The Three Eyes E-Book

Leblanc Maurice

• Herausgeber: Bauer Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A scientist makes televisual contact with three-eyed Venusians.

Maurice Marie Émile Leblanc  was a French novelist and writer of short stories, known primarily as the creator of the fictional gentleman thief and detective Arsène Lupin, often described as a French counterpart to Arthur Conan Doyle's creation Sherlock Holmes

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Table of contents

Chapter 1 - BERGEBONNETTE

Chapter 2 - THE “TRIANGULAR CIRCLES”

Chapter 3 - AN EXECUTION

Chapter 4 - NOEL DORGEROUX'S SON

Chapter 5 - THE KISS

Chapter 6 - ANXIETIES

Chapter 7 - THE FIERCE-EYED MAN

Chapter 8 - “SOME ONE WILL EMERGE FROM THE DARKNESS “

Chapter 9 - THE MAN WHO EMERGED FROM THE DARKNESS

Chapter 10 - THE CROWD SEES

Chapter 11 - THE CATHEDRAL

Chapter 12 - THE “SHAPES”

Chapter 13 - THE VEIL IS LIFTED

Chapter 14 - MASSIGNAC AND VELMOT

Chapter 15 - THE SPLENDID THEORY

Chapter 16 - WHERE LIPS UNITE

Chapter 17 - SUPREME VISIONS

Chapter 18 - THE CHATEAU DE PRE-BONY

Chapter 19 - THE FORMULA

Chapter 1 - BERGEBONNETTE

Chapter1 BERGEBONNETTE

FOR me the strange story dates back to that autumn day when my uncle Dorgeroux appeared, staggering and unhinged, in the doorway of the room which I occupied in his house, Haut-Meudon Lodge.

None of us had set eyes on him for a week. A prey to that nervous exasperation into which the final test of any of his inventions invariably threw him, he was living among his furnaces and retorts, keeping every door shut, sleeping on a sofa, eating nothing but fruit and bread. And suddenly he stood before me, livid, wild-eyed, stammering, emaciated, as though he had lately recovered from a long and dangerous illness.

He was really altered beyond recognition! For the first time I saw him wear unbuttoned the long, threadbare, stained frock-coat which fitted his figure closely and which he never discarded even when making his experiments or arranging on the shelves of his laboratories the innumerable chemicals which he was in the habit of employing. His white tie, which, by way of contrast, was always clean, had become unfastened; and his shirt-front was protruding from his waistcoat. As for his good, kind face, usually so grave and placid and still so young beneath the white curls that crowned his head, its features seemed unfamiliar, ravaged by conflicting expressions, no one of which obtained the upper hand over the others: violent expressions of terror and anguish in which I was surprised, at moments, to observe gleams of the maddest and most extravagant delight.

I could not get over my astonishment. What had happened during those few days? What tragedy could have caused the quiet, gentle Noel Dorgeroux to be so utterly beside himself?

“Are you ill, uncle?” I asked, anxiously, for I was exceedingly fond of him.

“No,” he murmured, “no, I'm not ill.”

“Then what is it? Please, what's the matter?”

“Nothing's the matter… nothing, I tell you.”

I drew up a chair. He dropped into it and, at my entreaty, took a glass of water; but his hand trembled so that he was unable to lift it to his lips.

“Uncle, speak, for goodness' sake!” I cried. “I have never seen you in such a state. You must have gone through some great excitement.”

“The greatest excitement of my life,” he said, in a very low and lifeless voice. “Such excitement as nobody can have ever experienced before… nobody… nobody… .”

“Then do explain yourself.”

