 Am I Insane by Guy de Maupassant? This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org, recording by Peter Piazza. Am I Insane by Guy de Maupassant? Am I Insane or Jealous? I know not which, but I suffer horribly. I commit it a crime, it is true, but is not insane jealousy, betrayed love, and the terrible pain I endure, enough to make anyone commit a crime without actually being criminal? I have loved this woman too madness, and yet, is it true? Did I love her? No. No. She owned me. Body and soul. I was her plaything. She ruled me by her smile, her look, the divine form of her body. It was all those things that I loved. But the woman contained in that body, I despise her, I hate her. I always have hated her for she is but an impure, perfidious creature in whom there was no soul. In less than that she is but a mass of soft flesh in which dwells infamy. The first few months of our union were deliciously strange. Her eyes were three different colors, no. I am not insane, I swear they were. They were gray at noon, shaded green at twilight, and blue at sunrise in moments of love they were blue. The pupils dilated and nervous, her lips trembled and often the tip of her pink tongue could be seen as that of a reptile ready to hiss. When she raised her heavy lids and I saw that ardent look, I shuddered not only for the unceasing desire to possess her, but for the desire to kill this beast. When she walked across the room, each step resounded in my heart. When she disrobed and emerged infamous but radiant from the white mass of linen and lace, a sudden weakness ceased me. My limbs gave way beneath me and my chest heaved. I was faint, coward that I was. Each morning when she awakened, I waited for that first look, my heart filled with rage, hatred and disdain for this beast whose slave I was. But when she fixed those limpid blue eyes on me, that languishing look showing traces of lassitude it was like a burning unquenchable fire within me, inciting me to. When she opened her eyes that day, I saw a dull indifferent look, a look devoid of desire. And I knew then she was tired of me. I saw it, knew it, felt it right away, that it was all over, and each hour and minute proved to me that I was right. When I beckoned her with my arms and lips, she shrank from me. Leave me alone, she said, you are horrid. Then I became suspicious, insanely jealous, but I am not insane. No indeed, I watched her slyly. Not that she had betrayed me, but she was so cold that I knew another would soon take my place. At times she would say, men disgust me, alas it was too true. Then I became jealous of her indifference of her thoughts, which I knew to be impure. And when she awakened with that same look of lassitude, I suffocated with anger, an irresistible desire to choke her and make her confess the shameful secrets of her heart took hold of me. Am I insane? No, one night I saw that she was happy. I felt, in fact, I was convinced that a new passion ruled her. As of old, her eyes shone, she was feverish, and her whole self flattered with love. I feigned ignorance, but I watched her closely. I discovered nothing, however. I waited a week, a month, almost a year. She was radiantly, ideally happy, as if soothed by some ephemeral caress. At last I guessed, no, I am not insane, I swear I am not. How can I explain this inconceivable, horrible thing? How can I make myself understood? This is how I guessed. She came in one night from a long ride on horseback and sank exhausted in a seat facing me. An unnatural flush tinted her cheeks and her eyes, those eyes that I knew so well had such a look in them. I was not mistaken. I had seen her look like that. She loved. But whom? What? I almost lost my head, and so as not to look at her, I turned to the window. A valet was leading her horse to the stable, and she stood and watched him disappear. Then she fell asleep almost immediately. I thought and thought all night. My mind wandered through mysteries too deep to conceive. Who can fathom the perversity and strange cup-races of a sensual woman? Every morning she rode madly through hills and dales, and each time she came back languid, exhausted. At last I understood it was of the horse I was jealous, of the wind which caressed her of the drooping leaves of the dew-drops of the saddle which carried her. It was all of these things which made her so happy and brought her back to me satiated, exhausted. I resolved to be revenged. I became very attentive. Every time she came back from a ride I helped her down, and the horse made a vicious rush at me. She would pat him on the neck, kiss his quivering nostrils without even wiping her lips. I watched my chance. One morning I got up before dawn, and went to the path in the woods she loved so well. I carried a rope with me, and my pistols were hidden in my breast. As if I were going to fight a duel, I drew the rope across the path, tying it to a tree on each side, and hid myself in the grass. Presently I heard her horse's hooves. When I saw her coming at a furious pace, her cheeks flushed an insane look in her eyes. She seemed enraptured, transported into another sphere. As the animal approached the rope, he struck it with his forefeet and fell. Before she had struck the ground, I caught her in my arms and helped her to her feet. I then approached the horse, put my pistol close to his ear, and shot him as I would a man. She turned on me, and dealt me two terrific blows across the face with her riding whip, which felled me, and as she rushed at me again, I shot her. Tell me, am I insane? End of Am I Insane, Recording by Peter Piazza. Black Cat by Jean Thomas This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bologna Times. Black Cat by Jean Thomas From where old Paul Gentry lived on Rocky Fork of Webbs Creek, she could see far down into the valley of Pigeon River, and across the ridge on all sides. Her house stood at the very top of Hawks Nest, the highest peak in all the country around. Paul didn't have a tight house, like several down near the sawmill. She said it wasn't healthy. Even when the owner of the portable mill offered her leftover planks to cover her log-house, where the dauban had fallen out, Paul refused. The hose let the wind in and the cat out, she'd say, and a body can't do without either. There was a long, sleek cat, with green eyes and fur as black as a crow, to be seen skulking in and out of Paul Gentry's place. If it met a person as it prowled through the woods, the cat darted off, swift as a weasel into the bush to hide away. Young folks on Rocky Fork of Webbs Creek learned early to snatch off hat or bonnet if the cat crossed their path, spit into it, and put it quickly on again, to break the witch of old Paul Gentry's black cat. But never were the two, Paul and the cat, seen together. Truth to tell there were some among the old folks on Rocky Fork, who long had vowed that Paul and the cat were one and the same. They declared Paul was a witch and leg with the devil, and that she could change herself from woman to cat when the spell was strong enough within her, when the evil spirits took a good stronghold upon her. Moreover Paul Gentry had but one tooth, one sharp fang in the very front of her upper jaw. A woman is bound to be a witch if she has just one tooth, folks said, and believed. Paul Gentry was a frightful creature to look upon. She had a heavy growth of hair, cold black hair all around her mouth, and particularly upon her upper lip. Her beard was plain to be seen even when she turned in at a neighbor's lane, long before she reached the door. Little children at first sight of her ran screaming to hide their faces in their mother's skirts. There wasn't a child old enough to give ear to a tale who hadn't heard of Paul Gentry's powers, how she had bewitched Dan Escu's little girl Flossie. It wouldn't have happened, some said, if Flossie had spit in her bonnet when the black cat crossed her path as she tripped through the woods one day gathering wildflowers. That very evening when she got back home, Flossie sank on the doorstep. The bonnet filled with wildflowers dropped from her arm. She moaned pitifully, holding her head between her hands and swaying to and fro. Right away her head began to swell, and by the time they got word to Seth Ealing, the wizard doctor who lived in Mossie Bottom, Flossie's head was twice its size. Indeed, Flossie Escu's head was as big as a full-grown pumpkin. The minute the wizard clapped eyes on the child, he spoke out, "'Beat up eggshells as fine as you can, and give them to this child in a cup of water.' If she is bewitched, this mixture will pass through her clear.' Orders were promptly obeyed. Flossie drained the cup, but no sooner had Flossie passed the powered eggshells than the witch left her. Her head went back to its natural size. Nevertheless, Flossie Escu died that night. "'Didn't sin for the wizard soon enough?' Seth Ealing said. Some believed in the powers of both, though neither witch nor wizard could give the other a friendly look, much less a word. Paul Gentry was never downright friendly with any, though she would hoe for a neighbor in return for something to eat. "'My place is too rocky to raise anything,' she excused herself. And whatever was given her, Paul would carry home then and there. Them's fine turnips you got, Mistress Darby,' she said one day. And Sally Darby up and handed her a double-handful of turnips. Paul opened up the front of her dirty calico mother-hubbard, put the turnips inside against her dirty hide, and tripped off with them. Nor was Paul Gentry one to sit home at tasks such as knitting or piecing a quilt. But every one admitted there never was a better hand the country over at raisin' pigs. So Paul swapped pigs for knitting. She had to have long yarn stockings, mittens, a warm hood, for her pigs had to be fed and tended winter and summer. Others needed meat as much as Paul needed things to keep her warm. Little Bocock was glad to knit stockings for the old witch in return for a plump shote. Tillie had several mouths to feed. Her man was a no-account who spent his time fishing in summer and hunting in winter so that all the work felt Tillie. Day by day she tended and fed the shote. It was black and white spotted and fat as a butter-ball. She and the little Bococks bragged. Another month, and you can butcher that shote, old Paul would stop in at Tillie's every time she went down the mountain eyeing the fat pig. Sometimes she would put the palms of her dirty hands against her mouth and rub the black hair back to this side and to that. Then she'd stroke her chin as though her black beard hung far down. Paul would make a clucking sound with her tongue. She'd stow his chin on a juicy spear-rib or non-meat