LET us leave Paris awhile and return to the little estate on the banks of the Marne, which Théophraste generally moved to with the first rays of the July sun. This year he was to go there before Marceline and his friend, Adolphe, who had been commissioned to survey the timbers on some lands elsewhere. Thus these last few days he could spend alone in security and peace to attend to this unusual treatise which his new position in the world had given him.
The name of the house was “Villa Flots d’Azure.” Théophraste had given it this name against the wishes of Adolphe, who protested that the name was for a villa near the sea. He had replied with logic that he had often gone to the Preport, and that he had always seen the sea green; that he knew the Marne, and that on account of the reflected blue sky the water seemed blue. Do they not say “the beautiful blue Danube”? It was not only the ocean that had blue waves, so he did not see why he should not call his villa on the Marne “Villa Flots d’Azure.”
That day was the anniversary of their marriage. Théophraste was very fond of Marceline, and these anniversaries were always the occasion for much merry-making. Marceline also loved Théophraste, and saw no reason why she should not like Adolphe equally as well, whereas, on the other side, Adolphe adored Marceline and would have died for Théophraste. On reflection, the name “Villa Flots d’Amour” would have been more appropriate than “Villa Flots d’Azure,” such harmony existed therein.
Théophraste shook Adolphe’s hand effusively. He complimented his wife on her beauty. He had his green umbrella that day, and in making his congratulations twirled it in a fashion, as he thought, resembling the manner in which they used canes in the beginning of the eighteenth century. He was not a vain person, but he knew by this scientific miracle that he had been a great man two hundred years ago, and he felt that he should convey the impression that he had moved among great people and affairs.
It was their custom upon their return to their country house to invite a few friends to a party to celebrate the occasion. Upon this occasion Théophraste was at his best. He was in high spirits, and while passing the good word to the gentlemen, made flattering speeches to the ladies. The table was set in the garden under a tent where the guests assembled. After a while the conversation turned to the latest doings in angling. M. Lopard had caught a trout of three pounds; old M. Tartoush had cast his line on Sunday-having caught nothing, complained that people made too much noise shooting during the week, and drove the fish from these waters. All joined in the conversation and gave their experiences except M. Théophraste.
He kept silent. He found the topic too commonplace and felt a desire to raise its level. He wanted it to drift into some subject related to that preoccupying his mind. After awhile he was able to get Adolphe interested in the subject of ghosts. From ghosts the conversation led on to spiritualism. One lady knew a somnambulist and related some strange stories which were calculated to work upon the imagination of the company. Adolphe, upon this, explained the spiritualistic point of view of the phenomena of somnambulism, and cited well-known authorities. He seemed quite in his element, and finally reached the point desired by Théophraste, the transmigration of souls and reincarnation.
“Is it possible,” said Marceline, “that a soul comes back to live in its body? You have often told me so, Adolphe, but it seems to me that one’s reason strongly repulses such an hypothesis.” “Nothing is lost in Nature,” replied Adolphe, positively. “Neither the soul nor the body. All is transformed, the soul as well as the body. The reincarnation of souls at the end of a century is a doctrine which goes back to such great antiquity that the ancient philosophers do not deny it.”
“If one’s soul returned to a body,” said Marceline, “one would surely know it.”
“Not always,” said Adolphe, “but sometimes.” “Ah, sometimes?” asked Théophraste, who was by this time becoming intensely interested.
“Yes, there are cases. For instance: Ptolemy Caesar, son of Caesar and Cleopatra, who was king of Egypt before Christ, remembered well to have been Pythagoras, a Greek philosopher, who lived 600 years before.”
“Impossible!” cried the ladies, and the gentlemen smiled skeptically.
“You need not laugh, gentlemen. It is impossible to be more serious. Our actual transformation, which is the final word in science, is in full accord with the theory of reincarnation. What is transformation except the idea that living things transform themselves, progressing one into another? Nature presents herself to us under the aspect of a spark, elaborately perfecting without ceasing to create, to attain an ideal which will be the millennium. Whatever Nature does for the body she does for the soul. It can be proved, for I have studied this side a great deal, and it is the original of all sciences.
Monsieur Adolphe was not understood by the company, a fact of which he was inwardly proud. He liked to feel a superiority of intellect, and often he would raise the conversation above the level of his audience just to gratify his vanity. He touched on many points which only need be referred to lightly here in order to convince skeptics that the extraordinary history of Théophraste is founded on a most scientific basis.
“The transmigration of souls was taught in India,” said Adolphe; “the cradle of the genus human, then in Egypt, then in Greece. They chanted its mysteries in the name of Orpheus. Pythagoras, who continued the teaching, did not admit with the philosophers on the banks of the Ganges that the soul traveled over the cycle of all animal existence. He made it come back, for example, into a pig.”
“There are some men,” said Madame Beulie, “who still have the souls of pigs.”
“Without doubt,” said Adolphe, smiling; “but what Pythagoras says is that we must not conclude from that, that pigs have the souls of men. Plato also adopts this doctrine. It is the first which gave in the Phidon the proof that souls do not exile themselves forever and that they come back to animate bodies anew.”
