Presently I noticed casually that a procession of bacchantes limned
on the wall immediately below the ceiling had begun to move,
traversing the room from right to left in a gay and spectacular
pilgrimage. I did not confide my discovery to Kerner. The artistic
temperament is too high-strung to view such deviations from the
natural laws of the art of kalsomining. I sipped my absinthe drip and
sawed wormwood.
One absinthe drip is not much--but I said again to Kerner, kindly:
"You are a fool." And then, in the vernacular: "Jesse Holmes for
yours."
And then I looked around and saw the Fool-Killer, as he had always
appeared to my imagination, sitting at a nearby table, and regarding
us with his reddish, fatal, relentless eyes. He was Jesse Holmes from
top to toe; he had the long, gray, ragged beard, the gray clothes of
ancient cut, the executioner's look, and the dusty shoes of one who
had been called from afar. His eyes were turned fixedly upon Kerner.
I shuddered to think that I had invoked him from his assiduous
southern duties. I thought of flying, and then I kept my seat,
reflecting that many men had escaped his ministrations when it seemed
that nothing short of an appointment as Ambassador to Spain could
save them from him. I had called my brother Kerner a fool and was in
danger of hell fire. That was nothing; but I would try to save him
from Jesse Holmes.
The Fool-Killer got up from his table and came over to ours.
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