The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; American poetry; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American
Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to laugh
like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the
cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white
letters which formed the words “_Rituel Catholique_” on the book in his
guest’s pocket, momently changing both their color and their import, and
in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words _Régitre des
Condamnes_ blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor’s remark, imparted to his manner an
air of embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been
observed.
“Why sir,” said the philosopher, “why sir, to speak
sincerely—I believe you are—upon my word—the
d——dest—that is to say, I think—I imagine—I
_have_ some faint—some _very_ faint idea—of the
remarkable honor—”
“Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” interrupted his Majesty; “say
no more—I see how it is.” And hereupon, taking off his green
spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat,
and deposited them in his pocket.
If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement
was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented itself to
view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain
the color of his guest’s, he found them by no means black, as he had
anticipated—nor gray, as might have been imagined—nor yet
hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow nor red—nor purple—nor
white—nor green—nor any other color in the heavens above, or
in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre
Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but
could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous
period—for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am
constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh.
It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his
Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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