“Oh, if we could only get proof of that it would be nothing for me to die,” declared old Mlle. Tabouret, who had a mortal terror of dying.
“Here are the proofs,” continued Adolphe. “They are two in number. One is taken from the general law of Nature, the other from human nature. First, Nature is governed by the laws of contraries, and from that we see that while death succeeds life, all would end by being absorbed in death, and Nature would one day come to an end like Endymion. Therefore I say that we exist after death.
“Secondly, if after consulting the general laws of Nature we turn to our own minds, we will find there the same dogma attested by the fact of resemblance. ‘To learn,’ said Plato, ‘is nothing but to recollect. Since our souls learn, they must have a resemblance. What does it recollect except to have lived, and to have lived in another body? Why can we not believe that in leaving the body while it is animate at this time it can animate several others in succession?’ I quote Plato literally,” remarked Adolphe.
Then he passed from Plato to a modern authority. “Charles Fournier has said: ‘Where is the old man who has not truly wished to be born again, and to use in another life the experience he has acquired in this?’ To pretend that that desire ought not to be realized is to admit that God can deceive us. We ought then to recognize that we have lived previous to being what we are, and that several other lives await us. All these lives, to the number of eight hundred and ten, are distributed between five periods and embrace a span of eighty-one thousand years. Allan Hardai reckons that the soul returns to another body after two or three thousand years unless we die a violent death. Then it is quite possible one can be reincarnated after two hundred years.”
Adolphe had by this time drawn all around him and became the center of attraction by his entertaining remarks. Théophraste had sat open-eyed, listening intently, and upon hearing the last remark thought “That is well. They may have hung me; so if I did not die that way, they may have got rid of me by some other death more in keeping with my station in life. Nevertheless,” he thought, “if all these people here could only realize that they had a prince of the royal blood among them, they would be very much astonished, and be filled with respect. But no, he will still be Théophraste Longuet, manufacturer of rubber stamps.”
Champagne was brought, and soon the air rang merrily with general chatter and the explosion of corks. It was then that Marceline turned around to Théophraste and begged him to sing the song which he was accustomed to sing on the anniversary of their marriage. He had sung it the day of their wedding, and on account of its beauty they had adopted it as their wedding song. It was Lissette de Baranger.
However, to the consternation of Marceline and all the guests, instead of singing the song, he rose, threw his napkin on the table and said to her in that strange voice which they heard at the Conciergerie:
“As thou wishest, Marie Antoinette, I can refuse thee nothing.”
“Oh, my God,” cried Marceline. “Hear what he called me in that strange voice!”
The guests were obviously uncomfortable, and did not know what to make of his peculiar behavior. The song was a vulgar song of the Regency period, and certainly not for such a gathering as was at this party. He sang it with the old French air:
Tou joli belle mimiere—
Tou joli, moulin.
THEOPHRASTE sang the song in loud, strident tones, his eyes sparkling, glass in hand. It was with indescribable surprise that the company received it, and despite the richness of the rhyme, the couplet was followed by no applause. An awkward silence followed, and all the ladies looked to Marceline for an explanation.
What was it that Marceline could explain? Adolphe himself looked at Théophraste in surprise; but Théophraste, as if possessed with the devil, continued with the second couplet of the drinking song. When he had finished, he sat down, looked around with satisfaction, and said to Marceline, “What do you think of that, Marie Antoinette?”
In the midst of a death-like silence preserved by all, Marceline asked tremblingly, “Why do you call me Marie Antoinette?”
“Because you are the most beautiful of all!” cried Théophraste. “I appeal to Madame la Marechale de Bouilleurs, who has taste. I appeal to all of you. And there is not one who, by the signet of the Pope, will contradict me, neither the Eros Picards, nor the Bourbons, nor the Burgundias, nor the Provincials, nor the Poet St. Jack, nor Gatelard, nor Bras-de-Fer, nor Guente Noir, not even Bal-a-voir.”
M. Théophraste had on his right old Mlle. Tabouret, and he pinched her knee as he looked at Marceline, which nearly made that austere person faint. No one dared to move; for the fiery look of Théophraste frightened the whole company. He leaned amorously towards Mlle. Tabouret, and said to her, staring at Marceline, who was by this time weeping: “Let us see, Mlle. Tabouret, am I not right? To whom can I compare her? Is it La Belle Laitere, or La Petite Minion; or even La Blanche of the bowling alley; or La Belle Helene, who kept the Harp Tavern?”
Turning towards Adolphe, he said with great energy, “Come you, Va-de-Bon Cour, tell me your opinion. Look at Marie Antoinette a little while. By the fatted calf, she puts them all in the shade: Jeannette, the flower girl of the Royal Palace; Marie Leroy and the female Solomon, the beauty of the Temple; Jeanne Bonnefoy, who kept the café of the Port Marie; Manon de Versailles, the poultry girl-none of them approach her in beauty.”
He then leapt with one bound upon the table, and breaking the dishes, cups and plates into a thousand pieces, held his glass over his head and shouted, “Let us drink to the Queen of the Nymphs, Marie Antoinette.”
