“Who is dead? Is it one of my patients?”
“Limoges, the ropemaker—you know, in the Crimea—he has just died. Poor folks—poor folks!”
“Come, come, my child,” said the doctor, “you are dreaming—it is only a bad dream.”
“A dream,” replied the somnambulist. “But I am not asleep. I see him—he has just drawn his last breath. Poor boy! Look at him.”
And she pointed with her hand, as if to direct attention to the scene which was so vivid before her. At the same time she would have run away, but hardly had she risen to go when she fell back, unable to move. It was a long time before she became calm, but, on coming to herself, she had no recollection of anything which had occurred. Some time after, Limoges senior received news of the death of his son. It occurred near Constantinople on the same day that Marie had witnessed it in her clairvoyant vision.
On another occasion there was a séance at which ten or twelve persons were present. Marie was put to sleep and had told the contents of several pockets and sealed packages prepared for the purpose. Dr. Dufay came in late purposely, so as to be as much out of rapport with her as possible. He had just received a letter from an officer in Algiers, stating that he had been very ill with dysentery from sleeping under canvas during the rainy season. This letter he had placed in a thick envelope, without address or postmark, and carefully stuck down the edges. This again was placed in another dark envelope and closed in like manner. No one but himself knew of the existence of this letter.
Unobserved, he passed the letter to a lady present, indicating that it was to be given to Dr. Gerault, who received it without knowing from whom it came, and placed it in Marie’s hand.
“What have you in your hand?” asked the doctor.
“A letter.”
“To whom is it directed?”