XIV
The anteroom that now came into view was a spacious one, dimly lighted by two candles. I could make out a series of frescos on the four walls above the paneling, which was of some dark almost black wood, oak or walnut, I should say. Except for the heads of two stags with antlers, there were no ornamental furnishings. The doors, in some ancient style, were so fashioned as to blend, when closed, with the sheathing.
But one detail I did see with absolute distinctness the moment I crossed the threshold. Standing in front of me, with his left hand still on the latch which it had just opened, was an old man so like in every particular to my guide that I turned, despite myself, to be sure it was really a case of two different individuals and not of one with an image reflected in a mirror. They had the same long, wide, flowing snow-white beards; the same serious, motionless, mysterious eyes. Yes, I turned and stared. Such complete identity was beyond belief. But yet, they were really two men,—father and son,—the son bowing with deference to the father. In fact, this demeanor on the part of the person who had come through the heath with me was the means, henceforth, by which I managed to distinguish the younger from the older man; though both, to the eye, seemed equally full of years, not to say centuries, ages; both equally robust, withal, equally erect of carriage, equally muscular with the litheness of youth.
I had stopped instinctively, eventually mustering presence of mind enough to bow deeply to mine host, a greeting which he returned politely but without pronouncing a word. His eyes, meanwhile, were surveying me with the most searching fixity. After a time they turned for the fraction of a second upon my escort, and I understood that they carried a question, imperiously.
“I took upon myself, Sir, the responsibility of bringing this gentleman here. I found him lying out in the rain in the hapless state you see him in. He had gone astray among the boulders at the outer end of the labyrinth.”
These sentences were uttered in a half-whisper, as though the speaker were afraid of disturbing a household at slumber.
The father did not answer for a space of time which I found a markedly long one. Then he said:
“Your conduct was quite proper, I believe, Sir.”
And he too spoke in a half-whisper.
These “Sirs” between father and son astonished me with their savor of antique formality; and I was impelled thereby to glance at the costume of this hoary gentleman who was thus addressing his offspring with the ceremonious formulas of bygone feudal days. Nothing in particular! A rustic outfit in corduroy, exactly like that of the “boy”; except that the elder man wore old-fashioned knee-breeches with woolen stockings and buckles at the knees.
The son was meantime recounting my story to his parent with a fullness that neglected no detail.
“Monsieur is an officer,” said he. “His name is Narcy, Captain André Narcy. He is the bearer of a sealed dispatch for the fort on the Grand Cap, and this dispatch, a very urgent one so it seems, must be delivered at the earliest possible moment. That is why I judged it best to offer our hospitality to monsieur for the night: he must have a good rest to be in condition for a hurried journey tomorrow morning, when daylight will permit him to make the ascent without such a distant wandering from his path as he fell into—for lack of a guiding hand—tonight. For, without any doubt whatever, monsieur met not a living soul along the trail to set him on the right road. And that, without any doubt whatever, is the reason why monsieur strayed so very very far from this Grand Cap where he was going.”
The innuendos in this narrative did not fail to impress me. I scanned the faces of the two men, one after the other, anxiously; but neither carried the slightest expression. The father answered also in a tone that was entirely normal, repeating word for word his earlier sentence of approval:
“Your conduct was quite proper, I believe, Sir.”
I groped about in my mind for an appropriate phrase of thanks; but before I hit upon one, mine host, pointing a finger at one of the invisible doors in the paneling, remarked, still addressing his son:
“It is evident that monsieur should be allowed to retire at once. Be so good as to show him to his room, Sir! You will need a light.”
I bowed in acknowledgement, without speaking. The son was already in motion, leading the way with the same spotlight playing on the room about us. Our first steps on the tiled floor raised a curious echo in that all but unfurnished chamber, the four walls of which threw each sound back upon us and seemed to prolong it with a briefly sustained tremor. The spotlight chanced to cast a round, luminous circle upon one of the frescos. As far as my hasty glimpse of it enabled me to judge, it was a mythological subject in faded color and not over-stressed design—a birth of Aphrodite from the sea, perhaps.
My guide drew back, in succession, three long thick bolts, longer and thicker than any bolts I could remember ever having seen. They secured the door to which the elder of the two men had pointed. A closer view of the wall revealed to me that beside this door there was another, similarly disguised in the paneling and fastened in the same way. Taken together, they might have been mistaken for the two wings of one folding door, joining very badly, for that matter, despite their rugged hinges; for a gap of a full inch was visible under each of the presumed wings, leaving free play to draughts.
These observations had scarcely flashed through my mind, when the old man, the father, that is, who had been standing in the center of the reception hall with his eyes glued upon me, advanced suddenly in my direction, and his steps, light as they were, echoed about the room as ours had done. I stopped and looked at him. With a gesture, and speaking to me directly for the first time, he said:
“Monsieur, I forgot to remind you that in our house, and not far indeed from the quarters you will occupy, we have a case of sickness. Might I request you, therefore, kindly to make as little noise as possible?”
This was the second time I had been urged not to talk; but the pretext had been different on each occasion....
And then something happened ... a very inconsiderable thing, which gave me a distinct shiver of excitement. It was not so much myself who trembled, but rather that submerged, unconscious being we each have within us which watches while we slumber and ever has a memory and a consciousness quite apart from our waking selves....
From under the other door—the door which had not been opened, namely—a sudden draught of warm air came. It was cold, noticeably cold, in the reception hall; but behind the closed door was a room which they kept much better heated. Now that draught of warm air!... As it passed through my nostrils, I became gradually aware of its fragrance. It was sweet with a perfume which my conscious self did not recognize, but which my submerged ego at once remembered—my submerged ego only, indeed. That is why I had crossed the threshold of the open door before I really understood....
Before I really understood, that is, what the closed door concealed....