Draining his glass, he smashed it against the table and waved his hand, which was covered with blood. By this time the party had fled in terror, fearing that some tragedy would follow Théophraste’s strange behavior. On superficially thinking of these curious actions one would immediately conclude that he had gone mad or was drunk, but this was not the case. There is another kind of sense beside common sense. It was not because he was crazy or drunk that he could sing a song that he had never learnt, speak a language that he had never heard, or refer to people that he had never read about, who had been dead for centuries. There must have been some other force working in his brain.
Modern scientific experiments have shown with indisputable examples that this particular case was far from unique. Ignorant people, who neither knew how to read or write, who had never been outside their village, have been known to give most correct answers to the medium who questioned them in a dead language. And this has been before professors of colleges, not before charlatans. It is difficult to explain. It is the mystery of this life, the life hereafter. Some say that it is a learned spirit talking through these ignorant mouths, others have timidly expressed the opinion that such phenomena can only be explained by the remembrance of a former life. Therefore the things which Théophraste said and did without understanding, the Other who relives in him at intervals understands perfectly well, and if we would understand them we must know who this Other is.
As to Théophraste, after the guests had disappeared from the tent, he climbed down from the table. He found it more difficult to reach the floor than it had been to climb upon the table, and he knelt down, taking great precaution not to fall. He then assumed his natural self and called Marceline. She did not answer him, and in searching for her he found her trembling with fright in her room. He closed the door carefully and prepared to give an explanation. She looked at him with her large eyes, amazed, filled with tears, and he felt it his duty as a husband not to conceal from her any longer this extraordinary phenomenon which had been preoccupying his mind.
The night was ideal, and after they had retired he said to her, “My dear Marceline, you cannot understand what has happened to me this evening, and I can assure you I don’t understand myself, but in telling you all I know perhaps we can arrive at some conclusion.”
He then related all the details of his visits to the cellars of the Conciergerie. He concealed nothing, and sketched in minute details the extraordinary feelings which had actuated him that evening, and the unknown influence which had commanded him. At first she said nothing, but softly moved away from him as if afraid of him; but when he came to the document which revealed the existence of the treasures, she demanded to see it at once. He judged then that she was taking an interest in the adventure and felt thankful. They got up and he showed her the paper in the light of the full moon, which was streaming into the room. Like all those who had seen it before, she recognized the handwriting immediately, and made the sign of the cross as if fearing some sorcery. Marceline was not a fool, but explained that she could not help making the sign. However, she soon became composed, and began to praise Adolphe, who, in spite of Théophraste’s disapproval, had initiated her into the elements of spiritualism, a science she said which would be of some service to Théophraste in his condition. But even in the face of that uncontestable evidence she found it difficult to believe that he was a reincarnated spirit dating back two hundred years, until he asked her who she thought he had been.
Marceline didn’t think that he had been a very great personage, and in reply to his disappointed inquiry she said:
“Because this evening you sang in slang, and the ladies whose names you mentioned do not belong to the aristocracy. People who frequented La Terpidere, La Platire, Manon de Versailles, I think are not of much account.”
“But I also mentioned the leader of the Bouffleurs,” replied Théophraste, “and you know that morals were so dissolute under the Regency of the Duke of Orleans that the fashion at Court was to call the ladies in slighting terms. What do you think of the idea of me being the Bastard of the Regent?”
For sole response she embraced Théophraste in delight, and recollecting his duty on this day of celebration proved to her that if he was more than two hundred years old, his love always remained youthful.
AFTER a while Marceline was able to persuade Théophraste to confide in M. Adolphe Lecamus. She declared that Adolphe’s great experience, his certain knowledge of the science of metaphysics, ought to be a great help to a man who had buried treasures two hundred years before and wished to find them again. “And,” she added, “it is he who will be able to reveal your identity.”
He yielded to her persuasions, and in the morning told Adolphe everything. Adolphe was astonished, and it surprised Théophraste that a man who professed Spiritualism should show so much emotion when face to face with a reincarnated spirit. He said that Théophraste’s conduct at the dinner table the day before and the words he uttered to him before and since the visit to the Conciergerie were well calculated to prepare him for such a confidence, but he did not expect such a thing as this. He demanded to see the proof of such a phenomenon. Théophraste readily showed the document, and Adolphe could not deny the authenticity of it. He recognized the handwriting at once, and exclaimed, upon examination, that the handwriting explained many things to him. He had often thought how curiously the characters in Théophraste’s handwriting differed from his real character. It had always been difficult for him to associate the handwriting with Théophraste.
“Really,” said Théophraste, “what character do you ascribe to me?”
“Well, if you will promise not to bear me any ill, I will tell you!”
On this assurance he painted Théophraste’s character. It was that of a kind citizen, an honest merchant, an excellent husband, but a man incapable of showing any firmness, wit or energy. He told him also that his timidity was excessive, and that kindness was always ready to degenerate into weakness. The picture was not at all flattering, and Théophraste felt a little hurt.