grease-a-pigs knuckle right now, she'd say. Then Paul would begin on a long tale of witchery, how she had seen young husbands under the spell of her craft grow faithless to young pretty wives, how children gained power over their parents through her and had their own will in all things, even to getting titled to house and land from them before it should have been theirs. She told how Luther Trumbo's John took with barkenfits like a dog and became a hunchback overnight. Why? Because he made mock of Paul Gentry, that's why. She rubbed a dirty hand around her hairy mouth and cackled gleefully. Like that, Tilly Bulkock turned to her frightened children huddled behind her chair. Get you gone, the last one of you, out to the barn! Such witchy talk is not for young heirs. Then old Paul Gentry scowled at Tilly and her sharp eyes flashed, and she puffed her lips in and out. Paul didn't say anything, but Tilly could see she was miffed, and there was in her sharp eyes a look that said, Never mind, Tilly Bulkock, you'll pay for this. Next morning Paul Gentry was up bright and early, rattling the pot on the stove and grumbling to herself. I'll show Tilly Bulkock a thing or two, so I will, sitting her young ones out of my hearing. Far down the ridge Tilly Bulkock was up early too, for already the sun was bright, and there was corn to hoe. Tilly and the children had washed the dishes, and she had carried out the soapy dish-water with cornbread scraps mixed in it and poured it in the trough for the pig. Spotty they called their pet. The Bulkocks had no planks with which to make a separate pen for the spotted pig, so they kept its trough in a corner of the chicken lot. Easy! You and Sifroni go fetch a bucket of cold water for Spotty, till he called to her two elders. A pig likes a cold drink, now and then, same as we do. So off the children went with the cedar bucket to the spring. When they returned they poured some of the water into the dish-pan, and Spotty sucked it up greedily, while they hurried to pour the rest into the mud-hole where the pig liked to wallow. The sun caked the mud on the pig's sides and legs as it lay grunting contentedly in the chicken-yard. And when Tilly and the children came in from hoe and corn at dinner time, Spotty still lay snoozing in the sun. An hour later they returned to toss a handful of turnip-creens into the pig. But Spotty didn't even grunt or get up, for on its side was a sleek black cat. A cat with green eyes stretched full length, working its claws into the pig's muddy sides, now with the front paws, now with the hind ones. The children screamed and stomped afoot. Scat! Scat! They cried, but the black cat only turned its fierce eyes toward them. Hearing their screams, Tilly came running out. She flooded her apron at the cat to scare it away, but it only snarled, showing its teeth, lifting its bristling whiskers. Then Tilly picked up a stone and threw it as hard as she could, striking the cat squarely between the eyes. It screamed like a human, Tilly told afterwards. Loud and wild it screamed, and leaping off the pig it darted off quick as a flash. When the cat reached the cliff halfway up the mountain that led toward Paul Gentry's. It turned around and looked back. With one paw uplifted it wiped its face, for there was blood pouring out of the cut between its shining green eyes. It twitched its mouth till the black fur stood up. Come, get up, spotty! Tilly and the children coaxed the pig. Here's more dishwater slopped for you. Here's some cornbread. Slowly the pig got to its knees, then to its feet. He grunted once only, and fell over dead. After that old Paul Gentry wasn't seen for days, but when Tilly Bulcock did catch sight of her Paul turned off from the footpath and hurried away. Even so Tilly saw the deep gash in Paul's forehead oozing blood right between her eyes. She saw Paul Gentry's mouth widen angrily and the black hair about it twitched like that of a snarling cat as she slunk away. End of Black Cat by Jean Thomas. The Brazilian Cat by Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Bologna Times. The Brazilian Cat by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is hard luck on a young fellow to have expensive tastes, great expectations, aristocratic connections, but no actual money in his pocket, and no profession by which he may earn any. The fact was that my father, a good, sanguine, easygoing man, had such confidence in the wealth and benevolence of his bachelor elder brother, Lord Southerton, that he took it for granted that I, his only son, would never be called upon to earn a living for myself. He imagined that if there were not a vacancy for me on the great Southerton estates, at least there would be found some post in that diplomatic service, which still remains the special preserve of our privileged classes. He died too early to realize how false his calculations had been. Neither my uncle nor the state took the slightest notice of me or showed any interest in my career. An occasional brace of pheasants or basket of hairs was all that ever reached me to remind me that I was heir to the Ottwell House and one of the richest estates in the country. In the meantime I found myself a bachelor and man about town living in a suite of apartments and groven earth mansions, with no occupation save that of pigeon-shooting and polo-playing at Hurlingham. Month by month I realized that it was more and more difficult to get the brokers to renew my bills or to cash any further post-obots upon an unentailed property. Ruan lay right across my path, and every day I saw it clearer, and more absolutely unavoidable. What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from the great wealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were fairly well to do. The nearest of these was Everard King, my father's nephew, and my own first cousin, who had spent an adventurous life in Brazil and had now returned to the country to settle down on his fortune. We never knew how he made his money, for he bought the estate of Grayland's near Clifton on the Marsh in Suffolk. For the first year of his residence in England he took no more notice of me than my miserly uncle, but at last one summer morning, to my very great relief and joy, I received a letter asking me to come down that very day and spend a short visit at Grayland's court. I was expecting a rather long visit to bankruptcy court at the time, and this interruption seemed almost providential. If I only could get on terms with this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through yet. For the family credit he could not let me go entirely to the wall. I ordered my valet to pack my valise, and I set off the same evening for Clifton on the Marsh. After changing at Ipswich, a little local trend deposited me at a small deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country with a sluggish and winding river curving in and out amidst the valleys between high-salted banks which showed that we were within reach of the tide. No carriage was waiting me. I found afterwards that my telegram had been delayed, so I hired a dog cart at the local inn. The driver, an excellent fellow, was full of my relatives' praises, and I learned from him that Mr. Everard King was already a name to conjure with in that part of the county. He had entertained the school children, he had thrown his grounds open to visitors, he had subscribed to charities, and short his benevolence had been so universal that my driver could only account for it on the supposition that he had parliamentary ambitions. My attention was drawn away from my driver's panachiric by the appearance of a very beautiful bird which settled on a telegraph post beside the road. At first I thought that it was a jay, but it was larger with a brighter plumage. The driver accounted for his presence at once by saying that it belonged to the very man whom we were about to visit. It seems that the acclimatization of foreign creatures was one of his hobbies, and that he had brought with him from Brazil a number of birds and beasts which he was endeavouring to rear in England. When once we had passed the gates of Graylands Park we had ample evidence of this taste of his. Some small spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, I believe, as a peccary, a gorgeously feathered aureole, some sort of armadillo, and a singular, lumbering, end-hoed beast like a very fat badger were among the creatures which I observed as we drove along the winding avenue. Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person upon the steps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance and guessed that it was I. His appearance was very homely and benevolent, short and stout, thirty-five years old, perhaps, with a round, good-humoured face, burned brown with a tropical sun, and shot with a thousand wrinkles. He wore white linen clothes in true planter style, with a cigar between his lips and a large Panama hat upon the back of his head. It was such a figure as one associates with a verandah bungalow, that it looked curiously out of place, of this broad stone English mansion with its solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the doorway. My dear, he cried, glancing over his shoulder, my dear, here is our guest. Welcome! Welcome to Greyland! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great compliment that you should honour this sleepy little country place with your presence. Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at my ease in an instant. But it needed all his cordiality to atone for the fragility and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman who came forward at his summons. She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction, though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on the score of her ignorance of our customs. She did not attempt to conceal, however, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitor at Greyland's court. Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but she was the possessor of a pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and I read in them very clearly from the first that she heartily wished me back in London once more. However, my debts were too pressing, and my designs upon my wealthy relative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by the ill temper of his wife. So I disregarded her coldness and reciprocated the extreme cordiality of his welcome. No pains had been spared by him to make me comfortable. My room was a charming one. He implored to tell him anything which could add to my happiness. It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that a blank check would materially help towards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the present state of our acquaintance. The dinner was excellent, and as we sat together afterwards over his Havana's and coffee, which later, he told me, was specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that all my driver's eulogies were justified, and that I had never met a more large-hearted and hospitable man. But in spite of his cheery and good nature he was a man with a strong will and a fiery temper of his own. Of this I had an example upon the following morning. The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King had conceived towards me was so strong that her manner at breakfast was almost offensive, but her meaning became unmistakable when her husband had quitted the room. The best train in the day is at twelve-fifteen, said she. But I was not thinking of going to-day, I answered frankly, perhaps even defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out by this woman. Oh, if it rests with you, said she, and stopped with a most insolent expression in her eyes. I am sure, I answered, that Mr. Everard King would tell me if I were out staying my welcome. What's this? What's this? said a voice, and there he was in the room. He had overheard my last words, and a glance at her faces had told him the rest, in an instant his chubby, cheery face set into an expression of absolute ferocity. Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshal? said he. I may mention that my own name is Marshal King. He closed the door behind me, and then for an instant I heard him talking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife. This gross breach of hospitality had evidently hit upon his tenderest point. I am no eavesdropper, so I walked out onto the lawn. Presently I heard a hurried step behind me, and there was the lady, her face pale with excitement, and her eyes red with tears. My husband has asked me to apologize to you, Mr. Marshal King. said she, standing with the downcast eyes before me. Do not say another word, Mrs. King. Her dark eyes suddenly blazed out at me. You fool! she hissed, with frantic vehemence, and turning on her heels swept back to the house. The insult was so outrageous, so insufferable, that I could only stand staring after her in bewilderment. I was still there when my host joined me. He was his cheery, chubby self once more. I hope that my wife has apologized for her foolish remarks, said he. Oh, yes, yes, certainly. He put his hand through my arm, and walked with me up and down the lawn. You must not take it seriously, said he. It would grieve me inexpressibly if you curtailed your visit by one hour. The fact is, there is no reason why there should be any concealment between relatives that my poor, dear wife is incredibly jealous. She hates that anyone, male or female, should for an instant come between us. Her ideal is a desert island and an internal tete-ete. That gives you the clue to her actions, which are, I confess, upon this particular point not very far removed from Mania. Tell me that you will think no more of it. No, no, certainly not. Then like this cigar, and come round with me and see my little menagerie. The whole afternoon was occupied by this inspection, which included all the birds, beasts, and even reptiles which he had imported. Some were free, some in cages, a few actually in the house. He spoke with enthusiasm of his successes and his failures, his births and his deaths, and he would cry out in his delight, like a schoolboy, when, as we walked, some gaudy bird would flutter up from the grass or some curious beast slink into the cover. Finally, he had led me down a corridor which extended from one wing of the house. At the end of this there was a heavy door with a sliding shutter in it, and beside it there projected from the wall an iron handle attached to a wheel and a drum, a line of stout bars extended across the passage. I am about to show you the jewel of my collection, he said. There is only one other specimen in Europe, now that the Rotterdam cub is dead. It is a Brazilian cat. But how does that differ from any other cat? You will soon see that, said he, laughing. Will you kindly draw that shutter and look through? I did so, and found that I was gazing into a large empty room with stone flags and small barred windows upon the farther wall. In the center of this room, lying in the middle of a golden patch of sunlight, there was stretched a huge creature as large as a tiger, but as black and sleek as ebony. It was simply a very enormous and very well-kept black cat, and it cuddled up and basked in that yellow pool of light exactly as a cat would do. It was so graceful, so senui, and so gently and smoothly diabolical that I could not take my eyes from the opening. Isn't he splendid? said my host enthusiastically. Glorious! I never saw such a noble creature. Some people call it a black puma, but really it is not a puma at all. That fellow is nearly eleven feet from tail to tip. Four years ago he was a little ball of black fluff, with two yellow eyes staring out of it. He was soaked me as a newborn cub, up in the wild country at the headwaters of the Rio Negro. They speared his mother to death after she had killed a dozen of them. They are ferocious then. The most absolutely treacherous and bloodthirsty creatures upon earth. You talk about a Brazilian cat to an up-country Indian and see him get the jumps. They prefer humans to game. This fellow has never tasted living blood yet, but when he does he will be a terror. At present he won't stand any one but me in his den. Even Baldwin, the groom, dare not go near him. As to me I am his mother and his father in one. As he spoke he suddenly, to my astonishment, opened the door and slept in, closing it instantly behind him. At the sound of his voice the huge lithe-creature rose, yawned and rubbed its round black head affectionately against his side, while he patted and fondled it. "'Now, Tommy, into your cage,' said he. The monstrous cat walked over to one side of the room and coiled itself up under a grating. Everard King came out, and taking the iron handle which I have mentioned, he began to turn it. As he did so the line of bars in the corridor began to pass through a slot in the wall and closed up the front of this grating, so as to make an effective cage. When it was in position he opened the door once more and invited me into the room, which was heavy with the pungent, musty smell peculiar to the great carnivora. "'That's how we work it,' said he. We give him the run of the room for exercise, and then at night we put him in his cage. You can let him out by turning the handle from the passage, or you can, as you have seen, coop him up the same way. No, no, you should not do that.' I had put my hand between the bars to pat the glossy, heaving flank. He pulled it back with its serious face. "'I assure you that he is not safe. Don't imagine that because I can take liberties with him anyone else can. He is very exclusive in his friends. Aunchu, Tommy. Ah! He hears his lunch coming to him. Don't you boy!' A step sounded in the stone-flagged passage, and the creature had sprung to his feet, and was pacing up and down the narrow cage, his yellow eyes gleaming, and his scarlet tongue rippling and quivering over the white line of his jagged teeth. A groom entered with a coarse joint upon a tray and thrust it through the bars to him. He pounced lightly upon it, carried it off to the corner, and there, holding it between his paws, tore and wrenched at it, raising his bloody muzzle every now and then to look at us. It was a malignant and yet fascinating sight. "'You can't wonder that I am fond of him, can you?' said my host, as we left the room. Especially when you consider that I have had the rearing of him. It was no joke bringing him over from the center of South America, but here he is safe and sound, and, as I have said, for the most perfect specimen in Europe. The people at the zoo are dying to have him, but I really can't part with him. Now, I think that I have inflicted my hobby upon you long enough, so we cannot do better than follow Tommy's example, and go to our lunch. My South American relative was so engrossed by his grounds and their curious occupants that I hardly gave him credit at first for having any interests outside them, that he had some, and pressing ones, was soon borne in upon me by the number of telegrams which he received. They arrived at all hours, and were always opened by him with the utmost eagerness and anxiety upon his face. Sometimes I imagine that it must be the turf, and sometimes the stock exchange, but certainly he had some very urgent business going forwards which was not transacted upon the downs of Suffolk. During the six days of my visit he had never fewer than three or four telegrams a day, and sometimes as many as seven or eight. I had occupied these six days so well that by the end of them I had succeeded in getting upon the most cordial terms with my cousin. Every night we sat up late in the billiard-room, he telling me the most extraordinary stories of his adventures in America, stories so desperate and reckless that I could hardly associate them with the brown little chubby man before me. In return I ventured upon some of my own reminiscences of London life, which interested him so much that he vowed he would come up to Groverner Mansions and stay with me. He was anxious to see the faster side of city life, and certainly, though I say it, he could not have chosen a more competent guide. It was not until the last day of my visit that I ventured to approach that which was on my mind. I told him frankly about my pecuniary difficulties and my impending ruin, and I asked his advice, though I hoped for something more solid. He listened attentively, puffing hard at his cigar. "'But surely,' said he, "'you are the heir to our relative, Lord Southerton. I have every reason to believe so, but he would never make me any allowance.' "'No, no, I have heard of his miserly ways, my poor Marshal. Your position has been a very hard one. By the way, have you heard any news of Lord Southerton's health lately?' He has always been in a critical condition ever since my childhood. "'Exactly, a creaking hinge, if ever there was one. Your inheritance may be a long way off. Dear me, how awkwardly situated you are!' "'I had some hopes, sir, that you, knowing all the facts, might be inclined to advance.' "'Don't say another word, my dear boy,' he cried, with utmost cordiality. "'We shall talk it over to-night, and I give you my word that whatever is in my power shall be done. I was not sorry that my visit was drawing to a close, for it is unpleasant to feel that there is one person in the house who eagerly desires your departure. Mrs. King's