The Nyctalope expressed the main idea that the confidences of his unfortunate friend had produced in him:
“Jacques,” he said, “in my opinion, the most astonishing thing of all, based on your silence on the subject and my own observations, is that your younger daughter, Basilie, was not affected by this mysterious sickness, nor were Firmin, whom I saw looked well, or your niece Jeannette, who served us at the table, or your cook Amélie...”
Complete master of himself once more, his face dry of tears, his eyes clear, Jacques d’Hermont replied firmly:
“Yes! That is something lucky, at least! That mysterious epidemic affects only a limited number of people! It hasn’t taken hold of them. Can I confess to you that, like many fathers feel towards their last born, I love Basilie the most? Her aunt and her sister also love her deeply. Our great joy is that she is unharmed. Our greatest fear was that she, so pretty, so beautiful, and so happy to live, with all her magnificent young vitality, might have been taken in turn! We don’t hold it against her, of course! It is only human to remain healthy and strong, while we ourselves, on the contrary, pray to God that...”
“Understood!” said Saint-Clair gently. “But Basilie’s health... your servants’... who all breathe the same air as you you, your late wife, your sister and your elder daughter... who all eat the same food and share the same daily habits... A question arises, inevitably. You realize it, and rejoice and fear, at the same time, but what did Doctor Luvier say? And Professor Render? For the same evidence must have struck them too, just as it did me the first few minutes after my arrival here.”
“Yes, of course!” replied d’Hermont forcefully. “Luvier and Render agreed that the mysterious atavisms, of which we were the victims, did not affect Basilie. It seems that this is normal, that the atavistic process may skip some individuals, sometimes generations even—yes, generations! This must be so, for in the entire history of my family, going back to the Revolution, I have found nothing that compares to this.”
His voice dropped as he continued:
“... and I fear we all shall die from it, just like Lucile.”
“I’m sorry!” said Saint-Clair, “but your wife didn’t share...”
“I know what you’re going to say, my dear friend, but your objection is irrelevant. Lucile was, in fact, my first cousin, the only daughter of my father’s brother. So we would have shared the same atavisms...”
“I see.”
After a gesture to clear the air, Saint-Clair went on with gentleness:
“I must tell you, my dear d’Hermont, that the theory of atavistic transmission by continuous or intermittent effects has never filled me with enthusiasm. It can all too easily be applied explain things that one does not understand. And it does not resolve our problem, which is, right now, how to heal your sister, your eldest daughter and yourself. As you know, I do not like the unknown. Will you allow me to ask you a few questions, which you must answer with absolute sincerity?”
Jacques d’Hermont, very tense but calm, looked at the Nyctalope with an expression of total confidence, and answered firmly:
“Go ahead, question me. And it goes without saying that my answers will be totally truthful.”
“Excellent! After the first manifestations of that mysterious sickness, particularly at the time of its most powerful effects... for example, when your wife passed away, or during the scene of the extraordinary return to Beech Tree, a return that seems dictated by some kind of occult power… yes, what was the attitude, what were the reactions, of Basilie and your servants? Firmin, Jeannette, Amélie?”
What appeared to be a genuine and sincere expression of astonishment illuminated the Comte’s face. After a moment, not hesitating but reflecting, he replied:
“My goodness! I never asked myself that question. And I don’t think that Laure or Madeleine have asked it either... As far as I can remember, Basilie’s attitude and reactions... and that of our servants... were what they quite naturally should be... What they are when circumstances produce an accident created by an inexplicable evil... Eagerness to take care of us, compassionate pity, fear even, before the mystery and suffering… Anger and instinctive disregard for the impotence of medicine... Yes, all this was in plain view. Naturally, life for them at home retains its normalcy, and they go on with their day in continued good health.”
“Very good,” said Saint-Clair. “Another question. What made you call me? More precisely, did you make that call after thinking about it for some time? Or did a sudden event inspire you to do it all at once?”
Once again, the mobile face of Comte d’Hermont expressed a sudden, violent emotion. To Saint-Clair’s attentive eyes, he seemed more irritated this time than pained.
“An abrupt event, indeed! Yesterday, I wrote to you. I knew from the newspapers that you had returned to Paris from Corsica. I remembered our friendship and your oath. I did not doubt for a second that you would come without delay. Thank you, my dear friend, for not having disappointed me. As for the event which inspired and decided me, it is one more mystery...”