“And now,” said he, “that you have told me what you think of my character, tell me what you think of my writing.”
Then he made observations on his handwriting which would not have failed to make him quite angry if he had not remembered that Signor Petito had said the same. He said:
“Your writing expresses all the contrary sentiments in your nature as I know it, and I can imagine nothing more antithetical than your writing and your real character. Thus you do not write a characteristic hand, but the handwriting of the Other.”
Théophraste was deeply interested. He thought of the strength and energy of the Other, he imagined that he was a great captain. However, Adolphe’s next remark completely disillusioned him.
“Any sign in those formations, in the pointed fashion they have of reuniting, and in the way of growing tall and of climbing up, and of passing each other, show energy, firmness, obstinacy, ardor, activity, and ambition, but all for evil.”
This dismayed him, but he exclaimed with a show of spirit: “Where is the evil? Where is the good? If Attila had known how to write perhaps he would have written like Napoleon.”
“They called Attila the scourge of God.”
“And Napoleon the scourge of man,” replied Théophraste, with difficulty controlling his anger.
How could it be that Théophraste Longuet could have been anything else but an honest being before his birth, during his life, and after his death?
Marceline agreed with him, and Adolphe fearing that he had gone too far made apologies.
FOR the next few days M. Lecamus and M.
Longuet occupied themselves with evidence of this phenomenon, and were often seen together, conversing mysteriously, in the bar-rooms and about town, about the treason of the first of April. They left the Villa Flots d’Azure to return to Paris, with the intention of searching the libraries. They worked diligently for several days without any result, until M. Longuet began to lose spirit. M. Lecamus was more patient.
One evening as they were walking towards the Rond Point, in the Champs Elysees, he turned around and said, “What can we do to find the approximate place where the treasures are buried if you have not your black plume?” Théophraste and Marceline could not understand this, and asked for an explanation. He commented:
“You have heard of the water witches who could discover water by the aid of a wand, by a phenomenon which nobody has as yet been able to explain. These witches traced water across the various beds of earth, and by pointing the little rods, indicated where it was necessary to dig in order to make a well. I do not despair of showing you, Théophraste, where your treasures are buried. I will conduct you over the ground shown in the document, and tell you where it is that you must dig to find your treasure.”
“Yes,” interrupted Théophraste, “but this does not explain to us what you mean by ‘the black plume.’”
“I am coming to that now. I am obliged to speak of Darwin. You will understand directly. You know that Darwin devoted himself to several celebrated experiments, of which the best known is that with pigeons.
“Desirous of accounting for the phenomenon of heredity and the value that he attached to it, he closely studied the breeding of pigeons, which is sufficiently rapid to have enabled him to draw conclusions upon an appreciable number of generations. At the end of the tenth generation he found the same type of pigeon, with the same defects, the same qualities, the same form, the same outline, and the same black plume there in the same place where the first pigeon had a black feather. Very well! With that I will prove to you that it is the same with souls as it is with bodies.
“At the end of the tenth generation, we find the same soul, as far as it exists, with the same defects, the same virtues, and, as it were, with the original black feather. While giving you this illustration, it is necessary to distinguish between the soul which reappears thus hereditarily, and that which comes back by reincarnation. Believing that it is the result of a unique combination which nothing can oppose, and, since it dwells in a case called a body, is hereditary in the same degree as that body, an hereditary soul which comes from an ancestor always has his black feather, while a soul which comes back by reincarnation finds itself in a body which is in no way prepared to receive it. The aggregate materials of this body are original, and decaying, momentarily impose a silence on that soul.
“But a time comes when this soul becomes the strongest, when it speaks, when it shows itself entirely, just as the black feather does.
“Now, Théophraste, for several generations you were the honest gardeners in the Ferte-sous-Jonarre. But when that soul speaks in you, you are no longer yourself. Théophraste Longuet has disappeared. It is the Other who is there. It is the Other who has the gesture, the manner, the action, the black feather. It is the other who recalls the mystery of the treasure, it is the Other who remembers the Other.”
“Oh! This is admirable!” exclaimed Théophraste, who was so deeply moved that he could hardly refrain from weeping with excitement. “And now I understand what you mean by my black feather. My black feather returns to me when I am the Other.”
“And he will help you then, my friend,” declared Adolphe with conviction. “But until we have released the unknown who is hidden in Théophraste Longuet, and until he lives with sufficient strength, audacity, and liberty, until he is resuscitated, in a word, until he appears to us with his ‘black feather,’ we will confine ourselves to the study of that interesting document which you brought from the Conciergerie. Let us make a plan for penetrating the mystery. We will find out exactly where the treasures are buried, but we must wait for the spirit who dwells in you to say to us, ‘It is there.’”
“My friend,” said Marceline, overflowing with admiration, “you talk like a book, and I wonder that you have not more often tried to teach us these things, for we are so ignorant. You must not leave a stone unturned to find the treasure. I do not fear the destruction of the earth on account of the object of our search.”
Adolphe turned around to reprove Marceline for her flippancy, but at this moment M. Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, approached, and Adolphe rose to greet his friend.