“No, you wouldn't understand… . I don't understand either. It's so incredible! It is taking place in the darkness, in a world of darkness!… ”

There was a pencil and paper on the table. His hand seized the pencil; and mechanically he began to trace one of those vague sketches to which the action of an overmastering idea gradually imparts a clearer definition. And his sketch, as it assumed a more distinct form, ended by representing on the sheet of white paper three geometrical figures which might equally well have been badly-described circles or triangles with curved lines. In the centre of these figures, however, he drew a regular circle which he blackened entirely and which he marked in the middle with a still blacker point, as the iris is marked with the pupil:

“There, there!” he cried, suddenly, starting up in his agitation. “Look, that's what is throbbing and quivering in the darkness. Isn't it enough to drive one mad? Look!… .”

He had seized another pencil, a red one, and, rushing to the wall, he scored the white plaster with the same three incomprehensible figures, the three “triangular circles,” in the centre of which he took the pains to draw irises furnished with pupils:

“Look! They're alive, aren't they? You see they're moving, you can see that they're afraid. You can see, cant you? They're alive! They're alive!”

I thought that he was going to explain. But, if so, he did not carry out his intention. His eyes, which were generally full of life, frank and open as a child's, now bore an expression of distrust. He began to walk up and down and continued to do so for a few minutes. Then, at last, opening the door and turning to me again, he said, in the same breathless tone as before:

“You will see them, Vivien; you will have to see them too and tell me that they are alive, as I have seen them alive. Come to the Yard in an hour's time, or rather when you hear a whistle, and you shall see them, the three eyes, and plenty of other things besides. You'll see.”

He left the room.

* * * *

The house in which we lived, the Lodge, as it was called, turned its back upon the street and faced an old, steep, ill-kept garden, at the top of which was the big yard in which my uncle had now for many years been squandering the remnants of his capital on useless inventions.

As far back as I could remember, I had always seen that old garden ill-tended and the long, low house in a constant state of dilapidation, with its yellow plaster front cracked and peeling. I used to live there in the old days with my mother, who was my aunt Dorgeroux's sister. Afterwards, when both the sisters were dead, I used to come from Paris, where I was going through a course of study, to spend my holidays with my uncle. He was then mourning the death of his poor son Dominique, who was treacherously murdered by a German airman whom he had brought to the ground after a terrific fight in the clouds. My visits to some extent diverted my uncle's thoughts from his grief. But I had had to go abroad; and it was not until alter a very long absence that I returned to Haut-Meudon Lodge, where I had now been some weeks, waiting for the end of the vacation and for my appointment as a professor at Grenoble.

And at each of my visits I had found the same habits, the same regular hours devoted to meals and walks, the same monotonous life, interrupted, at the time of the great experiments, by the same hopes and the same disappointments. It was a healthy, vigorous life, which suited the tastes and the extravagant dreams of Noel Dorgeroux, whose courage and confidence no trial was able to defeat or diminish.

* * * *

I opened my window. The sun shone down upon the walls and buildings of the Yard. Not a cloud tempered the blazing sky. A scent of late roses quivered on the windless air.

“Victorien!” whispered a voice below me, from a hornbeam overgrown with red creeper.

I knew that it must be Berangere, my uncle's god-daughter, reading, as usual, on a stone bench, her favourite seat.

“Have you seen your god-father?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “He was going through the garden and back to his Yard. He looked so queer!”

Berangere pushed aside the leafy curtain at a place where the trelliswork which closed the arbour was broken; and her pretty face, crowned with rebellious golden curls, came into view.

“This is pleasant!” she said laughing. “My hair's caught. And there are spiders' webs too. Ugh! Help!”

These are childish recollections, insignificant details. Yet why did they remain engraved on my memory with such precision? It is as though all our being becomes charged with emotion at the approach of the great events which we are fated to encounter and our senses thrilled beforehand by the impalpable breath of a distant storm.

I hastened down the garden and ran to the hornbeam. Berangere was gone. I called her. I received a merry laugh in reply and saw her farther away, swinging on a rope which she had stretched between two trees, under an arch of leaves.

She was delicious like that, graceful and light as a bird perched on some swaying bough. At each swoop, all her curls flew now in this direction, now in that, giving her a sort of moving halo, with which mingled the leaves that fell from the shaken trees, red leaves, yellow leaves, leaves of every shade of autumn gold.

