n in every house. What has come over you? Come,
let's look at you! Well, I declare, you are all of a sweat, just as if
you had been dragged out of the water! What have you been doing since I
left you? Overexerting yourself, I am sure, and I forbid you ever doing
so. La! Look how the great drops pour from him, poor old chick!"

"And well they may!" exclaimed M. Pipelet, passing his hand over his
face, bathed in its own dew; "well may I sweat,--ay, even blood and
water,--for there are facts connected with this house past belief or
comprehension. First, you summon me up-stairs, and, at the same moment,
I find you waiting below! Oh, it is too, too much for my poor brain!"

"Deuce take me, if I can comprehend one word of all you are saying!
Lord, help us! It is to be hoped your poor old brain is not cracked. I
tell you what, if you go on so, I shall just set you down for cracked;
and all through that scamp of a Cabrion,--the devil take him! Ever since
that last trick he played the other day, I declare you have not been
yourself, so flustered and bewildered! Do you mean to live in fear and
dread of that abominable painter all your days?"

But scarcely had Anastasie uttered these words than a fearful thing
occurred. Alfred continued sitting, with his face turned towards the
bed, while the lodge was dimly illumined by the faint glimmer of a
winter's afternoon and a lamp that stood burning on the table, near
Alfred's work. By these doubtful lights, M. Pipelet, just as his wife
pronounced the name of Cabrion, imagined he saw, in the shadow of the
recess, the half stolid, half chuckling features of his enemy. Alas! Too
truly, there he was. His steeple-crowned hat, his flowing locks, thin
countenance, sardonic smile, pointed beard, and look of fiendish malice,
all were there, past all mistake. For a moment, M. Pipelet believed
himself under the influence of a dream, and passed his hand across his
eyes, in hopes that the illusion might disperse; but no; there was
nothing illusive in what his eyes glared so fearfully upon,--nothing
could be more real or positive. Yet, horror of horrors! This object
seemed merely to possess a head, which, without allowing any part of the
body to appear, grinned a satanic smile from the dark draperies of the
recess in which stood the bed. At this horrific vision M. Pipelet fell
back, without uttering a word. With uplifted arm he pointed towards the
source of his terrors, but with so strong a manifesta