DEVIL STORIES
myself to the Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now!"
"Quite the contrary," cried a small, cheery voice.
"What!" exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. "Who's there?—where are you?—who are you?"
"You were just speaking of me," said the voice. Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right, a bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany. "Where are you?" cried he again.
"S-q-u-e-e-z-e!" exclaimed the little voice.
Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze; when, as sure as I'm living, a little imp spurted out from the hole upon the palette, and began laughing in the most singular and oily manner.
When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole; then he grew to be as big as a mouse; then he arrived at the size of a cat; and then he jumped off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked the poor painter what he wanted with him.
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The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed himself at last upon the top of Gambouge's easel,—smearing out, with his heels, all the white and vermilion which had just been laid on the allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge.
"What!" exclaimed Simon, "is it the—"
"Exactly so; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand: besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me a little better."
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