mistress? He is so tied to mypetticoat that he bores me. He loves me better than his own eyes; hewould put them out for my sake. For nineteen years he has never said tome oneword louder than another. His daughter is never considered beforeme. But Cesarine is here--Cesarine! Cesarine!--Birotteau has never hada thought which he did not tell me. He was right enough when he declaredto meat the Petit-Matelot that I should never know him till I triedhim. And _not here_! It is extraordinary!"She turned her head with difficulty and glanced furtively about theroom, then filled with those picturesque effectswhich are the despairof language and seem to belong exclusively to the painters of genre.What words can picture the alarming zig-zags produced by fallingshadows, the fantastic appearance of curtains bulged out bythe wind,the flicker of uncertain light thrown by a night-lamp upon the folds ofred calico, the rays shed from a curtain-holder whose lurid centrewas like the eye of a burglar, the apparition of a kneeling dress,--inshort,all the grotesque effects which terrify the imagination at amoment when it has no power except to foresee misfortunes and exaggeratethem? Madame Birotteau suddenly saw a strong light in the room beyondherchamber, and thought of fire; but perceiving a red foulard whichlooked like a pool of blood, her mind turned exclusively to burglars,especially when she thought she saw traces of a struggle in the way thefurniture stoodabout the room. Recollecting the sum of money whichwas in the desk, a generous fear put an end to the chill ferment of hernightmare. She sprang terrified, and in her night-gown, into the verycentre of the room tohelp her husband, whom she supposed to be in thegrasp of assassins."Birotteau! Birotteau!" she cried at last in a voice full of anguish.She then saw the perfumer in the middle of the next room, a yard-stickin his handmeasuring the air, and so ill wrapped up in his green cottondressing-gown with chocolate-colored spots that the cold had reddenedhis legs without his feeling it, preoccupied as he was. When Cesarturned about to say tohis wife, "Well, what do you want, Constance?"his air and manner, like those of a man absorbed in calculations, wereso prodigiously silly that Madame Birotteau began to laugh."Goodness! Cesar, if you are not an odditylike that!" she said. "Whydid you leave me alone without telling me? I have nearly died of terror;I did not know what to imagine. What are you doing there, flying opento all the winds? You'll get as hoarse as a wolf. Doyou hear me,Birotteau?""Yes, wife, here I am," answered the perfumer, coming into the bedroom."Come and warm yourself, and tell me what maggot you've got in yourhead," replied Madame Birotteau opening theashes of the fire, which shehastened to relight. "I am frozen. What a goose I was to get up in mynight-gown! But I really thought they were assassinating you."The shopkeeper put his candlestick on the chimney-piece,wrapped hisdressing-gown closer about him, and went mechanically to find a flannelpetticoat for his wife."Here, Mimi, cover yourself up," he said. "Twenty-two by eighteen," heresumed, going on with his monologue;"we can get a superb salon.""Ah, ca! Birotteau, are you on the high road to insanity? Are youdreaming?""No, wife, I am calculating.""You had better wait till daylight for your nonsense," she cried,fastening the petticoatbeneath her short night-gown and going to thedoor of the room where her daughter was in bed."Cesarine is asleep," she said, "she won't hear us. Come, Birotteau,speak up. What is it?""We can give a ball.""Give a ball!we? On the word of an honest woman, you are dreaming, myfriend.""I am not dreaming, my beautiful white doe. Listen. People shouldalways do what their position in life demands. Government has broughtme forwardinto prominence. I belong to the government; it is my duty tostudy its mind, and further its intentions by developing them. The Ducde Richelieu has just put an end to the occupation of France bythe foreign armies.According to Monsieur de la Billardiere, thefunctionaries who represent the city of Paris should make it their duty,each in his own sphere of influence, to celebrate the liberation of ourterritory. Let us show a truepatriotism which shall put these liberals,these damned intriguers, to the blush; hein? Do you think I don't lovemy country? I wish to show the liberals, my enemies, that to love theking is to love France.""Do you thinkyou have got any enemies, my poor Birotteau?""Why, yes, wife, we have enemies. Half our friends in the quarter areour enemies. They all say, 'Birotteau has had luck; Birotteau is a manwho came from nothing: yethere he is deputy-mayor; everything succeedswith him.' Well, they are going to be finely surprised. You are thefirst to be told that I am made a chevalier of the Legion of honor. Theking signed the order yesterday.""Oh!then," said Madame Birotteau, much moved, "of course we must givethe ball, my good friend. But what have you done to merit the cross?""Yesterday, when Monsieur de la Billardiere told me the news," saidBirotteau,modestly, "I asked myself, as you do, what claims I had toit; but I ended by seeing what they were, and in approving the actionof the government. In the first place, I am a royalist; I was woundedat Saint-Roch inVendemiaire: isn't it something to have borne armsin those days for the good cause? Then, according to the merchants, Iexercised my judicial functions in a way to give general satisfaction. Iam now deputy-mayor. Theking grants four crosses to the municipality ofParis; the prefect, selecting among the deputies suitable persons to bethus decorated, has placed my name first on the list. The king moreoverknows me: thanks to oldRagon. I furnish him with the only powder he iswilling to use; we alone possess the receipt of the late queen,--poor,dear, august victim! The mayor vehemently supported me. So there it is.If the king gives me the crosswithout my asking for it, it seems to methat I cannot refuse it without failing in my duty to him. Did I seek tobe deputy-mayor? So, wife, since we are sailing before the wind, asyour uncle Pillerault says when he isjovial, I have decided to put thehousehold on a footing in conformity with our high position. If I canbecome anything, I'll risk being whatever the good God wills that Ishall be,--sub-prefect, if such be my destiny. Mywife, you are muchmistaken if you think a citizen has paid his debt to his country bymerely selling perfumery for twenty years to those who came to buy it.If the State demands the help of our intelligence, we are asmuch boundto give it as we are to pay the tax on personal property, on windows anddoors, _et caetera_. Do you want to stay forever behind your counter?You have been there, thank God, a long time. This ball shall beourfete,--yours and mine. Good-by to economy,--for your sake, be itunderstood. I burn our sign, 'The Queen of Roses'; I efface the name,'Cesar Birotteau, Perfumer, Successor to Ragon,' and put simply,'Perfumery' inbig letters of gold. On the _entresol_ I place theoffice, the counting-room, and a pretty little sanctum for