“If one man cannot draw from me my soul, a great crowd of men may—nay, must,” he told himself; “I know that even one man or woman can take from me and absorb for a brief period something of my spirit; surely, when a thousand men and women are pulling at me like a thousand magnets, my spirit will go entirely out of me and live in them for ever.”
The argument seemed so logical and so obvious, that he wondered at himself for not thinking of it before.
He abandoned the reading of his MS., and began to pace the room. His excitement almost frenzied him, and his thoughts ran wildly.
“I must dress for the occasion. A purple robe. And a message. I shall give it out that I have a message. At the north of the Citadel it shall be, and as I talk to them I shall face the east.”
He visualized the waiting crowd so vividly that his body acted as though the occasion had already arrived. He stopped walking and threw out his arms. His eyes became dilated. His lips moved. And then from his moving lips a torrent of speaking poured. He held his hearers. Even the little children in his brain were awed: he saw them huddling against their mothers.... With a shudder he came to himself.
There were many newspaper offices to visit. One of them, in return for a column advertisement, agreed to publish an “interview” with him. He advertised his meeting outside the Citadel in every newspaper, however obscure, for he felt he had no further use for his savings. “When my soul leaves me altogether,” he whispered, to himself, “my body will die.” He bought a scarlet robe in the Bazaar.
Jacques and Madelein watched him anxiously during the following days. Several times he spoke to them of his “ending,” and told them it was near at hand. He put his small affairs carefully in order, and handed what remained of his savings to Jacques.
“I will keep it for you,” said Jacques.
“No: it is yours. In a day or two I shall have no further use for money. Only the husk of me will remain.”
Jacques looked at him very sternly.