Notwithstanding the anxiety with which my uncle's excessive agitation had filled my mind, I lingered before the sight of this incomparable light-heartedness and, giving the girl the pet name formed years ago from her Christian name of Berangere, I said, under my voice and almost unconsciously:

“Bergeronnette!”

She jumped out of her swing and, planting herself in front of me, said:

“You're not to call me that any longer, Mr. Professor!”

“Why not?”

“It was all right once, when I was a little mischief of a tomboy, hopping and skipping all over the place. But now… ”

“Well, your god-father still calls you that.”

“My god-father has every right to.”

“And I?”

“No right at all.”

This is not a love-story; and I did not mean to speak of Berangere before coming to the momentous part which, as everybody knows, she played in the adventure of the Three Eyes. But this part was so closely interwoven, from the beginning and during all the early period of the adventure, with certain episodes of our intimate life that the clearness of my narrative would suffer if it were not mentioned, however briefly.

Well, twelve years before the time of which I am speaking, there arrived at the Lodge a little girl to whom my uncle was god-father and from whom he used to receive a letter regularly on each 1st of January, bringing him her good wishes for the new year. She lived at Toulouse with her father and mother, who had formerly been in business at Meudon, near my uncle's place. Now the mother had died; and the father, without further ceremony, sent the daughter to Noel Dorgeroux with a short letter of which I remember a few sentences:

“The child is dull here, in the town… . My business”— Massignac was a wine-agent — “takes me all over the country… and Berangere is left behind alone… . I was thinking that, in memory of our friendly relations, you might be willing to keep her with you for a few weeks… . The country air will restore the colour to her cheeks… .”

My uncle was a very kindly, good-hearted man. The few weeks were followed by several months and then by several years, during which the worthy Massignac at intervals announced his intention of coming to Meudon to fetch the child. So it came about that Berangere did not leave the Lodge at all and that she surrounded my uncle with so much gay and boisterous affection that, in spite of his apparent indifference, Noel Dorgeroux had felt unable to part with his goddaughter. She enlivened the silent old house with her laughter and her charm. She was the element of disorder and delightful irresponsibility which gives a value to order, discipline and austerity.

Returning this year after a long absence, I had found, instead of the child whom I had known, a girl of twenty, just as much a child and just as boisterous as ever, but exquisitely pretty, graceful in form and movement and possessed of the mystery which marks those who have led solitary lives within the shadow of an old and habitually silent man. From the first I felt that my presence interfered with her habits of freedom and isolation. At once audacious and shy, timid and provocative, bold and shrinking, she seemed to shun me in particular; and, during two months of a life lived in common, when I saw her at every meal and met her at every turn, I had failed to tame her. She remained remote and wild, suddenly breaking off our talks and displaying, where I was concerned, the most capricious and inexplicable moods.

Perhaps she had an intuition of the profound disturbance that was awaking within me; perhaps her confusion was due to my own embarrassment. She had often caught my eyes fixed on her red lips or observed the change that came over my voice at certain times. And she did not like it. Man's admiration disconcerted her.

“Look here,” I said, adopting a roundabout method so as not to startle her, “your god-father maintains that human beings, some of them more than others, give forth a kind of emanation. Remember that Noel Dorgeroux is first and foremost a chemist and that he sees and feels things from the chemist's point of view. Well, to his mind, this emanation is manifested by the emission of certain corpuscles, of invisible sparks which form a sort of cloud. This is what happens, for instance, in the case of a woman. Her charm surrounds you… ”

My heart was beating so violently as I spoke these words that I had to break off. Still, she did not seem to grasp their meaning; and she said, with a proud little air:

“Your uncle tells me all about his theories. It's true, I don't understand them a bit. However, as regards this one, he has spoken to me of a special ray, which he presupposed to explain that discharge of invisible particles. And he calls this ray after the first letter of my name, the Bray.”

