The Sorrows of Satan

The valet entered, his sinister countenance resembling a white mask made visible in the gloom.

“These lamps have gone out,”—said his master—“It’s very odd that civilized humanity has not yet learned the complete management of the electric light. Can you put them in order, Amiel?” “Yes, your excellency.” And in a few moments, by some dexterous manipulation which I did not understand and could not see, the crystal-cased jets shone forth again with renewed brilliancy. Another peal of thunder crashed overhead, followed by a downpour of rain.

“Really remarkable weather for January,”—said Rimânez, again giving me his hand—“Good-night my friend! Sleep well.”