He wondered if the Seine, dashing against the quays and piers beneath,
were not their proper element? Ay! for here were three drowned people on
the icy slabs of the Morgue, with half a hundred gazing wistfully at
them, and their fixed eyes glaring fishily at the skylight, as if it
were the surface of the river and they were at rest below.
So seemed all the landscape as he kept down the quay--the lines of high
houses were ridges only in the sea, and Notre Dame, lifting its towers
and sculptured facade before, was merely a high-decked ship, with
sailors crowding astern. The holy apostles above the portal were more
like human men than ever, with their silicious eyes and pulseless
bosoms; while the hideous gargoyles at the base of each crocheted
pinnacle, seemed swimming in the dusky evening.
It may have been that this aqueous phenomenon was natural to one
"half-seas over;" but not till he stood on the place of the Hotel de la
Ville, did Pisgah have any consciousness whatever that he walked upon
the solid world.
At this moment he was reminded, also, that he held a letter in his hand,
his landlady's gift at parting; it was dated, "Clichy dungeon," and
signed by Mr. Freckle.
"Dear Pisgah," read the text, "I am here at claim of restaurateur;
shall die to-morrow at or before twelve o'clock, if Andy Plade
don't fork over my subscription of two hundred francs.
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