shallow face and forbidding eyes had become more and more hateful to me. She was no longer actively rude. Her fear of her husband prevented her. But she pushed her insane jealousy to the extent of ignoring me, never addressing me, and in every way making my stay at Graylands as uncomfortable as she could. So offensive was her manner during that last day that I should certainly have left had it not been for that interview with my host in the evening which would, I hoped, retrieved my broken fortunes. It was very late when it occurred, for my relative, who had been receiving even more telegrams than usual during the day, went off to his study after dinner, and only emerged when the household had retired to bed. I heard him go round locking the doors, as custom was of a night, and finally he joined me in the billiard-room. His stop-figure was wrapped in a dressing-gown, and he wore a pair of red-turkish slippers without any heels. Settling down into an arm-share, he brewed himself a glass of grog, in which I could not help noticing that the whiskey considerably predominated over the water. "'My wood,' said he, "'what a night!' It was indeed. The wind was howling and screaming round the house, and the lattice windows rattled and shook as if they were coming in. The glow of the yellow lamps and the flavor of our cigars seemed the brighter and more fragrant for the contrast. "'Now, my boy,' said my host, "'we have the house and the night to ourselves. Let me have an idea of how your affairs stand, and I will see what can be done to set them in order. I wish to hear every detail.' Thus encouraged I entered into a long exposition in which all my tradesmen and creditors from my landlord to my valet figured in turn. I had notes in my pocket-book, and I marshaled my facts and gave, I flatter myself, a very business-like statement of my own un-business-like ways and lamentable position. I was depressed, however, to notice that my companion's eyes were vacant and his attention elsewhere. When he did occasionally throw out a remark, it was so entirely perfunctory and pointless that I was sure he had not in the least followed my remarks. Every now and then he roused himself and put on some show of interest, asking me to repeat or to explain more fully. But it was always to sink once more into the same brown study. At last he rose, and threw the end of his cigar into the grate. "'I'll tell you what, my boy,' said he. "'I never had a head for figures, so you will excuse me. You must jot it all down upon paper, and let me have a note of the amount. I'll understand it when I see it in black and white.' The proposal was encouraging. I promised to do so. And now it's time we were in bed. By Jove there's one o'clock striking in the hall. The tingling of the chiming clock broke through the deep roar of the gale. The wind was sweeping past with the rush of a great river. "'I must see my cat before I go to bed,' said my host. "'A high wind excites him. Will you come?' "'Certainly,' said I. "'Then tread softly, and don't speak, for everyone is asleep.' He passed quietly down the lamplit Persian rug-hall, and threw the door at the farther end. All was dark in the stone corridor, but a stable lantern hung on a hook, and my host took it down and lit it. There was no grating visible in the passage, so I knew that the beast was in its cage. "'Come in,' said my relative, and opened the door. A deep growling as we entered showed that the storm had really excited the creature. In the flickering light of the lantern we saw it, a huge black mass coiled in the corner of its den, and throwing a squat uncouthed shadow upon the whitewashed wall. Its tail switched angrily among the straw. "'Po Tommy is not in the best of tempers,' said Everard King, holding up the lantern and looking in at him. What a black devil he looks, doesn't he. I must give him a little supper to put him in a better humour. Would you mind holding the lantern for a moment?' I took it from his hand, and he stepped to the door. "'His lada is just outside here,' said he. "'You will excuse me for an instant, won't you?' He passed out, and the door shut with a sharp metallic click behind him. That hard, crisp sound made my heart stand still. A sudden wave of terror passed over me. A vague perception of some monstrous treachery turned me cold. I sprang to the door, but there was no handle upon the inner side. "'Here,' I cried, "'let me out!' "'All right, don't make a row,' said my host from the passage. You've got the light all right.' "'Yes, but I don't care about being locked in alone like this.' "'Don't you?' "'You won't be alone long.' "'Let me out, sir,' I repeated angrily. I tell you, I don't allow practical jokes of this sort.' "'Practical is the word,' said he, with another hateful chuckle. And then suddenly I heard, amidst the roar of the storm, the creak and whine of the winch-handle turning and the rattle of the grating as it passed through the slot. Great God! He was letting loose the Brazilian cat. In the light of the lantern I saw the bars sliding slowly before me. Already there was an opening a foot wide in the farther end. With a scream I seized the last bar with my hands and pulled with the strength of a madman. I was a madman with rage and horror. For a minute or more I held the thing motionless. I knew that he was straining with all his force upon the handle, and that the leverage was sure to overcome me. I gave, inch by inch, my feet sliding along the stones, and all the time I begged and prayed this inhuman monster to save me from this horrible death. I conjured him by his kinship. I reminded him that I was his guest. I begged to know what harm I had ever done him. His only answers were the tugs and jerks upon the handle, each of which, in spite of all my struggles, pulled another bar through the opening. Clinging and clutching, I was dragged across the whole front of the cage until it last with aching wrists and lacerated fingers. I gave up the hopeless struggle. The grating clang back as I released it, and an instant later I heard the shuffle of the Turkish slippers in the passage and the slam of the distant door. Then everything was silent. The creature had never moved during this time. He lay still in the corner, and his tail had ceased twitching. This apparition of a man adhering to his bars and drags screaming across him had apparently felled him with amazement. I saw his great eyes staring steadily at me. I had dropped the lantern when I seized the bars, but it still burned upon the floor. And I made a movement to grasp it, with some idea that its light might protect me. But the instant I moved, the beast gave up deep and menacing growl. I stopped and stood still, quivering with fear in every limb. The cat, if one may call so fearful a creature by so homely a name, was not more than ten feet from me. The eyes glimmered like two disks of phosphorus in the darkness. They appalled, and yet fascinated me. I could not take my own eyes from them. Nature plays strange tricks with us at such moments of intensity, and those glimmering lights waxed and waned with a steady rise and fall. Sometimes they seemed to be tiny points of extreme brilliancy, little electric sparks in the black obscurity. Then they would widen and widen until all that corner of the room was filled with their shifting and sinister light. And then suddenly they went out altogether. The beast had closed its eyes. I do not know whether there may be any truth in the old idea of the dominance of the human gaze, or whether the huge cat was simply drowsy. But the fact remains that, far from showing any symptom of attacking me, it simply rested its sleek black head upon its huge forepaws and seemed to sleep. I stood, fearing to move, lest I should rouse it into malignant life once more. But at least I was able to think clearly now that the baleful eyes were off me. Here I was shut up for the night with the ferocious beast. My own instincts, to say nothing of the words of the plausible villain who laid this trap for me, warned me that the animal was as savage as its master. How could I stave it off until morning? The door was hopeless, and so were the narrow barred windows. There was no shelter anywhere in the bare stone-flagged room. To cry for assistance was absurd. I knew that this den was an outhouse, and that the corridor which connected it with the house was at least a hundred feet long. Besides, with the gale thundering outside, my cries were not likely to be heard. I had only my own courage and my own wits to trust to. And then, with a fresh wave of horror, my eyes fell upon the lantern. The candle had burned low, and it was already beginning to gutter. In ten minutes it would be out. I had only ten minutes then in which to do something, for I felt that if I were once left in the dark with that fearful beast, I should be incapable of action. The very thought of it paralyzed me. I cast my despairing eyes round this chamber of death, and they rested upon one spot which seemed to promise, I will not say safety, but less immediate and imminent danger than the open floor. I have said that the cage had a top as well as a front, and this top was left standing when the front was wound to the slot in the wall. It consisted of bars at a few inches interval, with stout wire netting between, and it rested upon a strong stanchion at each end. It stood now as a great barred canopy over the correction figure in the corner. The space between this iron shelf and the roof may have been from two or three feet. If I could only get up there, squeezed in between bars and ceiling, I should have only one vulnerable side. I should be safe from below, from behind, and from each side. Only on the open face of it could I be attacked. There, it is true, I had no protection whatever. But at least I should be out of the brood's path when he began to pace about his done. He would have to come out of his way to reach me. It was now or never, for if once the light were out it would be impossible. With a gulp in my throat I sprang up, seized the iron edge of the top, and swung myself panting onto it. I writhed in, face downwards, and found myself looking straight into the terrible eyes and yawning jaws of the cat. Its fetid breath came up into my face, like the steam from some foul pot. It appeared, however, to be rather curious than angry. With a sleek ripple of its long black back it rose, stretched itself, and then rearing itself on its hind legs, with one forepaw against the wall it raised the other, and drew its claws across the wire meshes beneath me. One sharp white hook tore through my trousers, for I may mention that I was still in evening dress, and dug a furrow in my knee. It was not meant as