flash of lightning. I see stars, three stars, that is to say,
one of the best brands plucked from the burning. I'm going
to make your flesh creep. I'll give you fits, paralytic fits,
epileptic fits, and fits of hysteria, all at the same time.
Have I ever been in Paris? Never. Do I know the taste of
absinthe? How dare you ask me such a question? Am I a woman?
Ask me another. Ugh! it's coming, the demon is upon me. I must
write three murderous volumes. I must, I must! What was that
shriek? and that? and that? Unhand me, snakes! Oh!!!!--M.M."]

CHAPTER I.

[Illustration]

I was asleep and dreaming--dreaming dreadful, horrible,
soul-shattering dreams--dreams that flung me head-first out of
bed, and then flung me back into bed off the uncarpeted floor of my
chamber. But I did not wake--why should I?--it was unnecessary--I
wanted to dream--I had to dream and therefore I dreamt. I was walking
home from a cheap restaurant in one of the poorer quarters of Paris.
"Poorer quarters" is a nice vague term. There are many poorer quarters
in a large city. This was one of them. Let that suffice to the
critical pedants who clamour for accuracy and local colour. Accuracy!
pah! Shall the soaring soul of a three-volumer be restrained by the
debasing fetters of a grovelling exactitude? Never! I will tell you
what. If I choose, I who speak to you, _moi qui vous parle_, the Seine
shall run red with the blood of murdered priests, and there shall be
a tide in it where no tide ever was before, close to Paris itself,
the home of the _Marrons Glacés_, and into the river I shall plunge
a corpse with upturned face and glassy, staring, haunting, dreadful