Adolphe introduced M. Milfroid to M. and Mme. Longuet. He was a man of about forty years of age, elegantly dressed, immaculate gloves, a silvery ringlet of hair on the white forehead. He advanced, smiling and bowing.
“We have often heard our friend M. Adolphe speak of you,” said Marceline. “Your fame has gone before you.”
“Oh, madame, I have known you for a long time. Every time I meet M. Lecamus he speaks to me of his friends of the Rue Gerauds, and in such terms that it has been my greatest desire to have the happiness of being presented to you.”
Marceline was conquered by such gallant manners. “I hear that you play the violin very well,” she said.
“I am equally interested in philosophy,” said M. Milfroid. “An interest which I owe to M. Adolphe, who is continually in dispute with me over the immortality of the soul, and other psychic matters. He has really made a convert of me.”
“Monsieur,” said Théophraste, who had not yet taken part in the conversation, “Adolphe and I like to converse about serious matters, also. We were just speaking of the relations between the soul and the body, and the different ways that the soul has of behaving with the body.”
“Ah!” said M. Milfroid, who desired to shine before Marceline, “are you able to distinguish between matter and mind, or the material and the spiritual? Matter and mind are the same thing in the eyes of science. That is to say, they constitute alike one unit, one force, produce at one time the phenomenon of cause and effect, tending to one end, the progressive steps of existence. You are the only ones, gentlemen, to still make that old distinction between matter and mind.”
After a while they rose and returned through the Place de la Concorde. At the entrance to the Rue Royale, there was a crowd of people, shouting and gesticulating. Théophraste, an old Parisian, wanted to know what was taking place, and flung himself into the crowd.
“Look out for pickpockets,” Marceline called to him.
“Oh, madame,” said Monsieur Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, “there are no pickpockets when I am about.”
“It is true. We should be in no danger when you are here.”
“I do not know about that,” said Adolphe, looking about them. “My friend here appears more dangerous to me than all the pickpockets on earth.” At this they all laughed.
Théophraste made them wait ten minutes before he appeared, and then he announced that it was a coachman who had gotten his wheels locked with an automobile, and could not separate them.
Marceline felt annoyed at having been kept waiting so long on such a slight pretext. However, her thoughts were diverted in doing the honors of a hostess, and she invited M. Milfroid to dinner.
During the dinner many pleasantries were passed, and M. Milfroid excelled in complimenting Marceline.
Suddenly, he became uneasy, and plunging his hands in his pockets, looked vainly for his handkerchief. After a final and useless search, he passed his forefinger under his moustache, and sighed, declaring that it did not matter.
However, at that moment Théophraste wiped his mouth, and Marceline asked him where he had found such a beautiful handkerchief. M. Mil-froid at once recognized it as his own, and thinking it just a piece of pleasantry, took the handkerchief from Théophraste. However, feeling in his left side, he became pale and exclaimed, “Good God! I have lost my pocketbook. There were five hundred francs in it.” M. Milfroid did not regret losing the five hundred francs, but he found himself ridiculed by Adolphe, and Marceline teased him gently and laughed prettily. They were all poking fun at him, and this made him furious.
“M. Milfroid,” said Théophraste, “if you need any money for the evening I can lend it to you,” and he drew a wallet from his pocket. M. Milfroid uttered a cry: it was his! M. Milfroid took the wallet from him as he had done the handkerchief, and alleging numerous engagements, he took his leave. Before going down the stairs, he said to his friend Adolphe, who followed him, “These are nice kind of people you have introduced me to.”
When Adolphe returned to the dining-room, Théophraste was emptying his pockets. On the table there lay three watches, six handkerchiefs, several pocketbooks, containing large sums of money, and eighteen checks.
THE important events of this story and its hero have occupied us to such an extent that we have not found time to present Monsieur Lecamus as he should be. The little that we know of him does not effect our sympathy. The place that he occupies in the house of Longuet, which is eminently immoral; the cynicism with which he deceives an innocent soul; the little danger that he seems to run in accomplishing the larceny- these are good reasons why we have deferred showing our contempt for him. It may be said that we have judged hastily, and have not allowed him to plead extenuating circumstances. The principal one, and the one which it would be well for us to dwell upon, is that he really liked Théophraste above everybody else. He loved him with his faults, his weaknesses, his ingenuousness, the confidence he had in him, and above all, the admiration Théophraste had for him. There was no sacrifice he would not make for Théophraste, and I daresay that if Théophraste had any pecuniary troubles, which after all are the only troubles which really count here below, Adolphe Lecamus would open his purse, and give to him freely. Adolphe loved Théophraste even above Marceline; and although I do not pretend to deal here with psychology, I find myself confronted with a case which is much less common than one would be inclined to believe. For Adolphe loved Marceline because he had made her his mistress.
If he had learned, by some supernatural warning, that Théophraste would some day learn his real position in the household, he would only have respected Marceline. “But,” he thought to himself, “Théophraste will never know anything about it, and as unknown evils do not exist, I will be the lover of the wife of my best friend.”
These lines are necessary, that the reader may understand properly the knavish tricks of the lover. But we must understand distinctly Adolphe’s devotion to Théophraste.