an attack, but rather as an experiment, for upon my giving a sharp cry of pain he dropped down again, and springing lightly into the room he began walking swiftly around it, looking up every now and again in my direction. For my part I was shuffled backwards until I lay with my back against the wall, screwing myself into the smallest space possible. The farther I got the more difficult it was for him to attack me. He seemed more excited now that he had begun to move about, and he ran swiftly and noiselessly round and round the den, passing continually underneath the iron couch upon which I lay. It was wonderful to see so great a bulk passing like a shadow, with hardly the softest thudding of velvety pads. The candle was burning low, so low that I could hardly see the creature. And then, with the last flare and splutter, it went out altogether. I was alone with the cat, and the dark. It helps one to face a danger when one knows that one has done all that possibly can be done. There is nothing for it then, but to quietly await the result. In this case there was no chance of safety anywhere, except the precise spot where I was. I stretched myself out, therefore, and lay silently, almost breathlessly, hoping that the beast might forget my presence if I did nothing to remind him. I reckoned that it must already be two o'clock. At four it would be full dawn. I had not more than two hours to wait for daylight. Outside the storm was still raging, and the rain lashed continually against the little windows. Inside the poisonous and fetid air was overpowering. I could neither hear nor see the cat. I tried to think about other things, but only one had power enough to draw my mind from my terrible position. That was the contemplation of my cousin's villainy, his unparalleled hypocrisy, his malignant hatred of me. Beneath that cheerful face there looked the spirit of a medieval assassin. And as I thought of it, I saw more clearly how cunningly the thing had been arranged. He had apparently gone to bed with the others. No doubt he had his witness to prove it. Then, unknown to them, he had slipped down, had lured me into his den, and abandoned me. His story would be so simple. He had left me to finish my cigar in the billiard-room. I had gone down on my own account to have a last look at the cat. I had entered the room without observing that cage was opened, and I had been caught. How could such a crime be brought home to him? Suspicion, perhaps, but proof, never. How slowly those dreadful two hours went by. Once I heard a low rasping sound, which I took to be the creature licking its own fur. Several times those greenish eyes gleamed at me through the darkness, but never in a fixed stare. And my hopes grew stronger that my presence had been forgotten, or ignored. At last the least glimmer of light came through the windows. I first dimly saw them as two gray squares upon the black wall. Then gray turned to white, and I could see my terrible companion once more. And he, alas, could see me. It was evident to me at once that he was in a much more dangerous and aggressive mood than when I had seen him last. The cold of the morning had irritated him, and he was hungry as well. With a continual growl he paced swiftly up and down the side of the room, which was farthest from my refuge, his whiskers bristling angrily, and his tails switching and lashing. As he turned at the corners, his savage eyes always looked upwards at me with a dreadful menace. I knew then that he meant to kill me. Yet I found myself even at that moment admiring the senuous grace of the devilish thing, its long, undulated, rippling movements, the gloss of its beautiful flanks, the vivid, palpitating scarlet of the glistening tongue which hung from the jet-black muzzle. And all at the time that deep, threatening growl was rising, and rising, and an unbroken crescendo, I knew that the crisis was at hand. It was a miserable hour to meet such a death. So cold, so comfortless, shivering in my light-dressed clothes upon this gridiron of torment upon which I was stretched. I tried to brace myself to it, to raise my soul above it, and at the same time with the lucidity which comes to a perfectly desperate man, I cast round for some possible means of escape. One thing was clear to me. If that front of the cage was only back in its position once more, I could find a sure refuge behind it. Could I possibly pull it back? I hardly dared to move for fear of bringing the creature upon me. Slowly, very slowly, I put my hand forward until it grasped the edge of the front, the final bar which protruded through the wall. To my surprise it came quite easily to my jerk. Of course the difficulty of drawing it out arose from the fact that I was clinging to it. I pulled again, and three inches of it came through. It ran apparently on wheels. I pulled again, and then the cat sprang. It was so quick, so sudden, that I never saw it happen. I simply heard the savage snarl, and in an instant afterwards the blazing yellow eyes, both flattened black head with its red tongue and flashing teeth, were within reach of me. The impact of the creature shook the bars upon which I lay, until I thought, as far as I could think of anything at such a moment, that they were coming down. The cat swayed there for an instant. The head and front paws quite close to me, the hind paws clawing to find a grip upon the edge of the grating. I heard the claws rasping as they clung to the wire netting, and the breath of the beast made me sick. But its bound had been miscalculated. It could not retain its position. Slowly, grinning with rage and scratching madly at the bars, it swung backwards and dropped heavily upon the floor. With a growl it instantly phased round to me, and crouched for another spring. I knew that the next few moments would decide my fate. The creature had learned by experience. It would not miscalculate again. I must act promptly, fearlessly, if I were to have a chance for life. In an instant I had formed my plan. Pulling off my dress-coat, I threw it down over the head of the beast. At the same moment I dropped over the edge, seized the end of the front grating, and pulled it frantically out of the wall. It came more easily than I could have expected. I rushed across the room, bearing it with me, but, as I rushed, the accident of my position put me on the outer side. Had it been the other way, I might have come off skethless. As it was, there was a moment's pause as I stopped it, and tried to pass in through the opening which I had left. That moment was enough to give time to the creature to toss off the coat with which I had blinded him, and to spring upon me. I hurled myself through the gap and pulled the rails too behind me, but he seized my leg before I could entirely withdraw it. One stroke at that huge paw tore off my calf as a shaving of wood curls off before a plane. The next moment, bleeding and fainting, I was lying among the foul straw with a line of friendly bars between me and the creature which ramped so frantically against them. Too wounded to move, and too faint to be conscious of fear, I could only lie, more dead than alive, and watch it. It pressed its broad black chest against the bars, and angled for me with its crooked paws as I have seen a kitten do before a mousetrap. It ripped my clothes, but, stretch as it would, it could not quite reach me. I have heard of the curious numbing effect produced by wounds from the great Carnivora, and now I was destined to experience it, for I had lost all sense of personality, and was as interested in the cat's failure or success as if it were some game which I was watching. And then gradually my mind drifted away into strange vague dreams, always with that black face and red tongue coming back into them, and so I lost myself in the nirvana of delirium, the blessed relief of those who are too sorely tried. Tracing the course of events afterwards, I conclude that I must have been insensible for about two hours. What roused me to consciousness once more was that sharp metallic click which had been the precursor of my terrible experience. It was the shooting back of the spring lock. Then, before my senses were clear enough to entirely apprehend what they saw, I was aware of the round, benevolent face of my cousin peering in through the open door. What he saw evidently amazed him. There was the cat crouching on the floor. I was stretched upon my back and my shirt sleeves within the cage, my trousers torn to ribbons, and a great pool of blood all round me. I can see his amazed face now, with the morning sunlight upon it. He peered at me, and peered again. Then he closed the door behind him, and advanced to the cage to see if I were really dead. I cannot undertake to say what happened. I was not in a fit state to witness or to chronicle such events. I can only say that I was suddenly conscious that his face was away from me, that he was looking towards the animal. Good old Tommy! he cried. Good old Tommy! Then he came near the bars, with his back still towards me. Down, you stupid beast! he roared. Down, sir! Don't you know your master? Suddenly, even in my bemuddled brain, a remembrance came of those words of his, when he had said that the taste of blood would turn the cat into a fiend. My blood had done it, but he was to pay the price. Get away! he screamed. Get away, you devil! Baldwin! Baldwin! Oh my God! And then I heard him fall, and rise, and fall again, with a sound like the ripping of sacking. His screams grew fainter, until they were lost in the worrying snarl. And then, after I thought that he was dead, I saw, as in a nightmare, a blinded, tattered, blood-soaked figure running wildly round the room, and that was the last glimpse which I had of him before I fainted once again. I was many months in my recovery. In fact, I cannot say that I have ever recovered, for to the end of my days I shall carry a stick, as a sign of my night, with the Brazilian cat. Baldwin, the groom, and the other servants, could not tell what had occurred when, drawn by the death-cries of their master, they found me behind the bars, and his remains, or what they afterwards discovered to be his remains, in the clutch of the creature which he had reared. They stalled him off with hot irons, and afterward shot him through the loophole of the door, before they could finally extricate me. I was carried to my bedroom, and there, under the roof of my would-be murderer, I remained between life and death for several weeks. They had sent for a surgeon from Clipton and a nurse from London, and in a month I was able to be carried to the station, and so conveyed back once more to Grosvenor Mountains. I have one remembrance of that illness, which might have