The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1 Chapter 18: Part 18

it until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!” “What?—sunrise?” “Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The _antennæ_ are—” “Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you,” here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my life.” “Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any reason for your letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned to me—“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales emit—but of this you cannot judge till tomorrow. In the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none. “Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little puzzled at what my friend had depicted. “Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this _is_ a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess: new to me: never saw anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything else that has come under _my_ observation.” “A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has something of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.” “Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its personal appearance.” “Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.” “But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a very passable _skull_—indeed, I may say that it is a very _excellent_ skull, according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest _scarabæus_ in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug _scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?” “The _antennæ!_” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the _antennæ_. I made them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that is sufficient.” “Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;” and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_ visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head. He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his usual cordiality. It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend. “Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your master?” “Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be.” “Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?” “Dar! dat’s it!—him neber ’plain of notin’—but him berry sick for all dat.” “_Very_ sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he confined to bed?” “No, dat he aint!—he aint ’fin’d nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby ’bout poor Massa Will.” “Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails him?” “Why, massa, ’taint worf while for to git mad about de matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but den what make him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de time—” “Keeps a what, Jupiter?” “Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin’ to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day he gib me slip ’fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart arter all—he look so berry poorly.” “Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be too severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant happened since I saw you?” “No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—‘twas _’fore_ den I’m feared—‘twas de berry day you was dare.” “How? what do you mean?” “Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.” “The what?” “De bug,—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout de head by dat goole-bug.” “And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?” “Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sick a deuced bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go ’gin mighty quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha’ got de bite. I did n’t like de look oh de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I would n’t take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.” “And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick?” “I do n’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream ’bout de goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd ’bout dem goole-bugs fore dis.” “But how do you know he dreams about gold?” “How I know? why ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I nose.” “Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you to-day?” “What de matter, massa?” “Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?” “No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me a note which ran thus: “MY DEAR ——Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little _brusquerie_ of mine; but no, that is improbable. Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell it at all. “I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and spending the day, _solus_, among the hills on the main land. I verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging. “I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met. “If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter. _Do_ come. I wish to see you to-_night_, upon business of importance. I assure you that it is of the _highest_ importance. “Ever yours, “WILLIAM LEGRAND”. There was something in the tone of this note which