The appearance of M. Auguste did not help to overcome my prejudice against him. He had too evidently made up for the part of the mystic.
The hair of M. Auguste was black and long, his eyes rolled much in their sockets, and his costume was a compromise between the frock coat and the cassock.
But it was above all his manner that impressed me disagreeably. He affected to be continually falling into fits of abstraction, as if his communings with the spirits were diverting his attention from the affairs of earth. Even on his entrance he went through the forms of greeting his host and hostess as though scarcely conscious of their presence. I caught a sly look turned on myself, however, and when I was presented to him as “Mr. Sterling” his reception of the name made me think that he had expected something else.
The Czar having explained that I was a friend interested in spiritualism, in whose presence he wished to hear again from Madame Blavatsky, M. Auguste rolled his eyes formidably, and agreed to summon the departed theosophist.
A small round table was cleared of the Czaritza’s work-basket—she had been knitting a soldier’s comforter—and we took our seats around it. The electric light was switched off, so that we were in perfect darkness, except for the red glow of the coal fire.
A quarter of an hour or so passed in a solemn silence, broken only by occasional whispers from “Mr. Nicholas” or the medium.
“It is a long time answering,” the Czar whispered at last.
“I fear there is a hostile influence,” M. Auguste responded in the jargon of his craft.
Hardly had the words left his lips when a perfect shower of raps seemed to descend on all parts of the table at once.
Let me say here, once for all, that I am not prepared to offer any explanation of what happened on this occasion. I have read of some of the devices by which such illusions are produced, and I have no doubt a practised conjurer could have very easily fathomed the secrets of M. Auguste. But I had not come there with any intention of detecting or exposing him.