“Well done, Berangere; that makes you the god-mother of a ray, the ray of seductiveness and charm.”

“Not at all,” she cried, impatiently. “It's not a question of seductiveness but of a material incarnation, a fluid which is even able to become visible and to assume a form, like the apparitions produced by the mediums. For instance, the other day… ”

She stopped and hesitated; her face betrayed anxiety; and I had to press her before she continued:

“No, no,” she said, “I oughtn't to speak of that. It's not that your uncle forbade me to. But it has left such a painful impression… .”

“What do you mean, Berangere?”

“I mean, an impression of fear and suffering. I saw, with your uncle, on a wall in the Yard, the most frightful things: images which represented three — sort of eyes. Were they eyes? I don't know. The things moved and looked at us. Oh, I shall never forget it as long as I live.”

“And my uncle?”

“Your uncle was absolutely taken aback. I had to hold him up and bring him round, for he fainted. When he came to himself, the images had vanished.”

“And did he say nothing?”

“He stood silent, gazing at the wall. Then I asked him, 'What is it, god-father?' Presently he answered, 'I don't know, I don't know: it may be the rays of which I spoke to you, the B-rays. If so, it must be a phenomenon of materialization.' That was all he said. Very soon after, he saw me to the door of the garden; and he has shut himself up in the Yard ever since. I did not see him again until just now.”

She ceased. I felt anxious and greatly puzzled by this revelation:

“Then, according to you, Berangere,” I said, “my uncle's discovery is connected with those three figures? They were geometrical figures, weren't they? Triangles?”

She formed a triangle with her two fore-fingers and her two thumbs:

“There, the shape was like that… . As for their arrangement… ”

She picked up a twig that had fallen from a tree and wag beginning to draw lines in the sand of the path when a whistle sounded.

“That's god-father's signal when he wants me in the Yard,” she cried.

“No,” I said, “to-day it's for me. We fixed it.”

“Does he want you?”

“Yea, to tell me about his discovery.”

“Then I'll come too.”

“He doesn't expect you, Berangere.”

“Yes, he does; yes, he does.”

I caught hold of her arm, but she escaped me and ran to the top of the garden, where I came up with her outside a small, massive door in a fence of thick planks which connected a shed and a very high wall.

She opened the door an inch or two. I insisted:

“Don't do it, Berangere! It will only vex him.”

“Do you really think so?” she said, wavering a little.

“I'm positive of it, because he asked me and no one else. Come, Berangere, be sensible.”

She hesitated. I went through and closed the door upon her.

Chapter 2 - THE “TRIANGULAR CIRCLES”

Chapter2 THE “TRIANGULAR CIRCLES”

WHAT was known at Meudon as Noel Dorgeroux's Yard was a piece of waste-land in which the paths were lost amid the withered grass, nettles and stones, amid stacks of empty barrels, scrap-iron, rabbit-hutches and every kind of disused lumber that rusts and rots or tumbles into dust.

Against the walls and outer fences stood the workshops, joined together by driving-belts and shafts, and the laboratories filled with furnaces, pneumatic receivers, innumerable retorts, phials and jars containing the most delicate products of organic chemistry.

The view embraced the loop of the Seine, which lay some three hundred feet below, and the hills of Versailles and Sevres, which formed a wide circle on the horizon towards which a bright autumnal sun was sinking in a pale blue sky.

“Victorien!”

My uncle was beckoning to me from the doorway of the workshop which he used most often. I crossed the Yard.

“Come in,” he said. “We must have a talk first. Only for a little while: just a few words.”

The room was lofty and spacious and one corner of it was reserved for writing and resting, with a desk littered with papers and drawings, a couch and some old, upholstered easy-chairs. My uncle drew one of the chairs up for me. He seemed calmer, but his glance retained an unaccustomed brilliance.