you. I makethe shop out of the back-shop, the present dining-room, and kitchen. Ihire the first floor of the nexthouse, and open a door into it throughthe wall. I turn the staircase so as to pass from house to house on onefloor; and we shall thus get a grand appartement, furnished like a nest.Yes, I shall refurnish your bedroom,and contrive a boudoir for you anda pretty chamber for Cesarine. The shop-girl whom you will hire, ourhead clerk, and your lady's-maid (yes, Madame, you are to have one!)will sleep on the second floor. On the thirdwill be the kitchen androoms of the cook and the man-of-all-work. The fourth shall be a generalstore-house for bottle, crystals, and porcelains. The workshop for ourpeople, in the attic! Passers-by shall no longer seethem gumming onthe labels, making the bags, sorting the flasks, and corking the phials.Very well for the Rue Saint-Denis, but for the Rue Saint-Honore--fy! badstyle! Our shop must be as comfortable as adrawing-room. Tell me, arewe the only perfumers who have reached public honors? Are there notvinegar merchants and mustard men who command in the National Guard andare very well received at the Palace? Letus imitate them; let us extendour business, and at the same time press forward into higher society.""Goodness! Birotteau, do you know what I am thinking of as I listen toyou? You are like the man who looks for knotsin a bulrush. Recollectwhat I said when it was a question of making you deputy-mayor: 'yourpeace of mind before everything!' You are as fit, I told you, 'to be putforward in public life as my arm is to turn a windmill.Honors will beyour ruin!' You would not listen to me, and now the ruin has come. Toplay a part in politics you must have money: have we any? What! wouldyou burn your sign, which cost six hundred francs, andrenounce 'TheQueen of Roses,' your true glory? Leave ambition to others. He who putshis hand in the fire gets burned,--isn't that true? Politics burn inthese days. We have one hundred good thousand francs investedoutside ofour business, our productions, our merchandise. If you want to increaseyour fortune, do as they did in 1793. The Funds are at sixty-two:buy into the Funds. You will get ten thousand francs' income, andtheinvestment won't hamper our property. Take advantage of the occasion tomarry our daughter; sell the business, and let us go and live in yournative place. Why! for fifteen years you have talked of nothing butbuyingLes Tresorieres, that pretty little property near Chinon, wherethere are woods and fields, and ponds and vineyards, and two dairies,which bring in a thousand crowns a year, with a house which we bothlike,--all of whichwe can have for sixty thousand francs; and, lo!Monsieur now wants to become something under government! Recollect whatwe are,--perfumers. If sixteen years before you invented the DOUBLEPASTE OF SULTANS andthe CARMINATIVE BALM some one had said, 'You aregoing to make enough money to buy Les Tresorieres,' wouldn't you havebeen half sick with joy? Well, you can acquire that property which youwanted so much thatyou hardly opened your mouth about anything else,and now you talk of spending on nonsense money earned by the sweat ofour brow: I can say ours, for I've sat behind the desk through all thattime, like a poor dog inhis kennel. Isn't it much better to come andvisit our daughter after she is married to a notary of Paris, and liveeight months of the year at Chinon, than to begin here to make five soussix blanks, and of six blanksnothing? Wait for a rise in the Funds, andyou can give eight thousand francs a year to your daughter and we cankeep two thousand for ourselves, and the proceeds of the business willallow us to buy Les Tresorieres.There in your native place, my goodlittle cat, with our furniture, which is worth a great deal, we shalllive like princes; whereas here we want at least a million to make anyfigure at all.""I expected you to say all this,wife," said Cesar Birotteau. "I am notquite such a fool (though you think me a great fool, you do) as not tohave thought of all that. Now, listen to me. Alexandre Crottat will fitus like a glove for a son-in-law, and he willsucceed Roguin; but doyou suppose he will be satisfied with a hundred thousand francs_dot_?--supposing that we gave our whole property outside of thebusiness to establish our daughter, and I am willing; I wouldgladlylive on dry bread the rest of my days to see her happy as a queen, thewife of a notary of Paris, as you say. Well, then, a hundred thousandfrancs, or even eight thousand francs a year, is nothing at alltowardsbuying Roguin's practice. Little Xandrot, as we call him, thinks,like all the rest of the world, that we are richer than we are. If hisfather, that big farmer who is as close as a snail, won't sell a hundredthousandfrancs worth of land Xandrot can't be a notary, for Roguin'spractice is worth four or five hundred thousand. If Crottat does notpay half down, how could he negotiate the affair? Cesarine must have twohundred thousandfrancs _dot_; and I mean that you and I shall retiresolid bourgeois of Paris, with fifteen thousand francs a year. Hein! IfI could make you see that as plain as day, wouldn't it shut your mouth?""Oh, if you've got themines of Peru--""Yes, I have, my lamb. Yes," he said, taking his wife by the waist andstriking her with little taps, under an emotion of joy which lighted uphis features, "I did not wish to tell you of this matter till it wasallcooked; but to-morrow it will be done,--that is, perhaps it will. Hereit is then: Roguin has proposed a speculation to me, so safe that he hasgone into it with Ragon, with your uncle Pillerault, and two other ofhisclients. We are to buy property near the Madeleine, which, accordingto Roguin's calculations, we shall get for a quarter of the value whichit will bring three years from now, at which time, the present leaseshavingexpired, we shall manage it for ourselves. We have all six takencertain shares. I furnish three hundred thousand francs,--that is,three-eighths of the whole. If any one of us wants money, Roguin willget it for him byhypothecating his share. To hold the gridiron and knowhow the fish are fried, I have chosen to be nominally proprietor of onehalf, which is, however, to be the common property of Pillerault andthe worthy Ragon andmyself. Roguin will be, under the name of MonsieurCharles Claparon, co-proprietor with me, and will give a reversionarydeed to his associates, as I shall to mine. The deeds of purchase aremade by promises of saleunder private seal, until we are masters ofthe whole property. Roguin will investigate as to which of the contractsshould be paid in money, for he is not sure that we can dispense withregistering and yet turn over thetitles to those to whom we sell insmall parcels. But it takes too long to explain all this to you. Theground once paid for, we have only to cross our arms and in threeyears we shall be rich by a million. Cesarine will thenbe twenty, ourbusiness will be sold, and we shall step, by the grace of God, modestlyto eminence.""Where will you get your three hundred thousand francs?" said MadameBirotteau."You