“Now this is a stairway and you are climbing up it,” continued the orders. “Now open this door,” where there was no door. “It is cold and windy out and the rain beats on your faces as you open it.” The two staggered back, arms over eyes as though they had indeed opened a real door on a blast of wind and rain.
Cynthia was getting a little bored with this. It seemed so onesided, so unsporting. The audience tittered, but the boys were such simple country lads it seemed unfair they should be made a laughing stock like this. She didn’t like that oily little man with his velvet coat and his soiled hands. “I wish he’d stop,” she thought.
The exhibition continued with various orders. The subjects were given water to taste, an empty glass to smell, but the Professor directed that they smell or taste whatever he dictated, and their faces amusingly registered disgust or delight or surprise. Yes, they were funny, but Cynthia felt uncomfortable and looked back over her shoulder toward the bolted door. She wished she hadn’t come.
Only once did the little professor nearly lose his subjects. During a tense and silent moment the sheep in the yard uttered a prolonged “Ba-a-ah!” The audience giggled hysterically and one of the young men began to come to himself again, looked around in a bewildered fashion and walked to the edge of the platform.
The Professor waved his hands, snapped his fingers. “Go, it is finished,” he commanded.
The two subjects blinked awake. If they had been caught abroad in their nightshirts they could not have looked more red and sheepish.
After that the renowned Reynaldo attempted to hypnotize a small dog, a little fox terrier that belonged to someone in the audience. The effort was hardly a success, for the fox terrier didn’t seem to realize he was a subject for the professor’s art. But the audience, with the remembrance of the former demonstration, was properly impressed and after a bit the terrier was allowed to go, barking his joy at the release, unharmed to his master.
Again the Paris Professor called for volunteers, asking this time for two little girls as he had already demonstrated his power over grown men. The children on the benches behind Cynthia and Nancy giggled and nudged, “You go ... no, you go ... Let M’rie go ... Let Leonie ...” till five had been suggested and the professor, making his choice, called two to the stage.
“Oh, there goes my little model,” murmured Cynthia, really distressed. “Can’t we stop her, Nancy?”
Nancy shook her head, her eyes on the stage. “I don’t know how we could. After all, the professor is French and we are just outsiders. Better let them handle it themselves.”