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Updated: June 2, 2025
For an instant, a look of stupid bewilderment clouded his face; then the horrible truth burst upon him. He gave a shriek like that which a horse utters when he finds himself fettered and surrounded by fire, a shriek that curdled the air for miles and miles. "Oaksmith! Kerplonne! Filomel! Awake! awake! We are lost! The souls have got loose! We are dead! poisoned! Oh, accursed ones!
Oaksmith turned up his coat-cuffs, as if to be ready for a fight; Madame Filomel glided, or rather rolled, towards the door; while Kerplonne put his hand into his pocket, as if to assure himself that his supernumerary optic was all right. "What'll you take?" croaked the voice in the corner, once more. "Brandy and water," rapidly replied the second voice in the other corner.
How he tries to loosen his bonds, and curses all earth and heaven when he finds that he cannot! Ho! ho! Handsome lover of Zonela, will she kiss you when you are livid and swollen? Brothers, let us drink again, drink always. Here, Oaksmith, take these brushes, and you, Filomel, and finish the anointing of these swords. This wine is grand. This poison is grand.
Herr Hippe started, raised his head, which vibrated on his long neck like the head of a cobra when about to strike, and after a moment's silence uttered a strange guttural sound. The door unclosed, and a squat, broad-shouldered woman, with large, wild, Oriental eyes, entered softly. "Ah! Filomel, you are come!" said the Wondersmith, sinking back in his chair. "Where are the rest of them?"
Subtle seed of Death, swift hurricane that sweeps away Life, vast hammer that crushes brain and heart and artery with its resistless weight, I drink to it." "It is a noble decoction, Duke Balthazar," said the old fortune-teller and midwife, Madame Filomel, nodding in her chair as she swallowed her wine in great gulps. "Where did you obtain it?"
Each furious doll tried to plunge dagger or sword into his or her neighbor, and the women seemed possessed by a thousand devils. "They will break themselves into atoms," cried Filomel, as she watched with eagerness this savage melee. "You had better gather them up, Herr Hippe. I will exhaust my bottle and suck all the souls back from them."
"They will be here presently," answered Madame Filomel, seating herself in an arm-chair much too narrow for a person of her proportions, and over the sides of which she bulged like a pudding. "Have you brought the souls?" asked the Wondersmith. "They are here," said the fortune-teller, drawing a large pot-bellied black bottle from under her cloak. "Ah! I have had such trouble with them!"
Madame Filomel was consulted, but she looked grave, and said that it was none of her business. Mr. Pippel, the bird-fancier, who was a German, and ought to know best, thought it was the English for some singular Teutonic profession; but his replies were so vague, that Golosh Street was as unsatisfied as ever.
Oaksmith soon fell back in his chair, breathing heavily. Kerplonne followed. And the heavy, stertorous breathing of Filomel told that she slumbered also; but still her chair retained its rocking motion, and still the bottle of souls balanced itself on the edge of her pocket. Sure enough, Solon heard every word of the fiendish talk of the Wondersmith.
"I see the faces of millions of young corpses," babbled Herr Hippe, gazing, with swimming eyes, into the silver bowl that contained the Macousha poison, "all young, all Christians, and the little fellows dancing, dancing, and stabbing, stabbing. Filomel, Filomel, I say!" "Well, Grand Duke," snored the old woman, giving a violent lurch. "Where's the bottle of souls?"
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