III
During the course of the following month I saw Felix Bréton two or three times, and he was enthusiastic about the progress of his picture and the beauty of his model. The first hint that I received of the strange idea which was to lead to stranger happenings came one afternoon when he had called upon me at Shepheard’s.
“Do you believe in reincarnation, Kernaby?” he asked suddenly.
I stared at him in surprise.
“Regardless of my personal views on the matter,” I replied, “in what way does the subject interest you?”
Momentarily he hesitated; then—
“The resemblance between Yâsmîna” (this was the real name of Shejeret ed-Durr) “and the priestess of Isis,” he said, “appears to me too marked to be explainable by mere coincidence. If the mummy were my personal property I should unwrap it——”
“Do you seriously desire me to believe that you regard Yâsmîna as a reincarnation of the elder lady?”
“That or a lineal descendant,” he answered. “The tribe of the Ghawâzi is of unknown antiquity and may very well be descended from those temple dancers of the days of the Pharaohs. If you have studied the ancient wall paintings, you cannot have failed to observe that the dancing girls represented have entirely different forms from those of any other women depicted and from those of the ordinary Egyptian women of to-day.”
His enthusiasm was tremendous; he was one of those uncomfortable fanatics who will ride a theory to the death.
“I cannot say that I have noticed it,” I replied. “Your knowledge of the female form divine is doubtless more extensive than mine.”
“My dear Kernaby,” he cried excitedly, “to the trained eye the difference is extraordinary. Until I saw Yâsmîna I had believed the peculiar form to which I refer to be extinct like the blue enamel and the sacred lotus. If it is not reincarnation it is heredity.”
I could not help thinking that it more closely resembled insanity than either; but since Bréton had made no reference to the wearer of the black turban, I experienced less anxiety respecting his physical than his mental welfare.
Three days later there was a dramatic development. Drifting idly into Bréton’s studio one morning I found him pacing the place in despair and glaring at his unfinished canvas like a man distraught.
“Where is Shejeret ed-Durr?” I inquired.
“Gone!” he replied. “She disappeared yesterday and I can find no trace of her.”
“Surely the excellent Suleyman, proprietor of the dancing establishment, can assist you?”
“I tell you,” cried Bréton savagely, “that she has disappeared. No one knows what has become of her.”
I looked at him in dismay. He presented a mournful spectacle. He was unshaven and his dark hair was wildly disordered. His despair was more acute than I should have supposed possible in the circumstances; and I concluded that his interest in Yâsmîna was deeper than I had assumed or that I was incapable of comprehending the artistic temperament. I suppose the Gallic blood in him had something to do with it, but I was unspeakably distressed to observe that the man was on the verge of tears.
Consolation was impossible, and I left him pacing his empty studio distractedly. That night at an unearthly hour, long after I had retired to my own apartments, he came to Shepheard’s. Being shown into my room, and the servant having departed—
“Yâsmîna is dead!” he burst out, standing there, a disheveled figure, just within the doorway.
“What!” I exclaimed, standing up from the table at which I had been writing and confronting him. “Dead? Do you mean——”
“He has murdered her!” said Bréton, in a dull monotonous voice—“that fiend of whom you warned me.”
I was appalled; for I had been utterly unprepared for such a tragedy.
“Who discovered her?”
“No one discovered her; she will never be discovered! He has buried her body in some secret spot in the desert.”
My amazement grew with every word that he uttered, and presently—
“Then how in Heaven’s name did you learn of her murder?” I asked.
Felix Bréton, who had begun to pace up and down the room, a truly pitiable figure, paused and looked at me wildly.
“You will think that I am mad, Kernaby,” he said; “but I must tell you—I must tell someone. I could see that you were incredulous when I spoke to you of reincarnation, but I was right, Kernaby, I was right! Either that or my reason is deserting me.”
My opinion inclined distinctly in the direction of the latter theory, but I remained silent, watching Bréton’s haggard face.
“To-night,” he continued, “as I sat looking at my unfinished picture and trying to imagine what could have become of Yâsmîna, the mummy—the mummy of the priestess—spoke to me!”
I slowly sank back into my chair. I was now assured that Felix Bréton had formed a sudden and intense infatuation for Yâsmîna and that her mysterious disappearance had deranged his sensitive mind. Words failed me; I could think of nothing to say; and bending towards me his haggard face—
“It whispered to me,” he said, “in her voice—in my own language, French, as I have taught it to her; just a few imperfect words, but sufficient to convey to me the story of the tragedy. Kernaby, what does it mean? Is it possible that her spirit, released from the body of Yâsmîna, has returned to that which I firmly believe it formerly inhabited?...”
I had had the misfortune to be a party to some distressing scenes, but few had affected me so unpleasantly as this. That poor Felix Bréton was raving I could not doubt, but having persuaded him to spend the night at Shepheard’s and having seen him safely to bed, I returned to my own room to endeavor to work out the problem of what steps I should take regarding him on the morrow.
In the morning, however, he seemed more composed, having shaved and generally rendered himself more presentable; but the wild look still lingered in his eyes and I could see that the strange obsession had secured a firm hold upon him. He discussed the matter quite calmly during breakfast, and invited me to visit the scene of this supernatural happening. I assented, and hailing arabîyeh we drove together to the studio.
There was nothing abnormal in the appearance of the place, but I examined the mummy and the mummy case with a new curiosity; for if Felix Bréton was not mad (and this was a point upon which I recognized my incompetence to decide) the phantom voice was clearly the product of some trick. However, I was unable to discover anything to account for it. The sarcophagus stood against the outer wall of the studio and near to a large lattice window before which was draped a heavy tapestry curtain for the purpose of excluding undesirable light upon that side of the model’s throne. There was no balcony outside the window, which was fully, thirty feet from the street below; therefore unless someone had been hiding in the window recess beside the sarcophagus, trickery appeared to be out of the question. Turning to Bréton, who was watching me haggardly—
“You searched the recess last night?” I said.
“I did—immediately. There was no one there. There was no one anywhere in the studio; and when I looked out of the open window, the street below was deserted from end to end.”
Naturally, I took it for granted that he would avoid the place, at any rate by night; and I said as much, as we passed along the Mûski together. I can never forget the wildness in his eyes as he turned to me.
“I must go back, Kernaby,” he said. “It seems like desertion, base and cowardly.”