don't understand business, mybeloved little cat. I shall take thehundred thousand francs which are now with Roguin; I shall borrow fortythousand on the buildings and gardens where we now have our manufactoryin the Faubourg du Temple; wehave twenty thousand francs here inhand,--in all, one hundred and sixty thousand. There remain one hundredand forty thousand more, for which I shall sign notes to the orderof Monsieur Charles Claparon, banker. Hewill pay the value, less thediscount. So there are the three hundred thousand francs provided for.He who owns rents owes nothing. When the notes fall due we can pay themoff with our profits. If we cannot pay them incash, Roguin will givethe money at five per cent, hypothecated on my share of the property.But such loans will be unnecessary. I have discovered an essence whichwill make the hair grow--an Oil Comagene, from Syria!Livingston hasjust set up for me a hydraulic press to manufacture the oil from nuts,which yield it readily under strong pressure. In a year, according tomy calculations, I shall have made a hundred thousand francs atleast.I meditate an advertisement which shall begin, 'Down with wigs!'--theeffect will be prodigious. You have never found out my wakefulness,Madame! For three months the success of Macassar Oil has kept me


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Letters of Two Brides, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Letters of Two BridesAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: R. S. ScottRelease Date: October,1999  [Etext #1941]Posting Date: November 23, 2009Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF TWO BRIDES ***Produced by John Bickers and DagnyLETTERS OF TWOBRIDESBy Honore de BalzacTranslated by R. S. ScottDEDICATION  To George Sand  Your name, dear George, while casting a reflected radiance on my  book, can gain no new glory from this page. And yet it isneither  self-interest nor diffidence which has led me to place it there,  but only the wish that it should bear witness to the solid  friendship between us, which has survived our wanderings and  separations, andtriumphed over the busy malice of the world. This  feeling is hardly likely now to change. The goodly company of  friendly names, which will remain attached to my works, forms an  element of pleasure in the midst ofthe vexation caused by their  increasing number. Each fresh book, in fact, gives rise to fresh  annoyance, were it only in the reproaches aimed at my too prolific  pen, as though it could rival in fertility the world fromwhich I  draw my models! Would it not be a fine thing, George, if the  future antiquarian of dead literatures were to find in this  company none but great names and generous hearts, friends bound by  pure and holy ties,the illustrious figures of the century? May I  not justly pride myself on this assured possession, rather than on  a popularity necessarily unstable? For him who knows you well, it  is happiness to be able to sign himself,as I do here,  Your friend,  DE BALZAC.  PARIS, June 1840.LETTERS OF TWO BRIDESFIRST PARTI. LOUISE DE CHAULIEU TO RENEE DE MAUCOMBE. PARIS, September.Sweetheart, I too am free! And I am the first too,unless you havewritten to Blois, at our sweet tryst of letter-writing.Raise those great black eyes of yours, fixed on my opening sentence,and keep this excitement for the letter which shall tell you of my firstlove. By theway, why always "first?" Is there, I wonder, a second love?Don't go running on like this, you will say, but tell me rather howyou made your escape from the convent where you were to take your vows.Well, dear, I don'tknow about the Carmelites, but the miracle of my owndeliverance was, I can assure you, most humdrum. The cries of an alarmedconscience triumphed over the dictates of a stern policy--there's thewhole mystery. Thesombre melancholy which seized me after you lefthastened the happy climax, my aunt did not want to see me die of adecline, and my mother, whose one unfailing cure for my malady was anovitiate, gave way beforeher.So I am in Paris, thanks to you, my love! Dear Renee, could you haveseen me the day I found myself parted from you, well might you havegloried in the deep impression you had made on so youthful a bosom.Wehad lived so constantly together, sharing our dreams and letting ourfancy roam together, that I verily believe our souls had become weldedtogether, like those two Hungarian girls, whose death we heard aboutfromM. Beauvisage--poor misnamed being! Never surely was man better cutout by nature for the post of convent physician!Tell me, did you not droop and sicken with your darling?In my gloomy depression, I could donothing but count over the tieswhich bind us. But it seemed as though distance had loosened them; Iwearied of life, like a turtle-dove widowed of her mate. Death smiledsweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly todie. To be at Blois, atthe Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there, aMlle. de la Valliere, but without her prelude, and without my Renee! Howcould I not be sick--sick unto death?How different itused to be! That monotonous existence, where every hourbrings its duty, its prayer, its task, with such desperate regularitythat you can tell what a Carmelite sister is doing in any place, at anyhour of the night or day;that deadly dull routine, which crushes outall interest in one's surroundings, had become for us two a world oflife and movement. Imagination had thrown open her fairy realms, and inthese our spirits ranged at will,each in turn serving as magic steedto the other, the more alert quickening the drowsy; the world fromwhich our bodies were shut out became the playground of our fancy, whichreveled there in frolicsome adventure.The very _Lives of the Saints_helped us to understand what was so carefully left unsaid! But the daywhen I was reft of your sweet company, I became a true Carmelite, suchas they appeared to us, a modern Danaid,who, instead of trying to filla bottomless barrel, draws every day, from Heaven knows what deep, anempty pitcher, thinking to find it full.My aunt knew nothing of this inner life. How could she, who has made aparadisefor herself within the two acres of her convent, understand myrevolt against life? A religious life, if embraced by girls of our age,demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we, sweetheart, donot possess, orelse an ardor for self-sacrifice like that which makesmy aunt so noble a character. But she sacrificed herself for a brotherto whom she was devoted; to do the same for an unknown person or an ideais surely more thancan be asked of mortals.For the last fortnight I have been gulping down so many reckless words,burying so many reflections in my bosom, and accumulating such a storeof things to tell, fit for your ear alone, that Ishould certainlyhave been suffocated but for the resource of letter-writing as a sorrysubstitute for our beloved talks. How hungry one's heart gets! I ambeginning my journal this morning, and I picture to myself thatyoursis already started, and that, in a few days, I shall be at home in yourbeautiful Gemenos