But now a terrible and heavy blow is smit-
ten on the door, and, as in infernal dreams, it 
seems to me that I receive the blow of a mat-
tock in the midriff. 
And now a spectre has come in. It is a bail-
iff, who comes to torture me in the Name of 
the Law, an infamous harlot who comes crying 
pity, and to ass the frivolities of her life to the 
sorrows of mine, or the guttersnipe errand-boy 
of an editor who wants the continuation of my 
manuscript. 
The heavenly room, the Idol, the Queen of 
Dreams, the Slyphide, as the great René calls 
her, all this magic has disappeared at the spec-
tre’s brutal knock. 
Horror! I remember, I remember! This 
hovel, this dwelling-place of ennui eternal, is 
indeed my own. Here is the foolish, dusty, bat-
tered furniture, and here the fire-place without 
flame or ember, befouled with spittle; the sad 
windows where the rain has traced furrows in 
the dust; the blotted or unfinished manuscript, 
the almanack where the pencil has marked the 
disastrous days. 
And this other-world perfume, in which, 
with a sensitiveness made perfect, I grew 
drunk—alas! is replaced by the smell of stale 
tobacco mingled with I know not what sicken-