After the departure of the Commissioner, they all set themselves to consider what was to be done with the articles which Théophraste had brought home with him. At first they all sat silently looking at the objects, no one wishing to break the silence, until Théophraste said, “I have nothing more in my pockets. I really believe I have got my black plume.”
Marceline and Adolphe were startled by this, but still did not say anything, and waited for Théophraste to give some explanation. Then he declared it was in the crowd at the Place de la Concorde. He went in and out among the crowd, and it was a very simple matter for him.
“What must we do?” asked Adolphe in a grave voice?”
“What do you wish me to do?” replied Théophraste, who by this time had begun to confess. “You do not think that I am going to keep them! It is not my habit to keep things that do not belong to me. I am an honest man and have never wronged anybody. You must take them all to M. Milfroid, your friend, the Commissioner of Police. He can easily restore them to the owners.”
“What can I say to him?”
“Whatever you wish,” burst out Théophraste, who was becoming impatient. “Did the honest coachman who found a purse and fifty thousand francs in his carriage think about what he should say when he took them to the commissariat? He simply said, ‘I have found them in the carriage.’ That was sufficient. They even rewarded him for it. You must say, ‘My friend Longuet charged me to bring this to you. He found them in his pockets, and he does not wish a reward.’”
Marceline touched Adolphe with her foot under the table. This was her customary way of secretly drawing Adolphe’s attention. She wanted to signify to him that she thought Théophraste was demented, and her look quite showed it. Adolphe understood. He knitted his brows and scratched the tip of his nose. He felt that now was the time to act. He looked from Théophraste to the pocket-books, and coughing, said, “Théophraste, this is not natural. We have to explain ourselves. We must understand. You must not close your eyes to this misfortune. You must open them wide, and bring your will to fight it.”
“Of what misfortune are you speaking?” asked Théophraste, becoming frightened.
“Well, is it not a misfortune to have things in your pocket that do not belong to you?”
“I do not understand. You seem to be accusing me of being dishonest. I am an honest man, and whatever I have done dishonestly, I have done against my will.”
Having said these words, he fell back in his chair in a dead faint, and a deep silence fell over them all.
When Théophraste came out of his stupor, his eyes were full of tears. He motioned to his wife and his friend to come nearer to him. When they were beside him, he said, showing pitiable emotion, “I feel that Adolphe is right. A great misfortune menaces me, I know not what! I know not what! My God! I know not what! I know not what!”
Adolphe and Marceline attempted to console him, but he wept more. Then Marceline began to weep.
In his emotion, Théophraste grasped them both by the hand, and cried, “Swear never to abandon me, no matter what happens, for, oh! some day I shall need your help.” They swore to him in good faith.
Adolphe then asked to see the document. As he spread the document before him, he said, “Théophraste, tell me, do you ever have dreams?”
“It is very probable, but I only dream a very little.”
“Never?” insisted Adolphe.
“Scarcely ever. However, I remember to have dreamed four or five times in my life, perhaps because I woke each time in the middle of my dream, and it was always the same dream. But what possible interest can there be in this, to the subject which is occupying us now, Adolphe?”
Adolphe continued: “Dreams have never been explained by science. Science attributes them all to the effects of the imagination, but it does not give us the reason for these clear, distinct visions which appear to us sometimes. Thus it explains a thing which is not known by another which is no better understood. It says that dreams are the recollection of things which took place in a former life. But even admitting this solution-which is a doubtful one-we still have to find out what is the magic mirror that serves so well to keep the imprint of things. Moreover, how can one explain visions of real things, events that one has never seen in a former state, and of which one has never even thought? Who can affirm that these are not visions of retrospective past events in a former life?”
“That is right, my dear Adolphe,” said Théophraste, “and I ought to confess the things that I have dreamed. I have dreamed them three times as I said before, things that were perhaps true in the past, or will be in the future. I have never seen them in a waking state in my present life.”
“You understand me,” said Adolphe. “Relate to me the things that you have dreamed of and have never seen.”
“Oh, that will not take long. But so much the better, for it is not very cheerful: I dreamed that I was married to a woman named Marie Antoinette, and then——”
“And then?” interrupted Adolphe, who had never taken his eyes off the document.
“And then I cut her up in pieces.”
“Oh, horrors!” cried Marceline.
“It is horrible,” continued Théophraste, shaking his head. “Then I put the pieces in a basket and threw them into the Seine by the little bridge of the Hotel Dieu. I awoke then, and you may be sure I was not sorry.”
Adolphe struck the table a hard blow with his fist. “It is frightful,” he cried in a harsh voice, looking at Théophraste.
“Is it not?” said Marceline, shuddering.
Adolphe read the first lines of the document.
“Oh, how dreadful it is!” he continued, groaning. “Alas, alas! I understand all, now.”
“What do you understand?” asked Théophraste in a frightened voice, following Adolphe’s finger as he traced the first two lines of the document.