valley, which I know only through your descriptions,just as you will live that Paris life, revealed to you hitherto only inourdreams.Well, then, sweet child, know that on a certain morning--a red-letterday in my life--there arrived from Paris a lady companion and Philippe,the last remaining of my grandmother's valets, charged to carry meoff.When my aunt summoned me to her room and told me the news, I could notspeak for joy, and only gazed at her stupidly."My child," she said, in her guttural voice, "I can see that you leaveme without regret, butthis farewell is not the last; we shall meetagain. God has placed on your forehead the sign of the elect. You havethe pride which leads to heaven or to hell, but your nature is too nobleto choose the downward path. Iknow you better than you know yourself;with you, passion, I can see, will be very different from what it iswith most women."She drew me gently to her and kissed my forehead. The kiss made my fleshcreep, for itburned with that consuming fire which eats away her life,which has turned to black the azure of her eyes, and softened the linesabout them, has furrowed the warm ivory of her temples, and cast asallow tinge over thebeautiful face.Before replying, I kissed her hands."Dear aunt," I said, "I shall never forget your kindness; and if it hasnot made your nunnery all that it ought to be for my health of body andsoul, you may be surenothing short of a broken heart will bring meback again--and that you would not wish for me. You will not see mehere again till my royal lover has deserted me, and I warn you that if Icatch him, death alone shall tearhim from me. I fear no Montespan."She smiled and said:"Go, madcap, and take your idle fancies with you. There is certainlymore of the bold Montespan in you than of the gentle la Valliere."I threw my arms round her.The poor lady could not refrain fromescorting me to the carriage. There her tender gaze was divided betweenme and the armorial bearings.At Beaugency night overtook me, still sunk in a stupor of the mindproduced bythese strange parting words. What can be awaiting me in thisworld for which I have so hungered?To begin with, I found no one to receive me; my heart had been schooledin vain. My mother was at the Bois deBoulogne, my father at theCouncil; my brother, the Duc de Rhetore, never comes in, I am told,till it is time to dress for dinner. Miss Griffith (she is not unlike agriffin) and Philippe took me to my rooms.The suite is theone which belonged to my beloved grandmother, thePrincess de Vauremont, to whom I owe some sort of a fortune which noone has ever told me about. As you read this, you will understandthe sadness which cameover me as I entered a place sacred to so manymemories, and found the rooms just as she had left them! I was to sleepin the bed where she died.Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I burst into tears, forgetting Iwasnot alone, and remembering only how often I had stood there by herknees, the better to hear her words. There I had gazed upon her face,buried in its brown laces, and worn as much by age as by the pangsofapproaching death. The room seemed to me still warm with the heat whichshe kept up there. How comes it that Armande-Louise-Marie de Chaulieumust be like some peasant girl, who sleeps in her mother's bed theverymorrow of her death? For to me it was as though the Princess, who diedin 1817, had passed away but yesterday.I saw many things in the room which ought to have been removed. Theirpresence showed thecarelessness with which people, busy with theaffairs of state, may treat their own, and also the little thought whichhad been given since her death to this grand old lady, who will alwaysremain one of the striking figuresof the eighteenth century. Philippeseemed to divine something of the cause of my tears. He told me that thefurniture of the Princess had been left to me in her will and that myfather had allowed all the larger suites toremain dismantled, as theRevolution had left them. On hearing this I rose, and Philippe openedthe door of the small drawing-room which leads into the reception-rooms.In these I found all the well-rememberedwreckage; the panels abovethe doors, which had contained valuable pictures, bare of all but emptyframes; broken marbles, mirrors carried off. In old days I was afraidto go up the state staircase and cross these vast,deserted rooms; so Iused to get to the Princess' rooms by a small staircase which runsunder the arch of the larger one and leads to the secret door of herdressing-room.My suite, consisting of a drawing-room, bedroom,and the prettymorning-room in scarlet and gold, of which I have told you, lies in thewing on the side of the Invalides. The house is only separated from theboulevard by a wall, covered with creepers, and by a splendidavenueof trees, which mingle their foliage with that of the young elms onthe sidewalk of the boulevard. But for the blue-and-gold dome of theInvalides and its gray stone mass, you might be in a wood.The style ofdecoration in these rooms, together with their situation,indicates that they were the old show suite of the duchesses, whilethe dukes must have had theirs in the wing opposite. The two suites aredecorously separatedby the two main blocks, as well as by the centralone, which contained those vast, gloomy, resounding halls shown meby Philippe, all despoiled of their splendor, as in the days of mychildhood.Philippe grew quiteconfidential when he saw the surprise depicted on mycountenance. For you must know that in this home of diplomacy the veryservants have a reserved and mysterious air. He went on to tell me thatit was expected alaw would soon be passed restoring to the fugitivesof the Revolution the value of their property, and that my father iswaiting to do up his house till this restitution is made, the king'sarchitect having estimated thedamage at three hundred thousand livres.This piece of news flung me back despairing on my drawing-room sofa.Could it be that my father, instead of spending this money in arranginga marriage for me, would have leftme to die in the convent? This wasthe first thought to greet me on the threshold of my home.Ah! Renee, what would I have given then to rest my head upon yourshoulder, or to transport myself to the days when mygrandmother madethe life of these rooms? You two in all the world have been alone inloving me--you away at Maucombe, and she who survives only in my heart,the dear old lady, whose still youthful eyes used to openfrom sleep atmy call. How well we understood each other!These memories suddenly changed my mood. What at first had seemedprofanation, now breathed of holy association. It was sweet to inhalethe faint odor of thepowder she loved still lingering in the room;sweet to sleep beneath the shelter of those yellow damask curtains withtheir white pattern, which must have retained something of the spiritemanating from her eyes andbreath. I told Philippe to rub up the oldfurniture and make the rooms look as if they were lived in; I explainedto him myself how I wanted everything arranged, and where to put eachpiece of furniture. In this way