i think i know partly how this unfortunate and unhealthy state of mind began with me: this painful habit of seeing something extraordinary and terrible in the most simple matters, and of peopling the house with unearthly and mischievous beings. i think it came about in this way:—
when i was quite little, i used often to be given in charge to my father’s orderly. he was a brave and honest fellow, and very fond of me. his name was montamat, but everyone called him montézuma. unfortunately for me he possessed far more imagination than judgment.
whenever i was naughty or unreasonable, he would call for croquemitaine; and as he was a ventriloquist you may suppose it was not long before a conversation commenced with this extraordinary person, who used to reply to the questions asked of him from the dark, mysterious, and fearful regions of the kitchen chimney sometimes; or sometimes from the bottom of my porridge bowl, or again sometimes from the inside of a drawer in the table close to where my little chair was placed. as i believed most implicitly in croquemitaine’s existence, montézuma made me do exactly as he liked by this means. just fancy! here was a man who appeared to me to be on the most intimate terms with a mysterious and supernatural being! a man who could summon this being at will, and, at a single word, send him off again about his business, just at the moment when, almost mad with anguish, i feared, yet longed, to see the mysterious being appear to me.
our discussions would always end in the same way when i had been naughty.
“now will you do it again?” montézuma would ask in a stern voice.
“oh, no! no! my good montézuma,” i would cry, “i will never, never do so any more.”
“then, croquemitaine,”—montézuma would say in a gentle voice,—“you can go away, we will not give you our little paul to-day; for he has promised to be a good boy.”
“all right! all right! i shall have him the next time,” a most terrible gruff voice would answer. and repeating “all right” a good many times, the voice sounding less and less distinct and further away each time, croquemitaine would depart for that occasion.
as i grew bigger croquemitaine came less frequently. i believe that montézuma got tired of always employing the same means of keeping me in order. still i did not lose my faith in this supernatural being. very often, when the furniture creaked, or the wind whistled down the chimney or in the passages; when the porridge-pot boiled over, and made strange grumbling sounds, i felt that there was something more than usual in these noises; something very strange and mysterious. then my heart would beat violently, and montézuma bursting out laughing would cry, “ah! ah! ah! how white your nose has turned!”
“but,” would i reply in a piteous tone of voice, “i have not been naughty.”
“that you know best!” montézuma would answer sententiously. “what does your conscience say?”