“This,” said Adolphe. “‘Moi et! I buried my, treasures.’ And you do not know what that ‘et’ means? Well, I won’t tell you until I am quite sure. I will know to-morrow. Théophraste, tomorrow at two o’clock be at the Rue Guinegaud and the Rue Mazarin. I am going to take these articles to M. Milfroid’s house. He will restore them to their owners, and we will prove to him that there are pickpockets even when the Commissioner is present. Adieu, my friend, adieu. Above all take courage. Take courage.” Adolphe shook Théophraste’s hand with the warmth of a comrade, and departed.
Théophraste did not sleep that night. While Marceline reposed peacefully by his side, he lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. His respiration was irregular, and he sighed often. Anxiety lay heavy upon him.
DAY broke over the city. A cloudy day, with a mist that enveloped everything in a sinister manner. The sun tried in vain to penetrate that sombre atmosphere.
Mid-day showed a dark red ball, rolling ingloriously in a sulphurous light. Such was the picture of the heavens that day.
Théophraste sprang out of bed early, and awoke Marceline suddenly by an excess of foolish hilarity. Marceline inquired the reason for such strange joyfulness. He said that he could not help laughing at the idea of M. Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, receiving back the stolen goods which had been pickpocketed right before his very eyes. “My dear Marceline,” he said, “it is foolish, the way people carry the money in their pockets. If you cannot put your hand in, slip a straw, filled with glue, in. It is an excellent scheme for extricating money from people’s pockets.”
Marceline sat up and gazed at him. She could not understand, as he never looked more natural in his life, and yet he was saying peculiar things, and his words were most unnatural.
“Théophraste, you frighten me,” she cried, and in her fear, groaned, “My poor child.”
Théophraste grew terribly angry. He threw himself at his wife, and threatened to strike her. “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to be called a child since the death of Jeanneton-Venes. I am no child.”
Marceline swore that she would never do it again, and in the depths of her soul regretted the unlucky moment which had given her husband proprietorship of a document which had brought into the household such fears and such follies. She knew neither Marie Antoinette, nor Jeanneton-Venes, although he continually referred to them. He had a familiar way of expressing himself about these women which made her uneasy, and finally the unexpected sentences, spoken by Théophraste, and his actions, made her dread the incomprehensible Théophraste of two hundred years ago. It made her long for the former Théophraste, so kind, so easy to understand. Then she gave herself up to bitter reflections upon the theory of reincarnation.
Théophraste finished dressing, and then announcing that he would not breakfast at home, said that he had a rendezvous with his friend Va-de-Bon Cour, at the corner of the Rue Mazarin and Rue Guinegaud, to do a good turn for M. de Francouse, but as that rendezvous was after breakfast, he intended enjoying the air in the Moulin de Chopinette.
“You will leave my green umbrella here,” he said, “and I will take my black feather.” Then, putting the final touches to his cravat, he went out. On the landing he met Signor Petito, the Italian professor, who was also going downstairs. Signor Petito bowed very low, complained of the state of the weather, and complimented Théophraste on his appearance.
Théophraste answered in a less amiable tone, as he was not desiring the Signor’s company, and he demanded of him if Madame Petito could not be induced to learn another air on the piano than “Carnival de Venice.” But Signor Petito replied, smiling, that she was already studying “Love’s Destiny,” but in future she would study only the pieces which would please M. Longuet. He then asked, “Which way are you going?”
“For a turn in the Moulin de Chopinette; but the weather is too bad, so I will have to go down to the Porcherons.”
“To the Porcherons?” Signor Petito was going to ask, but he changed his mind. “Where is the Porcherons?” he asked. “I will go, too.”
“Aha, indeed!” said M. Longuet, glancing curiously at Signor Petito. “You too will go to the Porcherons?”
“Go there or somewhere else,” said Signor Petito, pleasantly, and he followed Théophraste.
At the end of a short silence Signor Petito ventured to ask, “Where are your treasures, M. Longuet?”
Théophraste faced about suddenly. “What has put such an idea into your head?” he exclaimed.
“Do you not remember the day that you brought the specimen of your handwriting and asked for my opinion?”
“I remember, and you were wrong,” said Théophraste drily, as he opened his umbrella.
Signor Petito, in nowise discouraged, placed himself under the shelter of Théophraste’s umbrella. “Oh! M. Longuet, I did not say that to annoy you.”
They arrived at the corner of the Avenue Tre-daine. Théophraste was in very bad humor.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I have an appointment at the tavern of the Veau-qui-telle, by the side of the Chapel Porcherons, here, you see.”
“But we are at the Chapel Notre Dame de Lor-rete, and not the Porcherons, at all.”
Théophraste disregarded Petito’s remark, and suddenly said to him, “Do you know that there is a price on my head?”
Signor Petito seemed taken aback by this sudden change of tone.
“It will cost them dear, though, to get my head,” said Théophraste. “Do you know how much it will cost, Signor, the head of L’Enfant? No? Very well. I am going to tell you, since the occasion has presented itself, and I am going to tell you the whole story, which may be profitable to you.”
Then, without any preparation, he related in the most natural way possible, his existence previous to his present one.
