drunk more or less, and Duchesne
launched into a photographic and Zolaesque account of the only time (as
he said) when he was possessed of the panic of fear; namely, one night
many years ago, when he was locked by accident into the dissecting-room
of the Loucine, together with several cadavers of a rather unpleasant
nature. I ventured to protest mildly against the choice of subjects,
the result being a perfect carnival of horrors, so that when we finally
drank our last _creme de cacao_ and started for "la Bouche d'Enfer," my
nerves were in a somewhat rocky condition.

It was just ten o'clock when we came into the street. A hot dead wind
drifted in great puffs through the city, and ragged masses of vapor
swept the purple sky; an unsavory night altogether, one of those nights
of hopeless lassitude when one feels, if one is at home, like doing
nothing but drink mint juleps and smoke cigarettes.

Eugene opened the creaking door, and tried to light one of the lanterns;
but the gusty wind blew out every match, and we finally had to close the
outer doors before we could get a light. At last we had all the lanterns
going, and I began to look around curiously. We were in a long, vaulted
passage, partly carriageway, partly footpath, perfectly bare but for the
street refuse which had drifted in with eddying winds. Beyond lay the
courtyard, a curious place rendered more curious still by the fitful
moonlight and the flashing of four dark lanterns. The place had
evidently been once a most noble palace. Opposite rose the oldest
portion, a three-story wall of the time of Francis I., with a great
wisteria vine covering half. The wings on either side were more modern,
seventeenth century, and ugly, while towards the street was nothing but
a flat unbroken wall.

The great bare court, littered with bits of paper blown in by the wind,
fragments of packing cases, and straw, mysterious with flashing lights
and flaunting shadows, while low masses of torn vapor drifted overhead,
hiding, then revealing the stars, and all in absolute silence, not even
the sounds of the streets entering this prison-like place, was weird and
uncanny in the extreme. I must confess that already I began to feel a
slight disposition towards the horrors, but with that curious
inconsequence which so often happens in the case of those who are
deliberately growing scared, I could think of nothing more reassuring
than those delicious verses of Lewis Carroll's:--

"