We swept through Mont Cenis Tunnel, and then, with a cry of gladness, we entered the sunny land of Italy. What a change it was! Here the warm sun, which had been hidden on the other side by the high mountain range, had melted the snow, and so bright streams of water came rushing down the mountain sides, laughing as if in glee. The cottagers sat outside their doors, singing in the sun. The vine-covered hills, although not yet clothed with their green garment, were still beautiful, while away in the distance spread a broad Italian plain, dotted with villages, out of whose midst a modest church spire ever lifted its head.
I had seen all this before, but to Simon it was a marvel of beauty. In England the streets were muddy, and a yellow fog hung over London, and yet in forty-eight hours we were beneath sunny skies, we were breathing a comparatively humid air.
But I must not stay to write about this, for my story is not about Italian scenery, or beautiful sights of any sort. It is my work now to tell about my search after Kaffar.
We arrived in Turin on Friday evening, about fifty-one hours from the time we started from London. We had spent some little time in Paris, or we could have done it more quickly. We found Turin lit up with a pure bright light, and, as Simon declared, "looking one of the most purtiest places like, as ever he'd clapped his eyes on."
We stayed at Hotel Trombetta. We had several reasons for doing this. First, it was a good hotel. I had stayed there before, and so I knew. It was also near the station, and fairly near the place where, according to Simon's sketch, Kaffar was staying. We got into the hotel just in time for dinner. Simon declared that he "dar'n't go into the dining-room amo' the swells like; it would take away his appetite jist like waccination did;" but as I insisted, he gave way, and certainly did not draw any one's attention by his awkwardness. I had got him a perfectly fitting suit of clothes in Paris, in which he looked a respectable member of society.
Directly after dinner I went out, to try to find Kaffar's whereabouts; but although Turin is beautifully built, and the streets very straight, I found I had to put off my search until the morning.
Every hour of waiting was, as the reader may imagine, of great anxiety to me. I was now making my great move. If I missed in this, all was lost. Was Kaffar in Turin? Was he or had he been there? Was all this mesmerism so much hocus-pocus and nonsense to deceive me, a credulous fool? And yet I was sure Simon would not be a party in deceiving me. But might not I have been deceived by the professor? Could he not make my friend say, not what really existed, but what existed in his own mind? And yet the little man seemed honest! Anyhow, I could do no more, and it was my only hope. There could be no harm in trying. If I failed, well, I could not help it; I had done my best. I would go back and face Voltaire and Miss Forrest, and—well—I knew not what—! But if I found the Egyptian! Ah, it was too good to be true. I dared not dwell upon the thought. It was not for me to build castles in the air, and weave bright fancies; but to work, until I had accomplished the work I had set out to do.
And so I went quietly to bed, and, much to my astonishment, slept long
and soundly. The sun was shining in at my window when I awoke, and this
Italian city looked wondrously beautiful as it lay there this clear
December morning, in the light of the bright sun.
We wasted no time after breakfast before setting out—I with beating heart, Simon still calm and collected, looking with critical eyes on the sketch he had drawn in his mesmeric sleep.
"After all," remarked Simon, slowly, "it shows us how a feller can live away from his body, don't it, then? We are fearfully and terribly made, as Solomon said to the people on Mount Sinai."