“My head is worth 20,000 pounds,” said he, “and you know it very well.” And as he pronounced these words he struck the table such a blow that Signor Petito recoiled instinctively.
“Here is the history of it all. I was walking, two hundred years ago, in the Rue de Vauregard, with my hands in my pocket, without arms, without even a sword, with the most honest intentions in the world, when a man met me. He bowed almost to the ground, and told me that my face reminded him so much of some one he knew. He was called ‘Old Man Bidel,’ or ‘Bidel the Good-natured,’ and he said that he had a secret to confide to me.
I encouraged him by a friendly tap on the shoulder, and he confided his secret to me. He whispered in my ear that the Regent had promised twenty thousand pounds to whoever would arrest the Enfant, and he knew where the Enfant was hiding. That I looked to him like a man of courage, and that he, with my aid, would do anything to get the 20,000 pounds. He said that he would divide the reward.
“The old man Bidel was on the wrong track, Signor Petito, for I also knew where to find L’Enfant, seeing that I was that person.”
Signor Petito did not wish to believe any of this, as he could see for himself that M. Longuet had been out of infancy a good many years. However, he dared not say anything. Théophraste continued, “I replied to the old man Bidel, that it was a happy chance and that I thanked Heaven for putting him in my path, and I made him conduct me to the place where he could find the Enfaut. He said to me, ‘To-night, the Enfant sleeps at the Capucine, in the Tavern Suite, which bears as a sign the Cross of the St. Hester.’
“It was true, Signor Petito, the old man Bidel was very well informed. I congratulated him, and we passed just then a cutlery shop, and I bought a small knife, much to the astonishment of Bidel, who asked me what I planned to do with such a weapon. I replied to him that with a small knife like this one could kill a fly, and I plunged it into his heart. He sank down, raised his arms wildly for a few moments, and died.”
Signor Petito, who at first had moved away from Théophraste, now rose and ran to the door, and was glad to get out of sight.
M. Longuet drank his wine, got up and went to the Bousset Brewery, where Mme. Barth was standing, making up her books. He said to her, “Mme. Taconet———-”
Mme. Barth demanded why he called her Mine. Taconet, but he disregarded her question, and continued, “If Signor Petito comes here again, you will tell him for me that the first time I find him in my way, I will cut his ears off.” Saying this, Théophraste fondled the handle of his umbrella as one grasps the handle of a dagger.
There was no doubt about it, he had his black plume. He had become the Other entirely.
The fog was still thick and he did not think of breakfasting yet. He walked into the sulphurous mist like one in a dream. He crossed the whole of the Quarter of An tin, and that which was formerly the Avenue L’Enrique, until he came under the shadows of the towers of Trinity, which he called the Chateau du Coq. On his arrival at the St. Lazare, he believed that he was at the Petite Pologue.
But little by little the fog cleared away, and his dream disappeared with it. He had the most exact idea of things when he crossed the Point Royale, and by the time he had set foot on the left bank, he was again the honest Théophraste, and had only the vaguest idea of that which had happened on the right bank. But he could remember this, and when he questioned himself thoroughly, he began to experience the different conditions or states of the soul. He discovered in himself three distinct states. First, that which resulted from his life as an actuality, the honest merchant; second, that which resulted from the sudden and momentary resurrection of the Other; and third, that which resulted from memory. The recollection was to him like a third Théophraste, who related to the first what he had known of the second. This resurrection of Théophraste’s was a terrible thing.
On crossing the Bridge he hurried beyond the Rue Guinegaud. He did not care to pass by the corner of the Rue Mazarin, he knew not why. He turned the corner by the Hotel Monniare, and almost ran into Adolphe, who was waiting for him there.
“Have you ever heard of a person called L’Enfant, my dear Adolphe?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Aldolphe, “I have heard of him. I even know his real name, his family name.”
“Ah, what is it?” anxiously inquired Théophraste.
Adolphe for reply pushed Théophraste into the hallway of an old house, in the Rue Guinegard, a few steps from the Hotel de la Monniare. They climbed a tottering staircase, and entered a room in which the curtains were drawn. Somebody had spent the night in the room.
On a little table in the corner, the trembling flame of a wax candle lit up a portrait. It was the picture of a man about thirty years of age. He had a robust figure, high forehead, strong nose, a smooth chin, and large mouth and moustache. His thick hair was covered by a coarse woolen cap, and he wore a coat over a coarse linen shirt, which appeared to be a prison garb.
“Wait,” said Théophraste, without raising his tone, “how is it that my portrait is in this house?”
“Your picture?” asked Adolphe. “Are you sure?”
“Who could be more sure of it than I?” said Théophraste again, without being excited.
“Very well,” said M. Lecamus, with emotions that it would be hard to describe. “That portrait, which is your portrait, is the portrait of Cartouche.” When M. Lecamus turned to see the effect his words would produce on his friend, he saw Théophraste stretched on the floor in a dead swoon.
For a long time he worked to bring him to. He blew out the candle and opened the windows, allowing the good air to come in. Théophraste came to himself, and his first words were, “Adolphe, above all things do not speak of this to my wife.”