No. It was a stern reality; a deep, inexplicable mystery.
“I married you five years ago, you say. Then what year of grace is this?”
“Come,” replied my wife, “such fooling is out of place, dear. You know as well as I that it is 1893.”
“What!” I cried, feeling myself grow rigid in amazement. “Yesterday was ten years ago!”
I was undoubtedly wide awake and sensible, but that I was really myself I began to doubt. I struggled to comprehend the situation, but failed. How I came to be in South Africa, the possessor of such a mansion, the husband of such a wife, was a problem beyond solution. I felt light-headed, for the horrible suspense was goading me into a frenzy of madness.
“There must be some—some serious mistake,” I said calmly. “I’ve never had the pleasure of setting eyes upon you before this evening, and am utterly at a loss to understand who or what I am.”
She regarded me with a terrified expression; her face suddenly blanched, and she would have fallen, had I not caught her and placed her upon the settee.
Ringing the bell again, a maid-servant answered my summons.
“Your mistress has fainted. Call some one to her assistance,” I said; and then I proceeded to explore the house. It was a splendid modern mansion, and by the bright moonlight I discerned that it was surrounded by a well-kept lawn and clumps of fine old trees.
I was utterly unable to realise that the journey to Paris had been made ten years before; nevertheless, my aged appearance, my beard, the fact of my marriage, and my apparent opulence, all combined to confirm her statement. In vain I tried to recollect the incidents of that memorable night; but, beyond the knowledge that I received a terrible blow, I could remember nothing.