“Yes,” he said, “a few words of explanation beforehand will do no harm, a few words on the past, the wretched past which is that of every inventor who sees fortune slipping away from him. I have pursued it for so long! I have always pursued it. My brain had always seemed to me a vat in which a thousand incoherent ideas were fermenting, all contradicting one another and mutually destructive… . And then there was one that gained strength. And thenceforward I lived for that one only and sacrificed everything for it. It was like a sink that swallowed up all my money and that of others… and their happiness and peace of mind as well. Think of my poor wife, Victorien. You remember how unhappy she was and how anxious about the future of her son, of my poor Dominique! And yet I loved her so devotedly… .”

He stopped at this recollection. And I seemed to see my aunt's face again and to hear her telling my mother of her fears and her forebodings:

“He will ruin us,” she used to say. “He keeps on making me sell out. He considers nothing.”

“She did not trust me,” Noel Dorgeroux continued. “Oh, I had so many disappointments, so many lamentable failures! Do you remember, Victorien, do you remember my experiment on intensive germination by means of electric currents, my experiments with oxygen and all the rest, all the rest, not one of which succeeded? The pluck it called for! But I never lost faith for a minute!… One idea in particular buoyed me up and I came back to it incessantly, as though I were able to penetrate the future. You know to what I refer, Victorien: it appeared and reappeared a score of times under different forms, but the principle remained the same. It was the idea of utilizing the solar heat. It's all there, you know, in the sun, in its action upon us, upon cells, organisms, atoms, upon all the more or less mysterious substances that nature has placed at our disposal. And I attacked the problem from every side. Plants, fertilizers, diseases of men and animals, photographs: for all these I wanted the collaboration of the solar rays, utilized by the aid of special processes which were mine alone, my secret and nobody else's.”

My uncle Dorgeroux was talking with renewed eagerness; and his eyes shone feverishly. He now held forth without interrupting himself:

“I will not deny that there was an element of chance about my discovery. Chance plays its part in everything. There never was a discovery that did not exceed our inventive effort; and I can confess to you, Victorien, that I do not even now understand what has happened. No, I can't explain it by a long way; and I can only just believe it. But, all the same, if I had not sought in that direction, the thing would not have occurred. It was due to me that the incomprehensible miracle took place. The picture is outlined in the very frame which I constructed, on the very canvas which I prepared; and, as you will perceive, Victorien, it is my will that makes the phantom which you are about to see emerge from the darkness.”

He expressed himself in a tone of pride with which was mingled a certain uneasiness, as though he doubted himself and as though his words overstepped the actual limits of truth.

“You're referring to those three — sort of eyes, aren't you?” I asked.

“What's that?” he exclaimed, with a start. “Who told you? Berangere, I suppose! She shouldn't have. That's what we must avoid at all costs: indiscretions. One word too much and I am undone; my discovery is stolen. Only think, the first man that comes along… ”

I had risen from my chair. He pushed me towards his desk:

“Sit down here, Victorien,” he said, “and write. You mustn't mind my taking this precaution. It is essential. You must realize what you are pledging yourself to do if you share in my work. Write, Victorien.”

“What, uncle?”

“A declaration in which you acknowledge that… But I'll dictate it to you. That'll be better.”

I interrupted him:

“Uncle, you distrust me.”

“I don't distrust you, my boy. I fear an imprudence, an indiscretion. And, generally speaking, I have plenty of reasons for being suspicious.”

“What reasons, uncle?”

“Reasons,” he replied, in a more serious voice, “which make me think that I am being spied upon and that somebody is trying to discover what my invention is. Yes, somebody came in here, the other night, and rummaged among my papers.”

“Did they find anything?”

“No. I always carry the most important notes and formulae on me. Still, you can imagine what would happen if they succeeded. So you do admit, don't you, that I am obliged to be cautious? Write down that I hare told you of my investigations and that you have seen what I obtain on the wall in the Yard, at the place covered by a black-serge curtain.”

