The Rapin

by H. De Vere Stacpoole

Bastiche, then, as if oblivious of the presence of a foe, gazed up at the clouds and sniffed, and asked the sky where could the smell of manure be coming from; whilst Fantoff inquired of the tulips whether this was the washing-day at the castle? This allusion to his birth quite upset the calm of Bastiche, who descended the steps, opened the garden gate, and like a fool left the protection of the tulip army and holly hedge.

Then, on the plain before the Castle of Flowers, ensued a battle such as never before was witnessed in Fairyland. The mushrooms formed a ring seven miles in diameter, and in this ring the heroes struggled; the sound filled the air for many miles, mixed with the sounds of many things hastening to see the fight. At the end of an hour the plain was strewn with unwashed clothes, and the battle was with Fantoff. He tore the lid off Bastiche, and, not content with this, what must he do but insert his great green head into the yawning opening, to tear the heart of his enemy out with his teeth. But Bastiche had no heart, and here lies one of the morals of the story. For Fantoff had no knowledge of anatomy and he did not know the impossibility of slaying a man without a heart—a critic for instance, or a Bastiche. What did he do? Burrowing deeper and deeper to find his heart, he got his shoulders implicated in the creaking body of Bastiche, and burrowing deeper still he was implicated to the loins.

“He creaks,” cried Fantoff, “so he is still alive!” and went deeper till he was in to the knees. Then he found that he could not get out, for Bastiche had in death taken upon him the revenge of a clothes basket. The fairies tried to pull him out, and also the cat Mizar, but it was of no avail; so they wheeled him away, and the cat Mizar followed to the grave.

In the Castle of Flowers the Lady Primavera turned from watching the fight and its miserable conclusion; she saw an object at her feet. It was Blizzard the dwarf; he had left the barrow during the fight, and, entering the castle by the scullery door, sneaked upstairs, and now upon one knee was declaring his love; and she returned his passion, it seems. But their bliss was of short duration. For one day, chancing to fall asleep in the kitchen, the cook, who was short of vegetables, cut him up and put him in the pot, and the Lady Primavera ate him in her soup, and so there was an end of Blizzard.

For Fantoff read genius; Primavera, fame; Bastiche, the spiteful critics; Blizzard, the popular author, whose books sell by the ton; Mizar, the faithful few. The story also as told by Gaillard had several immoral meanings quite Greek to Célestin. It was, in fact, the work of Papillard, for the downfall of De Nani had thawed that humorist in his cell.

“That is all,” said Gaillard. “To-morrow, if you are better, I will tell you of the adventures of the cat Mizar, and of all that happened when he saw his reflection in the looking-glass of the wizard Fantoum. Fantoum had a blue face; he was half-brother to Fantoff, and his enemy was the giant Boum-Boum, whose children under the spell of the wizard were turned into drums before the age of twenty; that is to say, the boys—the girls turned into drumsticks. I will tell you a story each day, my little Célestin, and then we will print them all in a pretty volume bound in butterfly-blue vellum, and call them ‘Tales Told to Célestin.’ With the money from its sale we will buy a cottage at Montmorency and keep bees; we will support ourselves on bees and fairy tales. And now I must say adieu, and run away until to-morrow.”

“Ah, Montmorency!” murmured Célestin, as Gaillard’s high collar and frock-coat vanished and the door closed on them, leaving her alone.

Toto gave the poet his check, imploring him to wait a little longer and keep him company.

But Gaillard had now the check in his pocket, and the vision of Pleasure was kicking her skirts before his eyes, a box of cigars in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. So he took the opportunity of Garnier’s entrance to make his exit, swearing to return on the morrow at noon, and ran down the Rue de Perpignan, making for the right side of the Seine just as a thirsty animal makes for water.

Then Garnier, like the poet, came in to see the patient; his pockets were bulging with things, and he held in his hands a square paper parcel; it was a little picture he had painted for Célestin—a droll little picture of a Cupid with a cold, an ominous little picture, perhaps, for, as Gaillard truly said, who can tell what a cold may turn to?