In the ditch, where the ounce and the pard have their lair, Our heroes have rolled in an angry embrace; Their skin blooms on brambles that erewhile were bare. That ravine is a friend-inhabited hell! Then let us roll in, oh woman inhuman, To immortalise hatred that nothing can quell! FROM BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE WORK ENTITLED “LITTLE POEMS.” THE STRANGER. Whom dost thou love best? say, enigmatical man—thy father, thy mother, thy brother, or thy sister? “I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.” Thy friends? “You there use an expression the meaning of which till now remains unknown to me.” Thy country? “I ignore in what latitude it is situated.” Beauty? “I would gladly love her, goddess and immortal.” Gold? “I hate it as you hate God.” Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger? “I love the clouds ... the clouds that pass ... there ... the marvellous clouds!” BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE POEM, THE SOUP AND THE CLOUDS. My beloved little silly was giving me my dinner, and I was contemplating, through the open window of the dining-room, those moving architectures which God makes out of vapours, the marvellous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, amid my contemplations, “All these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little silly with the green eyes.” Suddenly I felt the violent blow of a fist on my back, and I heard a harsh, charming voice, an hysterical voice, as it were hoarse with brandy, the voice of my dear little well-beloved, saying, “Are you going to eat your soup soon, you d—— b—— of a dealer in clouds?” BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE POEM, THE GALLANT MARKSMAN. As the carriage was passing through the forest, he ordered it to be stopped near a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to shoot off a few bullets to _kill_ Time. To kill this monster, is it not the most ordinary and the most legitimate occupation of everyone? And he gallantly offered his arm to his dear, delicious, and execrable wife—that mysterious woman to whom he owed so much pleasure, so much pain, and perhaps also a large part of his genius. Several bullets struck far from the intended mark—one even penetrated the ceiling; and as the charming creature laughed madly, mocking her husband’s awkwardness, he turned abruptly towards her and said, “Look at that doll there on the right with the haughty mien and her nose in the air; well, dear angel, _I imagine to myself that it is you_!” And he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The doll was neatly decapitated. Then, bowing towards his dear one, his delightful, execrable wife, his inevitable, pitiless muse, and kissing her hand respectfully, he added, “Ah! my dear angel, how I thank you for my skill!”