I took a sheet of paper and a pen. But he stopped me quickly:

“No, no,” he said, “it's absurd. It wouldn't prevent… Besides, you won't talk, I'm sure of that. Forgive me, Victorien. I am so horribly worried!”

“You needn't fear any indiscretion on my part,” I declared. “But I must remind you that Berangere also has seen what there was to see.”

“Oh,” he said, “she wouldn't understand!”

“She wanted to come with me just now.”

“On no account, on no account! She's still a child and not fit to be trusted with a secret of this importance… . Now come along.”

But it so happened that, as we were leaving the workshop, we both of us at the same time Berangere stealing along one of the walls of the Yard and stopping in front of a black curtain, which she suddenly pulled aside.

“Berangere!” shouted my uncle, angrily.

The girl turned round and laughed.

“I won't have it! I will not have it!” cried Noel Dorgeroux, rushing in her direction. “I won't have it, I tell you! Get out, you mischief!”

Berangere ran away, without, however, displaying any great perturbation. She leapt on a stack of bricks, scrambled on to a long plank which formed a bridge between two barrels and began to dance as she was wont to do, with her arms outstretched like a balancing-pole and her bust thrown slightly backwards.

“You'll lose your balance,” I said, while my uncle drew the curtain.

“Never!” she replied, jumping up and down on her spring-board.

She did not lose her balance. But the plank shifted and the pretty dancer came tumbling down among a heap of old packing-cases.

I ran to her assistance and found her lying on the ground, looking very white.

“Have you hurt yourself, Berangere?”

“No… hardly… just my ankle… perhaps I've sprained it.”

I lifted her, almost fainting, in my arms and carried her to a wooden bench a little farther away.

She let me have my way and even put one arm round my neck. Her eyes were closed. Her red lips opened and I inhaled the cool fragrance of her breath.

“Berangere!” I whispered, trembling with emotion.

When I laid her on the bench, her arm held me more tightly, so that I had to bend my head with my face almost touching hers. I meant to draw back. But the temptation was too much for me and I kissed her on the lips, gently at first and then with a brutal violence which brought her to her senses.

She repelled me with an indignant movement and stammered, in a despairing, rebellious tone:

“Oh, it's abominable of you!… It's shameful!”

In spite of the suffering caused by her sprain, she had managed to stand up, while I, stupefied by my thoughtless conduct, stood bowed before her, without daring to raise my head.

We remained for some seconds in this attitude, in an embarrassed silence through which I could catch the hurried rhythm of her breathing. I tried gently to take her hands. But she released them at once and said:

“Let me be. I shall never forgive you, never.”

“Come, Berangere, you will forget that.”

“Leave me alone. I want to go indoors.”

“But you can't, Berangere.”

“Here's god-father. He'll take me back.”

* * * *

My reasons for relating this incident will appear in the sequel. For the moment, notwithstanding the profound commotion produced by the kiss which I had stolen from Berangere, my thoughts were so to speak absorbed by the mysterious drama in which I was about to play a part with my uncle Dorgeroux. I heard my uncle asking Berangere if she was not hurt. I saw her leaning on his arm and, with him, making for the door of the garden. But, while I remained bewildered, trembling, dazed by the adorable image of the girl whom I loved, it was my uncle whom I awaited and whom I was impatient to see returning. The great riddle already held me captive.

“Let's make haste,” cried Noel Dorgeroux, when he came back. “Else it will be too late and we shall have to wait until to-morrow.”

He led the way to the high wall where he had caught Berangere in the act of yielding to her curiosity. This wall, which divided the Yard from the garden and which I had not remarked particularly on my rare visits to the Yard, was now daubed with a motley mixture of colours, like a painter's palette. Red ochre, indigo, purple and saffron were spread over it in thick and uneven layers, which whirled around a more thickly-coated centre. But, at the far end, a wide curtain of black serge, like a photographer's cloth, running on an iron rod supported by brackets, hid a rectangular space some three or four yards in width.

“What's that?” I asked my uncle. “Is this the place?”

