My father, M. le Duc DI SPEPSION, belonged to one of the oldest French families. He had many old French customs, amongst others that of brushing his bearded lips against my cheek. He was a stern man, with a severe habit of addressing me as "_Mon fils_." Generally he disapproved of my proceedings, which was, perhaps, not unnatural, taking all the circumstances of the case into consideration. Why have I mentioned him? I know not, save that even now, degraded as I am, memories of better things sometimes steal over me like the solemn sound of church-bells pealing in a cathedral belfry. But I have done with home, with father, with patriotism, with claret, with walnuts, and with all simple pleasures. _Ça va sans dire._ They talk to me of Good, and Nature. The words are meaningless to me. Are there realities behind these words--realities that can touch the heart of a confirmed _marroneur_? Cold and pitiless, Nature sits aloft like a mathematician, with his balance regulating the storm-pulses of this troubled world. Bah! I fling myself in her teeth. I brazen it out. She quails. For, since the accursed food passed my lips, the strength of a million demons is in me. I am pitiless. I laugh to think of the fool I once was in the days when I fed myself on _Baba au Rhum_, and other innocent dishes. Now I have knowledge. I am my own good. I glance haughtily into--[Ten rhapsodical pages omitted.--ED. _Punch_.] But there came into my life a false priest, who was like the ghost of a fair lost god--and because he was a fair lost, the cabmen loved him not--and he had to die, and lie in the Morgue--the Morgue where murdered men and women love to dwell--and thus he should discover the Eternal Secret! CHAPTER IV. Again--again--again! The moon rose, shimmering like a _Marron Glacé_ over Paris. Oh! Paris, beauteous city of the lost. Surely in Babylon or in Nineveh, where SEMIRAMIS of old queened it over men, never was such madness--madness did I say? Why? What did I mean? Tush! the struggle is over, and I am calm again, though my blood still hums tumultuously. The world is very evil. My father died choked by a _marron_. I, too, am dead--I who have written this rubbish--I am dead, and sometimes, as I walk, my loved one glides before me in aërial phantom shape, as on page 4, Vol. II. But I am dead--dead and buried--and over my grave an avenue of gigantic chestnuts reminds the passer-by of my fate: and on my tombstone it is written, "Here lies one who danced a cancan and ate _marrons glacés_ all day. Be warned!" THE END. * * * * * QUITE EXCEPTIONAL THEATRICAL NEWS.--Next Thursday at the Vaudeville, the Press and the usual Free-Admissionaries will be let in for _Money_. * * * * * MORE KICKS THAN HALFPENCE.