PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 100.
April 11, 1891.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. XVI.--GERMFOOD.
(_BY_ MARY MORALLY, _AUTHOR OF "GINBITTERS!" "ARDART," &C., &C._)
[The MS. of this remarkable novel was tied round with scarlet
ribbons, and arrived in a case which had been once used for
the packing of bottles of rum, or some other potent spirit.
It is dedicated in highly uncomplimentary terms to "_Messieurs
les Marronneurs glacés de Paris_." With it came a most
extraordinary letter, from which we make, without permission,
the following startling extracts. "Ha! Ha! likewise Fe Fo
Fum. I smell blood, galloping, panting, whirling, hurling,
throbbing, maddened blood. My brain is on fire, my pen is a
flash of lightning. I see stars, three stars, that is to say,
one of the best brands plucked from the burning. I'm going
to make your flesh creep. I'll give you fits, paralytic fits,
epileptic fits, and fits of hysteria, all at the same time.
Have I ever been in Paris? Never. Do I know the taste of
absinthe? How dare you ask me such a question? Am I a woman?
Ask me another. Ugh! it's coming, the demon is upon me. I must
write three murderous volumes. I must, I must! What was that
shriek? and that? and that? Unhand me, snakes! Oh!!!!--M.M."]
CHAPTER I.
[Illustration]
I was asleep and dreaming--dreaming dreadful, horrible,
soul-shattering dreams--dreams that flung me head-first out of
bed, and then flung me back into bed off the uncarpeted floor of my
chamber. But I did not wake--why should I?--it was unnecessary--I
wanted to dream--I had to dream and therefore I dreamt. I was walking
home from a cheap restaurant in one of the poorer quarters of Paris.
"Poorer quarters" is a nice vague term. There are many poorer quarters
in a large city. This was one of them. Let that suffice to the
critical pedants who clamour for accuracy and local colour. Accuracy!
pah! Shall the soaring soul of a three-volumer be restrained by the
debasing fetters of a grovelling exactitude? Never! I will tell you
what. If I choose, I who speak to you, _moi qui vous parle_, the Seine
shall run red with the blood of murdered priests, and there shall be
a tide in it where no tide ever was before, close to Paris itself,
the home of the _Marrons Glacés_, and into the river I shall plunge
a corpse with upturned face and glassy, staring, haunting, dreadful
eyes, and the tide shall turn, the tide that never was on earth, or
sky, or sea, it shall turn in my second volume for one night only,
and carry the corpse of my victim back, back, back under bridges
innumerable, back into the heart of Paris. Dreadful, isn't it?
_Allons, mon ami. Qu'est-ce-qu'il-y-a. Je ne sais quoi. Mon Dieu!_
There's idiomatic French for you, all sprinkled out of a cayenne
pepper-pot to make the local colour hot and strong. Bah! let us return
to our muttons!