"Oh! Gabrielle what has Blanchette said to you? Was it in words? Gabrielle, Gabrielle, it cannot be. Do not fool me with mere fancies."
Gabrielle smiled, a smile, as it were, of commiseration at my doubt, for now indeed she lived, I do believe, in a mingled world of things that we call real, and things that we call unreal, and to her they were almost the same.
"I do not fool you Alfred. Why should I? It is so simple and it is so true. See."
She left me, beckoning for me to follow her. She walked to a walnut tree, a low precarious sapling which had furtively pushed its way upward into some semblance of a tree, and leaned against its slender trunk, with her eyes pressed upon her crossed hands. I stood irresolute, half expectant, half miserably self-reproachful. Suddenly Gabrielle spoke. Her voice was itself strange, very distinct but chilled into a sepulchral gravity.
"It is all very dim, yellow and blue clouds float up and down, and here and there a figure moves, and there are voices, and now a great light—too bright—too bright—it shatters all!"
Her voice had risen to a tone louder than conversation, and she had raised her head with a quick upward movement, as if it had been jerked backward. Almost instantly she turned again to me, her face blanched, and her eyes just a little wild and strained, with no recognition in them. The oddness passed almost as quickly as it came, and Gabrielle smiled, and shook her head apologetically, and for one moment we watched each other with curiosity. But Gabrielle was quite herself, and coming close to me, she whispered:
"No Alfred it is not hard. You saw that I pierced the unseen; though, as it most usually happens when in the open, or with others, the pictures are confused and the voices difficult. I cannot make them out. But we shall try tonight together. Hold my hand and wish your wish, and let our minds—our souls—call for her and she will come. O! I am certain!"
"Gabrielle, I think this is not wise. You must cast off this inclination, and banish all of these impressions. Is it not a dangerous habit? Are you not afraid that it may unhinge your reason? And yet—Ah! how well you know, Gabrielle, that if I could only just be quite certain that Blanchette waits—waits. And then but once! Yes but once! Gabrielle," I caught her by the shoulders, and held her imprisoned, so that our eyes gazed into each other's, mine with a scrutiny that was half anger, half solicitude, and hers with an intense affection.
"Gabrielle—this must end. You hear me. End. Call Blanchette if you can. I will help you—and then—Let it all go. Cure your temperament, banish these hallucinations. I know I have been guilty in listening to you, but now—after Blanchette—after Blanchette—" the words left my lips wearily, as if the next alternative were feared most by me; "after Blanchette, no more of it. It is wrong, it is a diabolical procedure, mixed up with nonsense and disease. Stop it." How extravagant are our inconsistencies. I admonished Gabrielle, but I was not unwilling myself to stoop to the indulgence that might bring me a glimpse—no matter how fraught with deception, with the danger of madness, of the worse consequences of physical deterioration, even of religious apostacy, if only a glimpse of her I had made eternally the lode-star of my life, now and hereafter; if only a glimpse, might be vouch-safed.
Mais pourquoi Non—was I so wrong? What indeed has happened? Ah I know Gabrielle is—arretez vous, pauvre barbouilleur, pas encore—Go on with your story. It is Gabrielle speaking.