Ientered into possession, and showedhow an air of youth might be given to the dear old things.The bedroom is white in color, a little dulled with time, just as thegilding of the fanciful arabesques shows here and there apatch of red;but this effect harmonizes well with the faded colors of the Savonnerietapestry, which was presented to my grandmother by Louis XV. along withhis portrait. The timepiece was a gift from the Marechal deSaxe,and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece came from the Marechal deRichelieu. My grandmother's portrait, painted at the age of twenty-five,hangs in an oval frame opposite that of the King. The Prince,herhusband, is conspicuous by his absence. I like this frank negligence,untinged by hypocrisy--a characteristic touch which sums up her charmingpersonality. Once when my grandmother was seriously ill, herconfessorwas urgent that the Prince, who was waiting in the drawing-room, shouldbe admitted."He can come in with the doctor and his drugs," was the reply.The bed has a canopy and well-stuffed back, and thecurtains are loopedup with fine wide bands. The furniture is of gilded wood, upholstered inthe same yellow damask with white flowers which drapes the windows,and which is lined there with a white silk that looks asthough it werewatered. The panels over the doors have been painted, by what artistI can't say, but they represent one a sunrise, the other a moonlightscene.The fireplace is a very interesting feature in the room. It iseasy tosee that life in the last century centered largely round the hearth,where great events were enacted. The copper gilt grate is a marvelof workmanship, and the mantelpiece is most delicately finished; thefire-ironsare beautifully chased; the bellows are a perfect gem.The tapestry of the screen comes from the Gobelins and is exquisitelymounted; charming fantastic figures run all over the frame, on the feet,the supporting bar, andthe wings; the whole thing is wrought like afan.Dearly should I like to know who was the giver of this dainty work ofart, which was such a favorite with her. How often have I seen the oldlady, her feet upon the bar,reclining in the easy-chair, with her dresshalf raised in front, toying with the snuff-box, which lay upon theledge between her box of pastilles and her silk mits. What a coquetteshe was! to the day of her death she tookas much pains with herappearance as though the beautiful portrait had been painted onlyyesterday, and she were waiting to receive the throng of exquisites fromthe Court! How the armchair recalls to me the inimitablesweep of herskirts as she sank back in it!These women of a past generation have carried off with them secretswhich are very typical of their age. The Princess had a certain turnof the head, a way of dropping her glanceand her remarks, a choice ofwords, which I look for in vain, even in my mother. There was subtletyin it all, and there was good-nature; the points were made without anyaffectation. Her talk was at once lengthy andconcise; she told a goodstory, and could put her meaning in three words. Above all, she wasextremely free-thinking, and this has undoubtedly had its effect on myway of looking at things.From seven years old till I wasten, I never left her side; it pleasedher to attract me as much as it pleased me to go. This preference wasthe cause of more than one passage at arms between her and my mother,and nothing intensifies feeling like theicy breath of persecution. Howcharming was her greeting, "Here you are, little rogue!" when curiosityhad taught me how to glide with stealthy snake-like movements to herroom. She felt that I loved her, and thischildish affection was welcomeas a ray of sunshine in the winter of her life.I don't know what went on in her rooms at night, but she had manyvisitors; and when I came on tiptoe in the morning to see if shewere awake,I would find the drawing-room furniture disarranged, thecard-tables set out, and patches of snuff scattered about.This drawing-room is furnished in the same style as the bedroom. Thechairs and tables are oddlyshaped, with claw feet and hollow mouldings.Rich garlands of flowers, beautifully designed and carved, wind over themirrors and hang down in festoons. On the consoles are fine chinavases. The ground colors arescarlet and white. My grandmother was ahigh-spirited, striking brunette, as might be inferred from her choiceof colors. I have found in the drawing-room a writing-table I rememberwell; the figures on it used tofascinate me; it is plaited in gravensilver, and was a present from one of the Genoese Lomellini. Each sideof the table represents the occupations of a different season; there arehundreds of figures in each picture, andall in relief.I remained alone for two hours, while old memories rose before me,one after another, on this spot, hallowed by the death of a woman mostremarkable even among the witty and beautiful Court ladies ofLouisXV.'s day.You know how abruptly I was parted from her, at a day's notice, in 1816."Go and bid good-bye to your grandmother," said my mother.The Princess received me as usual, without any display of feeling,andexpressed no surprise at my departure."You are going to the convent, dear," she said, "and will see your auntthere, who is an excellent woman. I shall take care, though, that theydon't make a victim of you; youshall be independent, and able to marrywhom you please."Six months later she died. Her will had been given into the keeping ofthe Prince de Talleyrand, the most devoted of all her old friends. Hecontrived, whilepaying a visit to Mlle. de Chargeboeuf, to intimateto me, through her, that my grandmother forbade me to take the vows. Ihope, sooner or later, to meet the Prince, and then I shall doubtlesslearn more from him.Thus,sweetheart, if I have found no one in flesh and blood to meet me,I have comforted myself with the shade of the dear Princess, and haveprepared myself for carrying out one of our pledges, which was, as youknow, tokeep each other informed of the smallest details in our homesand occupations. It makes such a difference to know where and how thelife of one we love is passed. Send me a faithful picture of the veriesttrifles aroundyou, omitting nothing, not even the sunset lights amongthe tall trees.October 19th.It was three in the afternoon when I arrived. About half-past five, Rosecame and told me that my mother had returned, so I wentdownstairs topay my respects to her.My mother lives in a suite on the ground floor, exactly correspondingto mine, and in the same block. I am just over her head, and the samesecret staircase serves for both. Myfather's rooms are in the blockopposite, but are larger by the whole of the space occupied by the grandstaircase on our side of the building. These ancestral mansions are sospacious, that my father and mother continueto occupy the ground-floorrooms, in spite of the social duties which have once more devolved onthem with the return of the Bourbons, and are even able to receive inthem.I found my mother, dressed for the evening, inher drawing-room, wherenothing is changed. I came slowly down the stairs, speculating withevery step how I should be met by this mother who had shown herself solittle of a mother to me, and from whom, duringeight years, I had heardnothing beyond the two letters of which you know. Judging it unworthy tosimulate an affection I could not possibly feel, I put on the air ofa pious imbecile, and entered the room with manyinward qualms, whichhowever soon disappeared. My mother's tack was equal to the occasion.She made no pretence of emotion; she neither held me at arm's-length norhugged me to her bosom like a beloveddaughter, but greeted me as thoughwe had parted the evening before. Her manner was that of the kindliestand most sincere friend, as she addressed me like a grown person, firstkissing me on the forehead."My dear


