XXIX
“Monsieur,” said the Marquis Gaspard to me, “it was a great pleasure to be able to allow you this hour you so much desired. I hope it came up fully to your expectations.”
He was standing in the center of the large hall to which I had just returned—taller he seemed to me than formerly, with a carriage more erect and eyes agleam with a brighter, more imperious flame.
The candles along the wall had been put out; only the two lamps to the right and left of the fireplace were still lighted, and the Count François was busy lowering the wicks of these.
“Monsieur,” the marquis continued, “will you not kindly take your place for what we still have to do?”
He pointed to the deep chair in which he himself had been resting before I left the room.
I was anxious to betray no uneasiness whatever. I advanced without hesitation to the seat appointed and calmly sat down.
“Antoine!” the count called.
I was in that one of the two chairs which seemed nearest to the great lens. Facing me, and some ten or twelve paces away was the other seat, its arms opening toward me. It was empty. The stuffed cushions on the back of my chair, of the seat, arms and head-rest, seemed to accommodate my body perfectly; so that I was not conscious of any weight or fatigue at all. I stiffened nevertheless when I saw what the Vicomte Antoine was about to do. At his father’s call, the younger man stepped forward in my direction carrying in his hand a sort of dark lantern, much larger than the one which had lighted our path over the mountains.
“Look out! Look out, Monsieur!” he called, noticing that I had fixed my eyes in some alarm upon him. “Turn your head the other way, or you may be blinded.”
He slipped the shutter over the spot-light aside. I was bathed from head to foot in a harsh raw light which was all the more painful from the relative darkness of the rest of the room. I closed my eyes at first. When I opened them again, I avoided the stream of radiance that was turned upon me, and looked past it to one side, toward the lens and the empty chair beyond the latter.
Despite my efforts to control myself, I trembled, stupidly trembled, at what I saw. The chair was no longer empty; someone, or rather, something, was occupying it—the luminous shadow of a man seated, a shadow of myself, in fact. Of this I furnished proof at once by raising my arm, a movement which the shadow repeated with absolute fidelity. Now I understood; the hypothesis I had formed when the lens was first brought out was the correct one; the second chair was fixed on the spot where the image of the other chair, passing through the lens, would fall. The moment a vivid light was thrown upon me in that darkened room, my image became visible over there. There was nothing so mysterious in all that so far. I was somewhat ashamed of my first quiver of fright.
After a second or so, the vicomte closed his lantern again, and the image disappeared. Then only did I remember something very strange, which at first had not occurred to me. If the apparatus nearby were an ordinary lens, my image, as I had just observed it, should have been upside down, my feet above my head. Now such was not the case. It was right side up, a thing which I could not account for then, and have not been able to account for since.
Meanwhile, there had been a question, delivered in the shrill falsetto of the marquis:
“Is the image clear?”
The vicomte’s low-pitched voice responded:
“Perfectly, Monsieur!”
I had let my head fall back against the prop behind it; and it half buried itself in the upholstery, which sustained its weight so evenly and firmly that I am sure I could have fainted and yet still have kept to the same position without bending my neck. The field of my vision was proportionately reduced, however: I could see no one now except the Count François, who was still watching his lamps, turning them by this time so low that a faint blue flicker only was visible around the wicks.
The marquis asked another question, and this time of me:
“Monsieur, you are well seated in your chair, quite comfortable, quite relaxed? It is very important that you should be, I caution you!”
I tested the springs and mattressing:
“I think I am all right,” I answered briefly.
As I replied, I touched my fingers to the covering of the dormeuse about me. It was not satin, nor velvet, as I had supposed; but a kind of silk so closely woven that I guessed it to be for purposes of insulation. Leaning over I now noticed also for the first time that the four legs of my chair were shod with glass.
When I sat up again, I saw the Marquis Gaspard standing in front of me.
“Monsieur,” said he, with the very greatest gentleness in his manner and tone of voice, “Monsieur, the dawn will soon be upon us. We can delay no longer now. You are quite sure you have no objection to our beginning?”
One last wave of anguished rebellion gathered in my throat, and choked me. Nevertheless, I shook my head impatiently, to indicate that I had no objection whatever.
“That is better than I dared hope,” the marquis exclaimed; “I cannot tell how grateful to you I am!”
He was looking at me with an emotion that quite surprised me. Visibly affected, and with some hesitation, he resumed:
“Monsieur, there is one thought which I cannot bear your having even for a single moment: the thought that you have fallen, this night, into the hands of heartless, inhuman men.”
I stared at him coldly without answering.
“The operation I am about to try on you,” he resumed, “is something absolutely new. I advise you with the utmost frankness that it is a very dangerous one, though it is not, unfortunately, in my power to avoid it. The best I can guarantee is that you will not suffer much pain. To add just one more chance that the issue will be favorable, I have decided not to put you to sleep; though the experiment conducted under such conditions will cost me a far greater effort, and much more physical suffering. But if you are awake, with your nerves and muscles at normal tension, you will be better able to withstand the loss of substance you must undergo.”
He inclined his head to one side, his cheeks resting on three of his fingers.
“I wonder ...” said he, in a voice somewhat changed in tone.
“I was just thinking,” he began again. “Without any doubt you have papers on your person addressed to you under your name, your former name, that is.... Yes! And a pocket book perhaps?... Exactly.... Would you be so very, very kind as to entrust them all to me?... They might interfere with our results....”
Without comment, I unbuttoned my coat and thrust a hand into my inside pocket. I found there my card case, with a number of visiting cards, my road maps, two or three blank envelopes, and finally, crumpled through my haste in putting it away, the letter—the letter of the colonel of artillery. I handed them all to the marquis.
“I thank you!” said he.
The fold of his thin mouth grew deeper, and his tone was now one of great solemnity:
“Monsieur,” said he, “everything is ready now. My last request is that you be kind enough, in view of the fact that you will retain your consciousness, to relax completely, not only every sinew of your body but every tension of mind and will. Try to play ‘dead,’ if I may say such a thing. Play you are sound asleep. Notice, Monsieur, that I attach great importance to these suggestions, which, you can rely upon it, are made in the best interests of us both.”
I acquiesced with a slight arching of my brow.
He saluted me with his most correct and formal bow:
“That is all, Monsieur,” said he; “Farewell!”