Repetitions of the litter of books in the parlor lay all about
over the floor; colored anatomical prints were nailed anyhow
against the walls; rolled-up towels were scattered here, there,
and everywhere in the wildest confusion, as if the room had been
bombarded with them; and last, but by no means least remarkable
among the other extraordinary objects in the bed-chamber, the
stuffed figure of a large unshaven poodle-dog, stood on an old
card-table, keeping perpetual watch over a pair of the
philosopher's black breeches twisted round his forepaws.
I had started, on entering the room, at the skeleton, and I
started once more at the dog. The old servant noticed me each
time with a sardonic grin. "Don't be afraid," he said; "one is as
dead as the other." With these words, he left me to wash my
hands.
Finding little more than a pint of water at my disposal, and
failing altogether to discover where the soap was kept, I was not
long in performing my ablutions. Before leaving the room, I
looked again at the stuffed poodle. On the board to which he was
fixed, I saw painted in faded letters the word "Scarammuccia,"
evidently the comic Italian name to which he had answered in his
lifetime. There was no other inscription; but I made up my mind
that the dog must have been the Professor's pet, and that he kept
the animal stuffed in his bedroom as a remembrance of past times.
Pages:
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393