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of Time's Abyss, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: Out of Time's AbyssAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsPosting Date: July 30, 2008 [EBook#553]Release Date: June, 1996[Last updated: November 24, 2012]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF TIME'S ABYSS ***Produced by Judith Boss.Out of Time's AbyssByEdgarRice BurroughsChapter IThis is the tale of Bradley after he left Fort Dinosaur upon the westcoast of the great lake that is in the center of the island.Upon the fourth day of September, 1916, he set out withfourcompanions, Sinclair, Brady, James, and Tippet, to search along thebase of the barrier cliffs for a point at which they might be scaled.Through the heavy Caspakian air, beneath the swollen sun, the fivemenmarched northwest from Fort Dinosaur, now waist-deep in lush, junglegrasses starred with myriad gorgeous blooms, now across openmeadow-land and parklike expanses and again plunging into dense forestsofeucalyptus and acacia and giant arboreous ferns with featheredfronds waving gently a hundred feet above their heads.About them upon the ground, among the trees and in the air over themmoved and swung andsoared the countless forms of Caspak's teeminglife.  Always were they menaced by some frightful thing and seldom weretheir rifles cool, yet even in the brief time they had dwelt uponCaprona they had become callousto danger, so that they swung alonglaughing and chatting like soldiers on a summer hike."This reminds me of South Clark Street," remarked Brady, who had onceserved on the traffic squad in Chicago; and as no oneasked him why, hevolunteered that it was "because it's no place for an Irishman.""South Clark Street and heaven have something in common, then,"suggested Sinclair.  James and Tippet laughed, and then a hideousgrowlbroke from a dense thicket ahead and diverted their attention to othermatters."One of them behemoths of 'Oly Writ," muttered Tippet as they came to ahalt and with guns ready awaited the almost inevitablecharge."Hungry lot o' beggars, these," said Bradley; "always trying to eateverything they see."For a moment no further sound came from the thicket.  "He may befeeding now," suggested Bradley.  "We'll try to goaround him.  Can'twaste ammunition.  Won't last forever.  Follow me."  And he set off atright angles to their former course, hoping to avert a charge.  Theyhad taken a dozen steps, perhaps, when the thicket moved tothe advanceof the thing within it, the leafy branches parted, and the hideous headof a gigantic bear emerged."Pick your trees," whispered Bradley.  "Can't waste ammunition."The men looked about them.  The beartook a couple of steps forward,still growling menacingly.  He was exposed to the shoulders now.Tippet took one look at the monster and bolted for the nearest tree;and then the bear charged.  He charged straight forTippet.  The othermen scattered for the various trees they had selected--all exceptBradley.  He stood watching Tippet and the bear.  The man had a goodstart and the tree was not far away; but the speed of theenormouscreature behind him was something to marvel at, yet Tippet was in afair way to make his sanctuary when his foot caught in a tangle ofroots and down he went, his rifle flying from his hand and fallingseveralyards away.  Instantly Bradley's piece was at his shoulder,there was a sharp report answered by a roar of mingled rage and painfrom the carnivore.  Tippet attempted to scramble to his feet."Lie still!" shoutedBradley.  "Can't waste ammunition."The bear halted in its tracks, wheeled toward Bradley and then backagain toward Tippet.  Again the former's rifle spit angrily, and thebear turned again in his direction.  Bradleyshouted loudly.  "Come on,you behemoth of Holy Writ!" he cried.  "Come on, you duffer!  Can'twaste ammunition."  And as he saw the bear apparently upon the verge ofdeciding to charge him, he encouraged the ideaby backing rapidly away,knowing that an angry beast will more often charge one who moves thanone who lies still.And the bear did charge.  Like a bolt of lightning he flashed down uponthe Englishman.  "Nowrun!"  Bradley called to Tippet and himselfturned in flight toward a nearby tree.  The other men, now safelyensconced upon various branches, watched the race with breathlessinterest.  Would Bradley make it?  Itseemed scarce possible.  And ifhe didn't!  James gasped at the thought.  Six feet at the shoulderstood the frightful mountain of blood-mad flesh and bone and sinew thatwas bearing down with the speed of an expresstrain upon the seeminglyslow-moving man.It all happened in a few seconds; but they were seconds that seemedlike hours to the men who watched.  They saw Tippet leap to his feet atBradley's shouted warning.  Theysaw him run, stooping to recover hisrifle as he passed the spot where it had fallen.  They saw him glanceback toward Bradley, and then they saw him stop short of the tree thatmight have given him safety and turn backin the direction of the bear.Firing as he ran, Tippet raced after the great cave bear--the monstrousthing that should have been extinct ages before--ran for it and firedeven as the beast was almost upon Bradley.  Themen in the treesscarcely breathed.  It seemed to them such a futile thing for Tippet todo, and Tippet of all men!  They had never looked upon Tippet as acoward--there seemed to be no cowards among that strangelyassortedcompany that Fate had gathered together from the four corners of theearth--but Tippet was considered a cautious man.  Overcautious, somethought him.  How futile he and his little pop-gun appeared ashedashed after that living engine of destruction!  But, oh, how glorious!It was some such thought as this that ran through Brady's mind, thougharticulated it might have been expressed otherwise, albeitmoreforcefully.Just then it occurred to Brady to fire and he, too, opened upon thebear, but at the same instant the animal stumbled and fell forward,though still growling most fearsomely.  Tippet never stopped runningorfiring until he stood within a foot of the brute, which lay almosttouching Bradley and was already struggling to regain its feet.Placing the muzzle of his gun against the bear's ear, Tippet pulled thetrigger.  The creaturesank limply to the ground and Bradley scrambledto his feet."Good work, Tippet," he said.  "Mightily obliged to you--awful waste ofammunition, really."And then they resumed the march and in fifteen minutes theencounterhad ceased even to be a topic of conversation.For two days they continued upon their perilous way.  Already thecliffs loomed high and forbidding close ahead without sign of break toencourage hope thatsomewhere they might be scaled.  Late in theafternoon the party crossed a small stream of warm water upon thesluggishly moving surface of which floated countless millions of tinygreen eggs surrounded by a lightscum of the same color, though of adarker shade.  Their past experience of Caspak had taught them thatthey might expect to come upon a stagnant pool of warm water if theyfollowed the stream to its source; butthere they were almost certainto find some of Caspak's grotesque, manlike creatures.  Already sincethey had disembarked from the U-33 after its perilous trip through thesubterranean channel beneath the barrier cliffshad brought them intothe inland sea of Caspak, had they encountered what had appeared to bethree distinct types of these creatures.  There had been the pureapes--huge, gorillalike beasts--and those who walked, atrifle moreerect and had features with just a shade more of the human cast aboutthem.  Then there were men like Ahm, whom they had captured andconfined at the fort--Ahm, the club-man.  "Well-known club-man,"Tylerhad called him.  Ahm and his people had knowledge of a speech.  Theyhad a language, in which they were unlike the race just inferior tothem, and they walked much more erect and were less hairy: but itwasprincipally the fact that they possessed a spoken language and carrieda weapon that differentiated them from the others.All of these peoples had proven belligerent in the extreme.  In commonwith the rest of thefauna of Caprona the first law of nature as theyseemed to understand it was to kill--kill--kill.  And so it was thatBradley had no desire to follow up the little stream toward the poolnear which were sure to be the caves ofsome savage tribe, but fortuneplayed him an unkind trick, for the pool was much closer than heimagined, its southern end reaching fully a mile south of the point atwhich they crossed the stream, and so it was thatafter forcing theirway through a tangle of jungle vegetation they came out upon the edgeof the pool which they had wished to avoid.Almost simultaneously there appeared south of them a party of naked menarmedwith clubs and hatchets.  Both parties halted as they caughtsight of one another.  The men from the fort saw before them a huntingparty evidently returning to its caves or village laden with meat.They were large menwith features closely resembling those of theAfrican Negro though their skins were white.  Short hair grew upon alarge portion of their limbs and bodies, which still retained aconsiderable trace of apishprogenitors.  They were, however, adistinctly higher type than the Bo-lu, or club-men.Bradley would have been glad to have averted a meeting; but as hedesired to lead his party south around the end of the pool, andas itwas hemmed in by the jungle on one side and the water on the other,there seemed no escape from an encounter.On the chance that he might avoid a clash, Bradley stepped forward withupraised hand.  "We arefriends," he called in the tongue of Ahm, theBo-lu, who had been held a prisoner at the fort; "permit us to pass inpeace.  We will not harm you."At this the hatchet-men set up a great jabbering with much laughter,loudand boisterous.  "No," shouted one, "you will not harm us, for weshall kill you.  Come!  We kill!  We kill!" And with hideous shoutsthey charged down upon the Europeans."Sinclair, you may fire," said Bradleyquietly.  "Pick off the leader.Can't waste ammunition."The Englishman raised his piece to his shoulder and took quick aim atthe breast of the yelling savage leaping toward them.  Directly behindthe leader came anotherhatchet-man, and with the report of Sinclair'srifle both warriors lunged forward in the tall grass, pierced by thesame bullet.  The effect upon the rest of the band was electrical.  Asone man they came to a sudden halt,wheeled to the east and dashed intothe jungle, where the men could hear them forcing their way in aneffort to put as much distance as possible between themselves and theauthors of this new and frightful noise thatkilled warriors at a greatdistance.Both the savages were dead when Bradley approached to examine them, andas the Europeans gathered around, other eyes were bent upon them withgreater curiosity than theydisplayed for the victim of Sinclair'sbullet.  When the party again took up the march around the southern endof the pool the owner of the eyes followed them--large, round eyes,almost expressionless except for a certaincold cruelty which glintedmalignly from under their pale gray irises.All unconscious of the stalker, the men came, late in the afternoon, toa spot which seemed favorable as a campsite.  A cold spring bubbledfrom thebase of a rocky formation which overhung and partiallyencircled a small inclosure.  At Bradley's command, the men took up theduties assigned them--gathering wood, building a cook-fire andpreparing the eveningmeal.  It was while they were thus engaged thatBrady's attention was attracted by the dismal flapping of huge wings.He glanced up, expecting to see one of the great flying reptiles of abygone age, his rifle ready in hishand.  Brady was a brave man.  Hehad groped his way up narrow tenement stairs and taken an armed maniacfrom a dark room without turning a hair; but now as he looked up, hewent white and staggeredback."Gawd!" he almost screamed.  "What is it?"Attracted by Brady's cry the others seized their rifles as theyfollowed his wide-eyed, frozen gaze, nor was there one of them that wasnot moved by some species of terroror awe.  Then Brady spoke again inan almost inaudible voice.  "Holy Mother protect us--it's a banshee!"Bradley, always cool almost to indifference in the face of danger, felta strange, creeping sensation run over hisflesh, as slowly, not ahundred feet above them, the thing flapped itself across the sky, itshuge, round eyes glaring down upon them.  And until it disappeared overthe tops of the trees of a near-by wood the five menstood as thoughparalyzed, their eyes never leaving the weird shape; nor never one ofthem appearing to recall that he grasped a loaded rifle in his hands.With the passing of the thing, came the reaction.  Tippet sank totheground and buried his face in his hands.  "Oh, Gord," he moaned.  "Tykeme awy from this orful plice."  Brady, recovered from the first shock,swore loud and luridly.  He called upon all the saints to witness thathewas unafraid and that anybody with half an eye could have seen thatthe creature was nothing more than "one av thim flyin' alligators" thatthey all were familiar with."Yes," said Sinclair with fine sarcasm, "we've saw somany of them withwhite shrouds on 'em.""Shut up, you fool!" growled Brady.  "If you know so much, tell us whatit was after bein' then."Then he turned toward Bradley.  "What was it, sir, do you think?"heasked.Bradley shook his head.  "I don't know," he said.  "It looked like awinged human being clothed in a flowing white robe.  Its face was morehuman than otherwise.  That is the way it looked to me; but whatitreally was I can't even guess, for such a creature is as far beyond myexperience or knowledge as it is beyond yours.  All that I am sure ofis that whatever else it may have been, it was quite material--it wasno ghost;rather just another of the strange forms of life which wehave met here and with which we should be accustomed by this time."Tippet looked up.  His face was still ashy.  "Yer cawn't tell me," hecried.  "Hi seenhit.  Blime, Hi seen hit.  Hit was ha dead man flyin'through the hair.  Didn't Hi see 'is heyes?  Oh, Gord! Didn't Hi see'em?""It didn't look like any beast or reptile to me," spoke up Sinclair."It was lookin' right down at mewhen I looked up and I saw its faceplain as I see yours.  It had big round eyes that looked all cold anddead, and its cheeks were sunken in deep, and I could see its yellowteeth behind thin, tight-drawn lips--like a manwho had been dead along while, sir," he added, turning toward Bradley."Yes!" James had not spoken since the apparition had passed over them,and now it was scarce speech which he uttered--rather a seriesofarticulate gasps.  "Yes--dead--a--long--while.  It--means something.It--come--for some--one.  For one--of us.  One--of us is goin'--to die.I'm goin' to die!" he ended in a wail."Come!  Come!" snapped Bradley.  "Won'tdo.  Won't do at all.  Get towork, all of you.  Waste of time.  Can't waste time."His authoritative tones brought them all up standing, and presentlyeach was occupied with his own duties; but each worked in silenceandthere was no singing and no bantering such as had marked the making ofprevious camps.  Not until they had eaten and to each had been issuedthe little ration of smoking tobacco allowed after each eveningmealdid any sign of a relaxation of taut nerves appear.  It was Brady whoshowed the first signs of returning good spirits.  He commenced humming"It's a Long Way to Tipperary" and presently to voice the words, buthewas well into his third song before anyone joined him, and even thenthere seemed a dismal note in even the gayest of tunes.A huge fire blazed in the opening of their rocky shelter that theprowling carnivora might bekept at bay; and always one man stood onguard, watchfully alert against a sudden rush by some maddened beast ofthe jungle.  Beyond the fire, yellow-green spots of flame appeared,moved restlessly about,disappeared and reappeared, accompanied by ahideous chorus of screams and growls and roars as the hungrymeat-eaters hunting through the night were attracted by the light orthe scent of possible prey.But to suchsights and sounds as these the five men had become callous.They sang or talked as unconcernedly as they might have done in thebar-room of some publichouse at home.Sinclair was standing guard.  The others werelistening to Brady'sdescription of traffic congestion at the Rush Street bridge during therush hour at night.  The fire crackled cheerily.  The owners of theyellow-green eyes raised their frightful chorus to theheavens.Conditions seemed again to have returned to normal.  And then, asthough the hand of Death had reached out and touched them all, the fivemen tensed into sudden rigidity.Above the nocturnal diapason of theteeming jungle sounded a dismalflapping of wings and over head, through the thick night, a shadowyform passed across the diffused light of the flaring camp-fire.Sinclair raised his rifle and fired.  An eerie wail floateddown fromabove and the apparition, whatever it might have been, was swallowed bythe darkness.  For several seconds the listening men heard the sound ofthose dismally flapping wings lessening in the distance untiltheycould no longer be heard.Bradley was the first to speak.  "Shouldn't have fired, Sinclair," hesaid; "can't waste ammunition."  But there was no note of censure inhis tone.  It was as though he understood thenervous reaction that hadcompelled the other's act."I couldn't help it, sir," said Sinclair.  "Lord, it would take an ironman to keep from shootin' at that awful thing.  Do you believe inghosts, sir?""No," repliedBradley.  "No such things.""I don't know about that," said Brady.  "There was a woman murderedover on the prairie near Brighton--her throat was cut from ear to ear,and--""Shut up," snapped Bradley."My grandaddyused to live down Coppington wy," said Tippet.  "Theywere a hold ruined castle on a 'ill near by, hand at midnight they usedto see pale blue lights through the windows an 'ear--""Will you close your hatch!" demandedBradley.  "You fools will haveyourselves scared to death in a minute.  Now go to sleep."But there was little sleep in camp that night until utter exhaustionovertook the harassed men toward morning; nor was there anyreturn ofthe weird creature that had set the nerves of each of them on edge.The following forenoon the party reached the base of the barrier cliffsand for two days marched northward in an effort to discover a breakinthe frowning abutment that raised its rocky face almost perpendicularlyabove them, yet nowhere was there the slightest indication that thecliffs were scalable.Disheartened, Bradley determined to turn back toward thefort, as healready had exceeded the time decided upon by Bowen Tyler and himselffor the expedition.  The cliffs for many miles had been trending in anortheasterly direction, indicating to Bradley that theywereapproaching the northern extremity of the island.  According to thebest of his calculations they had made sufficient easting during thepast two days to have brought them to a point almost directly north ofFortDinosaur and as nothing could be gained by retracing their stepsalong the base of the cliffs he decided to strike due south through theunexplored country between them and the fort.That night (September 9, 1916),they made camp a short distance fromthe cliffs beside one of the numerous cool springs that are to be foundwithin Caspak, oftentimes close beside the still more numerous warm andhot springs which feed the manypools.  After supper the men laysmoking and chatting among themselves.  Tippet was on guard.  Fewernight prowlers threatened them, and the men were commenting upon thefact that the farther north they hadtraveled the smaller the number ofall species of animals became, though it was still present in whatwould have seemed appalling plenitude in any other part of the world.The diminution in reptilian life was the mostnoticeable change in thefauna of northern Caspak.  Here, however, were forms they had not metelsewhere, several of which were of gigantic proportions.According to their custom all, with the exception of the man onguard,sought sleep early, nor, once disposed upon the ground for slumber,were they long in finding it.  It seemed to Bradley that he hadscarcely closed his eyes when he was brought to his feet, wide awake,by apiercing scream which was punctuated by the sharp report of arifle from the direction of the fire where Tippet stood guard.  As heran toward the man, Bradley heard above him the same uncanny wail thathad set every