been part of the ever-changing panorama conjured up by a delirious brain, where it not so definitely fixed in my memory. One night, when the nurse was absent, the door of my chamber opened, and a tall woman, in blackest morning, slipped into the room. She came across to me, and as she bent her solo face, I saw by the faint gleam of the night-light that it was the Brazilian woman whom my cousin had married. She stared intently into my face, and her expression was more kindly than I had ever seen it. Are you conscious? she asked. I feebly nodded, for I was still very weak. Well then, I only wish to say to you that you have yourself to blame. Did I not do all I could for you? From the beginning I tried to drive you from the house. By every means, short of betraying my husband, I tried to save you from him. I knew that he had a reason for bringing you here. I knew that he would never let you get away from him. No one knew him as I knew him. We had suffered from him so long. I did not dare to tell you all this. He would have killed me. But I did my best for you. As things have turned out, you have been the best friend that I have ever had. You have set me free, and I fancy that nothing but death would do that. I am sorry if you are hurt, but I cannot reproach myself. I told you that you were a fool, and a fool you have been. She crept out of the room, the bitter, singular woman, and I was never destined to see her again. With what remained from her husband's property, she went back to her native land, and I have heard that she afterwards took the veil at Pernambuco. It was not until I had been back in London for some time that the doctors pronounced me to be well enough to do business. It was not a very welcome permission to me, for I feared that it would be the signal for an inrush of creditors. But it was Summers, my lawyer, who first took advantage of it. I am very glad to see that your lordship is doing much better, he said. I have been waiting a long time to offer my congratulations. But what do you mean, Summers? This is no time for joking. I mean what I say, he answered. You have been Lord Southerton for the last two weeks, but we feared that it would retard your recovery if you were to learn it. Lord Southerton, one of the richest peers in England, I could not believe my ears, and then suddenly I thought of the time which had elapsed and how it coincided with my injuries. Then Lord Southerton must have died about the same time that I was hurt. His death occurred upon that very day. Summers looked hard at me as I spoke, and I am convinced, for he was a very shrewd fellow, that he had guessed the true state of the case. He passed for a moment as if awaiting a confidence from me, but I could not see what was to begin by exposing such a family scandal. Yes, a very curious coincidence, he continued, with the same knowing luck. Of course, you are aware that your cousin Everard King was the next heir to the estates. Now, if it had been you instead of him who had been torn to pieces by this tiger, or whatever it was, then, of course, he would have been Lord Southerton at the present moment. No doubt, said I, and he took such an interest in it, said Summers. I happened to know that the late Lord Southerton's valet was in his pay, and that he used to have telegrams from him every few hours to tell him how he was getting on. That would be about the time when you were down there. Was it not strange that he should wish to be so well informed, since he knew that he was not the direct heir? Very strange, said I. And now, Summers, if you will bring me my bills and a new checkbook, we will begin to get things into order. End of The Brazilian Cat by Arthur Conan Doyle. The Cask of the Amontilado by Edgar Alley Poe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Cask of the Amontilado. The Thousand Injuries of Fortunato. I had borne as best I could, but when he ventured upon himself, I vowed revenge. You who so well know the nature of my soul will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length, I would be avenged. This was a point definitively settled, but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the Avenger fails to make himself felt, as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that, neither by word nor deed, had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will, I continued as way my want to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point to this Fortunato, although in other regards, he was a man to be respected and even feared, priding himself on his connoisseurship and wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part, their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity. Practice and posture upon the British and Austrian millionaires in painting and gemmary Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in a matter of old wines, he was sincere. In this respect, I did not differ from him materially. I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season that I encountered my friends. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on tight, fitting a patchry striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done linging his hands. I said to him, my dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking today. But I have received a pipe of what passes for a Montelado, and I have my doubts. How, said he, a Montelado, a pipe impossible. In the middle of the carnival, I have my doubts, I replied, and I was silly enough to pay the full Montelado price that consulting you in a matter. You are not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain. A Montelado, I have my doubts. A Montelado, I must satisfy them. A Montelado, as you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchessi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me, Luchessi cannot tell a Montelado from Sherry, and yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. Come, let us go, wither to your vaults. My friends, no, I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchessi, I have no engagement. Come. My friends, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nature. Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. A Montelado, you have been imposed upon, and as for Luchessi cannot distinguish Sherry from a Montelado. Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself with my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and a drying, roculaire, closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home. They had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until morning, and had given them explicit orders, not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient. I well knew to ensure their immediate disappearance. One and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces, to flambeau, and, giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of ruins. The archway that led into the vaults I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to foot of the descents, and stood together on the damp ground with catacombs of the Montresores. The gate of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. The pipe, said he, it is farther on, said I, but observe the white web work which gleams from these cavern walls. He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the loom of intoxication. Neutrae? He asked at length. Neutrae, I replied. How long have you had the cough? My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. It is nothing. He said at last. Kama said, with decision. We will go back. Your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved. You are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back. You will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Lou Chessie. Enough, he said. The cough is in me and nothing will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough. True, true, I replied. And indeed, I had no intention of allowing you unnecessarily, but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mold. Drink, I said, presenting him with wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. I drink, he said, to the buried that repose around us. And I, to your long life. He again took my arm and we proceeded. These vaults, he said, are extensive. The mantra sores, I replied, were a great and numerous family. I forget your arms. A huge human foot door in a field as your, the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel. And the motto? Nemo me impugned like chess eats. Good, he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew one with the medoc. We had passed through the walls of piled bones with casks and pensions intermingling into the inmost recesses of catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. The nature, I said. I see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we'll go back. Just too late. Your cuff. It is nothing, he said. Let us go on. But first, another draught of the medoc. I broke and reached him a flagon of degrav. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed the fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise, repeating the movements. I go to Esquilin. You do not comprehend, he said. Not I, I replied. Then you are not of the brotherhood. How? You are not of the masons. Yes, yes, I said. Yes, yes. You, impossible, a mason. A mason, I replied. Aside, he said. It is this, I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roculaire. You jest, he exclaimed, recoiling a few faces. Let us proceed to the amontolado. Be it so, I said, replacing tool beneath my cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned heavily upon it. We continued our route in search of the amontolado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on and descended again, arrived at a deep crypt in which the foulness of the air caused our flamboyant blue rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another, less suspicious, whose walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. In the fourth, the bones had been thrown down and laid promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point amounts of some size. From the wall that is exposed by the displacing bones we perceived a still interior recess. In depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven, it seems to have been constructed for no special use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs which was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination of the feeble light did not enable us to see. Proceed, I said. Herein is the amontolado. As for Luchessi, he is an ignorant raiment, and interrupted my friend as he stepped unsteadily forward. While I followed immediately at his heels, in an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered, a moment or more and I had fettered him into the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet horizontally. From one of the views depended a short chain for the other a padlock, throwing the links about his waist. It was but the work of a few seconds to secure. He was too much astounded to resist, with drawing the key I stepped back from the recess. Pass your hand, I said. Over the wall, you can have a held feeling in each ray. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No, then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power. Die Montalado, ejaculated my friends, not yet recovered from his astonishment. True, I replied. Die Montalado. As I said these words, I busied myself among the pile of bones, of which I have spoken before. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of buildings, stone and mortar. With these materials, and with the aid of my travel, I began veerously to wallow up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely lay the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in great measure won off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low-molding cry from the depths of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was a long, obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, the third, and the fourth. Then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it, with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When I last the clanking subsided, I resumed the travel, and finished with that interruption, the fifth and sixth and seventh tier. The law was nearly upon a level with my breast. Again I paused, and holding the flambeau over the mason work, through a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chain's form, seemed to thrust me violently back. But for a brief moment, I hesitated. I trembled. When sheathing my labor, I began to grope, within about the recess. The thought of an instinct reassured me. I placed my hands upon the solid fabric of the catacombs and felt satisfied. I re-approached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed. I aided. I surpassed them in volume and strength. I did this in the clamor of her still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawn to a close. I had completed the eighth and ninth and tenth tier. I had finished the portion of the last, and the eleventh there remains, but a single stone to be fitted, plastered in. I struggled with its weight. I placed it partially in its destined position, but now there came from the niche of low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. We succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said, Ha ha ha, hee hee, a very good joke indeed. An excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the Palazzo. Hee hee, over our wine. Hee hee, hee, the Amantolato. I said, hee hee, yes, the Amantolato. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the Palazzo? The lady Fortunato, and the rest, let us be gone. Yes, I said, let us be gone. For the love of God much sought. Yes, I said, for the love of God. But these words I harkened in vain for reply. I grew impatient. I called out, Fortunato, no answer. But I called again, Fortunato, no answer still. I first torched the remaining aperture, and when it fall within, there came forth the return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened up to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position. I plastered it up. Against the new masonry, I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century, no mortal has disturbed them. Impace, Requiesca. End of The Cask of the Amantolato. A Christmas Ghost on Rituma by Hugh Hastings-Romley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Donald Finch. A Christmas Ghost on Rituma by Hugh Hastings-Romley. For five months I stayed in Rituma without any news from the outer world, including the infected country of Fiji. In two months after my arrival there, I went into my new house. It was very large and luxurious. Every evening, Alapati used to come and have a talk and smoke with me. I was always open to any of my friends who cared to come. As I provided tobacco for them, I seldom passed an evening by myself. The house was situated about 200 yards from Albert's, Alapati's own house, and was just outside the limits of his town. The considerable clearing of four or five acres had been made in the bush to build it in. The short distance between the house and the village was of course very dark at night, as the path between them laid through a thick piece of bush. This sort of life went on with the exception of one break the whole time I was there. Two days before Christmas Day, I was left all alone by my accustomed friends in the house, and spent the evening by myself. Allardyce and I made some remarks about it, but attached no importance to it of any sort. Next day I went to the other end of the island and did not come back till late. I had not seen Albert or any of his people during the day. In the evening I fully expected him up as a matter of course, but again no one made his appearance. I should have gone down myself to his house, as I thought that possibly a dance might be going on, which would account for no one making his appearance, but as it was raining heavily I did not go. I asked my native servants if anything was going on. They said there was no dance, and they did not know why Albert had not come. I saw by their manner that they knew something more, and I saw also that they were afraid to tell me what it was. I determined to see Albert early next day and find out everything from him. All that night we were annoyed by a harmless madwoman named Horena, who walked round and round the house, crying, Kim Whaley! Kim Whaley! We thought nothing of it as we were quite accustomed to her. Next day I went down early to Albert's house. He was just going out to his work in the bush. I said, Albert, why have you not been to see me for two nights? Be afraid, said Albert. Dead man walks. What dead man? Kim Whaley! Of course I laughed at him. It was an everyday occurrence for natives who had been out late at night in the bush to come home saying they had seen ghosts. If I wished to send a message after sunset, it was always necessary to engage three or four men to take it. Nothing would have induced any man to go by himself. The only man who was free from these fears was my interpreter, Friday. He was a native, but had lived all his life among white people. When Friday came down from his own village to my house that morning, he was evidently a good deal troubled in his mind. He said, Do you remember that man Kim Whaley, sir? That Tom killed? I said yes. Albert says he is walking about. I expected Friday to laugh, but he looked very serious and said, Everyone in Motusev has seen him, sir. The women are so frightened they all sleep together in the big house. What does he do us, said I. Where has he been to? What men have seen him? Friday mentioned a number of houses into which Kim Whaley had gone. It appeared that his head was tied up with banana leaves and his face covered with blood. No one had heard him speak. This was unusual as the ghost I had heard the natives talk about on other occasions invariably made remarks on some commonplace subject. The village was very much upset. For two nights this had happened, and several men and women had been terribly frightened. It was evident that all this was not imagination on part of one man. I thought it possible that some madman was impersonating Kim Whaley, though it seemed almost impossible that anyone could do so without being found out. I announced my determination to sit outside Albert's house that night and watch for him. I also told Albert that I should bring a rifle and have a shot if I saw the ghost. This I said for the benefit of anyone who might be playing his part. Poor Albert had to undergo a good deal of chaff for being afraid to walk 200 yards through the bush to my house. He only said, by a bye you see him too, then me laugh at you. The rest of the day was spent in the usual manner. Allardice and I were to have dinner in Albert's house. After that we were going to sit outside and watch for Kim Whaley. All the natives had come in very early that day from the bush. They were evidently unwilling to run the risk of being out after dark. Evening was now closing in and they were all sitting in clusters outside their houses. It was, however, a bright moonlit night and I could plainly recognize people at a considerable distance. Albert was getting very nervous and only answered my questions in monosyllables. For about two hours we sat there smoking and I was beginning to lose faith in Albert's ghost when all of a sudden he clutched my elbow pointed with his finger. I looked in the direction pointed out by him and he whispered, Kim Whaley! I certainly saw about a hundred yards off what appeared to be the ordinary figure of a native advancing straight towards us. We sat still and waited. The natives sitting in front of their doors got closer together and pointed at the advancing figure. All this time I was watching, most intently, a recollection of having seen that figure was forcing itself upon my mind more strongly every moment and suddenly the exact scene when I had gone with Gordon to visit the murdered man came back on my mind with great vividness. There was the same man in front of me, his face covered with blood and the dirty cloth over his head, kept in its place by banana leaves which were secured with fiber and cotton thread. There was the same man and there was the bandage round his head, leaf for leaf and tie for tie, identical with the picture already present in my mind. By Jove, it is Kim Whaley, I said to Allard Dyson a whisper. By this time he had passed us, walking straight in the direction of the clump of bush in which my house was situated. We jumped up and gave chase, but he got to the edge of the bush before we reached him. Though only a few yards ahead of us and a bright moonlit night, we here lost all trace of him. He had disappeared and all that was left was a feeling of consternation and annoyance on my mind. We had to accept what we had seen, no explanation was possible, it was impossible to account for his appearance or disappearance. I went back to Albert's house in a most perplexed frame of mind. The fact of its being Christmas Day, the anniversary of Tom's attack on Kim Whaley made it still more remarkable. I had myself only seen Kim Whaley two or three times in life, but still I remembered him perfectly, and the man or ghost, whichever it was who had just passed, exactly recalls his features. I had remembered too in a general way how Kim Whaley's head had been bandaged with rag and banana leaves, but on