“I will not step in! I will step out! I will leave zis house! I will leave––forever!”
And the head vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, to be followed by hasty footsteps down the stairway.
“Now I can understand why Orpheus was torn to pieces,” ruminated Straws, mournfully surveying the offending pipe. “He played on the lyre! Return to thy cupboard, O reed divine!”––putting the whistle back in the box––“a vile world, as Falstaff says! Heigho!”––yawning––“life is an empty void––which reminds me I have a most poetic appetite. What shall I do”––and Straws sat up relinquishing his lounging attitude––“go out, or have pot-luck in the room? Tortier’s bouillabaisse would about tickle the jaded palate. A most poetic dish, that bouillabaisse! Containing all the fish that swim in the sea and all the herbs that grow on the land! Thus speaks gluttony! Get thee behind me, odoriferous temptation of garlic! succulent combination of broth and stew!”
So saying, Straws sprang from his bed, lighted a charcoal fire in his tiny grate; rummaged a bureau drawer and drew forth an end of bacon, a potato or two, a few apples, an onion and the minor part of a loaf of bread, all of which, except the bread, he sliced and thrust indiscriminately into the frying-pan and placed over the blue flame. Next from behind the mirror he produced a diminutive coffee pot into which he measured, with extreme care, just so much of the ground berry, being rather over-nice about his demitasse. Having progressed thus far in his preparation for pot, or frying-pan luck––and indeed it seemed a matter of luck, or good fortune, how that mixture would turn out––he rapped on the floor with the heel of his boot, like the prince in the fairy tale, summoning 295 his attendant good genii, and in a few moments a light tapping on the door announced the coming of a servitor.
Not a mighty wraith nor spook of Arabian fancy, but a very small girl, or child, with very black hair, very white skin and very dark, beautiful eyes. A daughter of mixed ancestry, yet with her dainty hands and little feet, she seemed descended from sprites or sylphs.
“Monsieur called,” she said in her pretty dialect.
“Yes, my dear. Go to Monsieur Tortier’s, Celestina, and tell him to give you a bottle of the kind Monsieur Straws always takes.”
“At once, Monsieur,” she answered, very gravely, very seriously. And Celestina vanished like a butterfly that flutters quickly away.
“Now this won’t be bad after all,” thought Straws, sniffing at the frying-pan which had begun to sputter bravely over the coals, while the coffee pot gave forth a fragrant steam. “A good bottle of wine will transform a snack into a collation; turn pot-luck into a feast!”