The little table certainly moved, with a queerly soft rocking motion, as if its feet only just touched the carpet and supported no weight. The Princess's hands felt as if they were floating over tiny rippling waves, and between her shoulders came the almost stinging thrill she loved. She wished that the room were quite dark now, in order that she might feel more. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Monsieur Leroy's forehead, and his hands were moist. The candle behind the arm-chair flickered.
"Are You there?" asked Monsieur Leroy, in a voice unlike his own.
There was no answer. The table moved more uneasily.
"Rap once for 'yes,' twice for 'no,'" said Monsieur Leroy. "Is this the first time you have come to us?"
One rap answered the question, sharp and clear, as if the butt of a pencil had struck the table underneath it and near the middle.
"Are you the spirit of a man?"
Two raps very distinct.
"Then you are a woman. Tell us—"
Several raps came in quick succession, in pairs, as if to repeat the negative energetically. Monsieur Leroy seemed to hesitate what question to ask.
"Perhaps it is a child," suggested the Princess, in a tremulous tone.