the appearance of this figure it came back to me exactly, even to the position of the knots I could not then and do not now believe it was in the power of any native to play the part so exactly. A native could and often does work himself up into a state of temporary madness, under the influence of which he might believe himself to be anyone he chose. But the calm, quiet manner in which this figure had passed was, I believe, entirely impossible for a native acting such a part, and before such an audience to assume. Moreover, Albert and everyone else scouted the idea. They all knew Kim Whaley intimately had seen him every day and could not be mistaken. The hour days had never seen him before, but can bear witness to what he saw that night. I went back to my house and tried to dismiss the matter from my mind, but with indifferent success. I could not get over his disappearance. We were so close behind him that, if it had been a man forcing his way through the thick undergrowth, we must have heard and seen him. There was no path where he had disappeared. I determined to watch again next night, till two in the morning I sat up with Albert, smoking. No Kim Whaley made his appearance. Albert said he would not be seen again, and during my stay on the island, he certainly never was. A month after this event, I went on board a schooner bound for Sydney. My health had suffered severely, and it was imperative for me to go to a cooler climate. I can offer no explanation for this story. To my arrival in England, I never mentioned it to anyone. At their request of my friends, however, I now consent to publish it. I am not a believer in ghosts. I believe a natural explanation of the story to exist, but the reader, who has patiently followed me thus far, must find it for himself, as I am unable to supply them. End of Christmas Story on Rituma. Recording by Donald Finch, dafinch.com This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Today's reading by Tom Hackett, djhackett.newgrounds.com The Diary of a Madman by Guy de Maupassant He was dead, the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate, whose irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France. Advocates, young counselors, judges had saluted, bowing low and token of profound respect, remembering that grand face, pale and thin, illumined by two bright, deep-set eyes. He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak. Swinlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to read in the recesses of their souls their most secret thoughts. He was dead, now, at the age of 82, honored by the homage and followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red breeches had escorted him to the tomb, and men in white croats had shed on his grave tears that seemed to be real. But listen to the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk where the judge had kept filed the records of great criminals. It was entitled, Why? June 20, 1851 I have just left court. I have condemned Blondel to death. Now, why did this man kill his five children? Frequently one meets with people to whom killing is a pleasure. Yes, yes, it should be a pleasure. The greatest of all, perhaps, for is not killing most like creating, to make and to destroy. These two words contain the history of the universe, the history of all worlds, all that is, all. Why is it not intoxicating to kill? June 25, to think that there is a being who lives, who walks, who runs. A being? What is a being? An animated thing which bears in it the principle of motion and a will ruling that principle. It clings to nothing, this thing. Its feet are independent of the ground. It is a grain of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know not wins. One can destroy it one's will. Then nothing, nothing more. It perishes. It is finished. June 26. Why, then, is it a crime to kill? Yes, why? On the contrary, it is the law of nature. Every being has the mission to kill. He kills to live, and he lives to kill. The beast kills without ceasing. All day, every instant of its existence. Man kills without ceasing to nourish himself. But since in addition he needs to kill for pleasure, he is invented the chase. The child kills the insects he finds, the little birds, all the little animals that come in his way. This does not suffice for the irresistible need of massacre that is in us. It is not enough to kill the beast. We must kill man too. Long ago, this need was satisfied by human sacrifice. Now, the necessity of living in society has made murder a crime. We condemn and punish the assassin. But as we cannot live without yielding to this natural and imperious instinct of death, we relieve ourselves from time to time by wars. Then a whole nation slaughters another nation. It is a feast of blood, a feast that maddens armies and intoxicate the civilians, women and children who read by lamp light at night a feverish story of massacre. And do we despise those picked up to accomplish these butcheries of men? No, they are loaded with honors. They are clad in golden and replanted stuffs. They wear plumes on their heads and ornaments on their breasts. They are given crosses, rewards, titles of every kind. They are proud, respected, loved by women, cheered by the crowd solely because their mission is to shed human blood. They drag through the streets their instruments of death. The pastor by clad in black looks on with envy. What to kill is the great law put by nature in the heart of existence. There is nothing more beautiful and honorable than killing. June 30th. To kill is the law because nature loves eternal youth. She seems to cry in all her unconscious acts. Quick! Quick! Quick! The more she destroys, the more she renews herself. July 2nd. Must be a pleasure, unique and full of zest. To kill to a place before you a living thinking bean. To make there in a little hole. Think but a little hole. And to see that red liquid flow which is the blood. That which is the life. And then to have before you only a heap of limp flesh. Cold and inert. Void of thought. August 5th. I, who have passed my life in judging, condemning, killing by words pronounced, killing by the guillotine, those who had killed by the knife, I should do as all the assassins whom I have smitten have done. I, I, who would know it? August 10th. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, especially if I should choose a bean I had no interest in doing away with? August 22nd. I could resist no longer. I have killed a little creature as an experiment as a beginning. John, my servant, had a goldfinch and a cage hung on the office window. I sent him on an errand, and I took the little bird in my hand, and my hand where I felt its heartbeat. It was warm. I went up to my room. From time to time I squeezed it tighter, its heartbeat faster. It was atrocious and delicious. I was nearly choking it, but I could not see the blood. Then I took scissors, short nail scissors, and I cut its throat in three strokes, quite gently. It opened its bill. It struggled to escape me, but I held it. Oh, I held it. I could have held a mad dog, and I saw the blood trickle. And then I did as assassins do, real ones. I washed the scissors and washed my hands. I sprinkled water and took the body, the corpse, the garden, the heighten. I buried it in the restrawberry plant. If one ever refought, every day I can eat a strawberry from that plant. How one can enjoy life. When one knows how, my servant cried. He thought his bird flown. How can he suspect me? August 25th. I must kill a man. I must! August 30th. It is done. But what a little thing. I had gone for a walk in the forest of Renee. It was thinking of nothing, literally nothing. See, a child on the road. A little child eating a slice of bread and butter. He stops to see me pass and says, Good day, Mr. President. And the thought enters my head. Shall I kill him? I answer. You are alone, my boy? Yes, sir. Hall alone in the wood? Yes, sir. The wish to kill him intoxicated me like wine. I approached him quite softly, persuaded that he was going to run away. And suddenly I seized him by the throat. He held my wrist in his little hands and his body rigged like a feather on a fire. Then he moved no more. I threw the body in a ditch and some weeds on top of it. I returned home and dined well. What a little thing it was. In the evening I was very gay, light, rejuvenated, and passed the evening at the prefix. They found me witty. But I have not seen blood. I am not tranquil. August 31st. The body has been discovered. They are hunted for the assassin. September 1st. Two tramps have been arrested. Prusas lacking. September 2nd. The parents have been to see me. They wept. October 6th. Nothing has been discovered. Some strolling vagabond must have done the deed. I had seen the blood flow. It seems to me I should be tranquil now. October 10th. Yet another. I was walking by the river after breakfast and I saw, under a willow, a fisherman asleep. It was noon. A spade, so expressly put there for me, standing in a potato field nearby. I took it. I returned. I raised it like a club. Another one below the edge, I cleft the fisherman's head. Oh, he bled this one. Rose-coloured blood. It flowed into the water quite gently. I went away with a grave step. I had been seen. Ah, I should have made an excellent assassin. October 25th. The affair of the fisherman makes a great noise. His nephew, who fished with him, is charged with the murder. October 26th. The examining magistrate affirms that the nephew is guilty. Everybody in town believes it. Ah, ah, ah, ah. October 27th. The nephew defends himself badly. He had gone to the villiards to buy bread and cheese, he declared. He swears that his uncle had been killed in his absence. Who would believe him? October 28th. The nephew is all but confessed. So much if they made him lose his head. Ah, ah, justice. November 15th. There are overwhelming proofs against the nephew who is his uncle's heir. I shall preside at the sessions. January 25th, 1852. To death. To death. To death. I have had him condemned to death. The end of the general spoke like an angel. Ah, yet another. I shall go to see him executed. March 10th. It is done. They guillotined him this morning. He died very well, very well. That gave me pleasure. How fine it is to see a man's head cut off. Now I shall wait. I can wait. It would take such a little thing to let myself be caught. The manuscript contained more pages, but told of no new crime. Alienist physicians to whom this awful story has been submitted declare that there are in the world many unknown Matmen as adroit and as terrible as this monstrous lunatic. End of The Diary of a Matman by Guy de Mopassant. Read by Tom Hackett. djhackett.newgrounds.com