Indeed, their motive was a strange one, and one repugnant to Ester, but Ester's affection for her friend, and her pity for her bereavement, were so great, while her heart was so full of remorse for not having looked after Maria more carefully on that terrible day, that she did not dare to resolutely oppose her wishes, or dissuade her husband from gratifying them. She expressed her disapproval to Luisa, and begged her at least to maintain secrecy concerning the nightly doings in the professor's study, but she went no further. The professor, on the contrary, would have enjoyed these séances had it not been for his wife's disapproval. It was already dark when Luisa rang the bell at the little door of Casa Gilardoni. Ester herself opened it. Luisa did not return her greeting, which she felt was full of embarrassment. She simply looked at her, but when they reached the little parlour on the ground-floor where Ester was in the habit of spending her evenings, she embraced her so passionately that Ester burst into tears. "Have patience with me!" Luisa said. "It is all that is left me!" Ester tried to comfort her, telling her that happier times were coming for her; that she and Franco would soon be reunited. In a few months Lombardy would be free, and Franco would come home. And then—and then—so many things might happen! Perhaps Maria might return! Luisa started violently and caught her friend's hands. "No!" she cried. "Do not say such things! Never! Never! I am all hers! I belong to Maria alone!" Ester could not answer, for at that point the smiling professor came bustling into the room.
He saw that his wife's eyes were wet with tears and that Luisa was greatly excited. He greeted her very quietly and sat down in silence beside Ester, in the belief that they had been discussing the usual subject, which was so painful to his wife. She would have liked to send him away and resume her conversation with Luisa, but did not venture to do so. Luisa was shuddering at that spectre of future danger which would sometimes stand vaguely outlined before her mind's eye, but which she had always banished with horror, never pausing to examine it, and which now, evoked by her friend's words, rose before her, naked and distinct. After a long and painful silence Ester sighed, and said in a low voice:
"You may go if you like. Go, both of you."
Luisa, moved by an impulse of gratitude, fell on her knees before her friend and buried her face in her lap. "You know," she said, "I no longer believe in God. At first I thought there must be a cruel God, but now I do not believe in the existence of any God. But if a loving God, such as He in whom you believe, did really, surely exist, He would not condemn a poor mother who has lost her only child, and who is struggling to persuade herself that a part of that child still lives!"
Ester made no reply. Almost every night for two years Luisa and her husband had evoked the spirit of the dead child. Professor Gilardoni, in whom there was a strange mingling of the free-thinker and the mystic, had read with great interest the marvellous tales that were told concerning the Fox sisters—Americans—and the experiments of Eliphas Levi, and had closely followed the spiritualistic movement which had spread rapidly in Europe, in the form of a mania that upset both heads and tables. He had spoken to Luisa about this movement, and Luisa, possessed and blinded by the idea that she might ascertain if her child did still exist, in which case she might in some way be able to communicate with her, seeing nothing else in all the marvellous facts and strange theories save this one luminous point, had besought him to make some experiments with Ester and herself. Ester believed in nothing supernatural outside the doctrines of Christianity, and did not, therefore, take the matter seriously. She willingly consented to place her hands on a small table, in the company of her friend and her husband, who, on the contrary, exhibited great zeal, and had faith in their chances of success. The first experiments were disappointing. Ester, who found them tedious, would have liked to discontinue the attempts, but one evening, after twenty minutes of waiting, the little table tipped to one side, lifted a leg in the air, righted itself, and then tipped again, to Ester's great chagrin, but to the great joy of Luisa and the professor. The next night five minutes sufficed to make the table move. The professor taught them the alphabet, and then tried to summon a spirit. The table responded, knocking with its leg upon the floor according to the alphabet that had been arranged. The spirit evoked gave its name: Van Helmont. Ester was frightened and trembled like a leaf; the professor was trembling also, but with excitement. He wished to tell Van Helmont that he had his works in his library, but Luisa besought him to inquire where Maria was. Van Helmont answered: "Near!" Then Ester rose, as pale as a ghost, protesting that she would not continue, and neither Luisa's tears nor entreaties could move her. It was sinful, sinful! Ester's religious sense was not deep, but she had a wholesome fear of hell and the devil. For some time it had been impossible to resume the séances—she had a horror of them, and her husband did not venture to oppose her wishes. It was Luisa who, by dint of prayers and entreaties, at last obtained a compromise. The séances were resumed, but Ester took no part in them.
She did not even wish to know what took place. Only, whenever her husband seemed worried or preoccupied, she would throw out an uneasy allusion to the secret dealings in the study. Then he would be troubled, and offer to desist, but Ester had not the courage to face Luisa. For she had discovered indirectly that Luisa really believed she held communication with the child's spirit. Once she had said: "I shall not come to-morrow night because Maria does not wish it." At another time she had said: "I am going up to Looch because Maria wants a flower from her grandmother's grave." To Ester it seemed incredible that a head so clear and strong could be thus deluded. At the same time she realised the extreme difficulty of convincing her by gentle means, and all the cruelty of using harsh measures with her.
The professor lit a candle and went upstairs to the study, followed by Luisa. We are acquainted with this study that was like a ship's cabin, its shelves filled with books, its little fireplace, its windows overlooking the lake and the armchair in which Maria had gone to sleep one Christmas Eve. The room now contained something else. Between the fireplace and the window stood a small round table, with one central leg only, that branched out into three feet, about a hand's breadth from the floor.
"I am very sorry to cause Ester so much pain," said the professor as they entered the room. He placed the light on the writing-desk, but instead of preparing the little table and the chairs as usual he went to look out of the window at the pale light on the water and in the sky, amidst the surrounding shadows of night. Luisa stood motionless, and suddenly he faced about as if some magnetism had revealed her anguish to him. He saw appalling anguish on her face, and understood that she believed he had made up his mind to stop the séances, whereas he had only been tempted to do so, and, greatly moved, he seized her hands, telling her that Ester was good, that she loved her so much, that neither he nor she would ever willingly cause her suffering. Luisa did not answer, but the professor had all he could do to prevent her kissing his hand. While he was arranging the little table and the two chairs in the centre of the floor, she sank into the armchair, in a state of great depression.
"There!" said the professor.
Drawing a letter from her pocket Luisa handed it to him.