“Yes,” he answered, in a husky voice, “it's behind there.”

“There's still time to change your mind,” I suggested.

“What makes you say that?”

“I feel that you are afraid of letting me know. You are so upset.”

“I am upset for a very different reason.”

“Why?”

“Because I too am going to see!”

“But you have done so already.”

“One always sees new things, Victorien; that's the terrifying part of it.”

I took hold of the curtain.

“Don't touch it, don't touch it!” he cried. “No one has the right, except myself. Who knows what would happen if any one except me were to open the closed door! Stand back, Victorien. Take up your position at two paces from the wall, a little to one side… . And now look!”

His voice was vibrant with energy and implacable determination. His expression was that of a man facing death; and, suddenly, with a single movement, he drew the black-serge curtain.

* * * *

My emotion, I am certain, was just as great as Noel Dorgeroux's and my heart beat no less violently. My curiosity had reached its utmost bounds; moreover, I had a formidable intuition that I was about to enter into a region of mystery of which nothing, not even my uncle's disconcerting words, was able to give me the remotest idea. I was experiencing the contagion of what seemed to me in him to be a diseased condition; and I vainly strove to subject it in myself to the control of my reason. I was taking the impossible and the incredible for granted beforehand.

And yet I saw nothing at first; and there was, in fact, nothing. This part of the wall was bare. The only detail worthy of remark was that it was not vertical and that the whole base of the wall had been thickened so as to form a slightly inclined plane which sloped upwards to a height of nine feet. What was the reason for this work, when the wall did not need strengthening?

A coating of dark grey plaster, about half an inch thick, covered the whole panel. When closely examined, however, it was not painted over, but was rather a layer of some substance uniformly spread and showing no trace of a brush. Certain gleams proved that this layer was quite recent, like a varnish newly applied. I observed nothing else; and Heaven knows that I did my utmost to discover any peculiarity!

“Well, uncle?” I asked.

“Wait,” he said, in an agonized voice, “wait!… The first indication is beginning.”

“What indication?”

“In the middle… like a diffused light. Do you see it?”

“Yes, yes, I think I do.”

It was as when a little daylight is striving to mingle with the waning darkness. A lighter disk became marked in the middle of the panel; and this lighter shade spread towards the edges, while remaining more intense at its centre. So far there was no very decided manifestation of anything out of the way; the chemical reaction of a substance lately hidden by the curtain and now exposed to the daylight and the sun was quite enough to explain this sort of inner illumination. Yet something gave one the haunting though perhaps unreasonable impression that an extraordinary phenomenon was about to take place. For that was what I expected, as did my uncle Dorgeroux.

And all at once he, who knew the premonitory symptoms and the course of the phenomenon, started, as though he had received a shock.

At the same moment, the thing happened.

It was sudden, instantaneous. It leapt in a flash from the depths of the wall. Yes, I know, a spectacle cannot flash out of a wall, any more than it can out of a layer of dark-grey substance only half an inch thick. But I am setting down the sensation which I experienced, which is the same that hundreds and hundreds of people experienced afterwards, with a like clearness and a like certainty. It is no use carping at the undeniable fact: the thing shot out of the depths of the ocean of matter and it appeared violently, like the rays of a lighthouse flashing from the very womb of the darkness. After all, when we step towards a mirror, does our image not appear to us from the depth of that horizon suddenly unveiled?

Only, you see, it was not our image, my uncle Dorgeroux's or mine. Nothing was reflected, because there was nothing to reflect and no reflecting screen. What I saw was…

On the panel were three geometrical figures which might equally well have been badly described circles or triangles composed of curved circles. In the centre of these figures was drawn a regular circle, marked in the middle with a blacker point, as the iris is marked by the pupil.”

I am deliberately using the terminology which I employed to describe the images which my uncle had drawn in red chalk on the plaster of my room, for I had no doubt that he was then trying to reproduce those same figures, the appearance of which had already upset him.