Jacques d’Hermont concentrated, as if to relate the thing in the clearest way, in the fewest words possible. Then, in a resolute and rapid voice, he began. But his gaze was blurred as if he were hallucinating, as he looked into the calm and steady eyes of the Nyctalope:
“It happened two nights ago—the night of Sunday 18th to Monday 19th—a soft, dark night without moon or stars. This detail has its importance, as darkness is one of the elements of the mystery. I knew that the night was dark because, since the War, I haven’t been able to get used to sleeping in a closed room, so my window always remains half-opened at night, even in the deepest cold of winter.
“I could not sleep. Lying on my right side, eyes wide open, sweating and shivering from a rising fever, I saw through the half-opened window the night outside, darker than my room where only the tiny flame of an oil lamp burned in a corner under a pot of tisane. It often happens that my mouth and throat become dry to the point of being painful, and then a sip of the warm infusion...”
He stopped, little haggard, as if the thread of his thoughts had just broken.
“You were not sleeping and you had your eyes open,” encouraged the Nyctalope softly. “And then?”
Jacques d’Hermont shrugged, and, once again lucid and clear-minded, he continued:
“Suddenly, I heard a noise—not that noises are unusual in the silence of the night, in a house full of old furniture and antique woodwork like Beech Grove. No, it as an an abnormal noise... I listened to it for a few minutes before I realized what it might be. I can’t define it any better than by saying it was a sort of continuous whirring mingled with moaning. This came from the lawn that the window of my bedroom opens onto, as do all the windows in the main rooms and the large hallway on that floor.
“Having more or less determined the nature of the unusual noise and approximately located it, I stood still for a few minutes, listening, hesitating... But as the groans became stronger, even seeming to double in intensity, that is to say becoming different, sometimes together, sometimes alternating, I jumped out of bed. My suddenly galvanized nerves gave vigor back to my body, and after putting on a warm dressing gown over my pajamas, tied with a rope belt, I went to the window and opened it completely...
“I saw nothing. But now, I could situate the whirring and moaning better: the first occurred far away in the valley, and I thought that it was the windmill of the Nais turning. In the middle of the night! I thought. That miller is truly horrible. As for the moans, evidently human, they were uttered by two persons whom the dovetower in the north hid from my sight...”
Jacques d’Hermont stopped. Telling this story, he had become calmer, his eyes less crazed, as if he felt tranquility or a euphoria of hope in the presence of Saint-Clair, who listened and did not doubt his reason or veracity.
He breathed deeply, and without effort resumed:
“You may have noticed that the lawn in front of the castle is
heart-shaped, its tip dividing the entry road in two, the rounded sides containing the two dovetowers. The human beings moaning were on the lawn at its extreme north edge, behind the northern dovetower. Quickly, I put on my leather slippers and left my room. I did not carry any weapon. My old unloaded Parabellum must have been in some drawer of my study. This part of the countryside is far from any main road and perfectly calm; its inhabitants are all from there, and they are the most honest and peaceful in the world…”
Saint-Clair cut in:
“Then why did you tell me to bring my rifle and buckshot?”
“I’m going to tell you! I went downstairs, lighting my way with a small electric flashlight, which I always keep on one of the bedside tables in case the night lamp goes out before dawn. Now, to my great surprise, I found the gate that led to the porch wide open, even though it’s almost never open. I thought: Who’s gone out? But all at once I had the intuition that it was my sister Laure and my daughter Madeleine... But why? Such a thing had never happened before. Or at least I had never had the smallest clue, or slightest suspicion…
“These reflections tormented my spirit as my legs, extraordinarily strong and agile, carried my body. I ran. I followed the curve of the road that goes around the castle, and passed the bulge of the enormous old tower. Then I stopped short, nailed to the ground. I had to cry out, or at least make an effort. For what I saw... Oh! Saint-Clair, believe me! It was not a hallucination! Besides, Laure and Madeleine, when you question them, will tell you the same thing, exactly...”
He paused, panting, a pitiful supplication in his eyes. Saint-Clair clasped his hands and said with penetrating force:
“I believe you, my dear friend, do. What did you see?”
“Ah,” exclaimed Jacques d’Hermont. “That is difficult to express, to define... The idea I have is that of an aurora borealis... I hope you understand. Yes, a kind of aurora borealis, but right there, before me, on the lawn, not in the sky... An aurora borealis in nimbus... Wrapped around two completely still human forms, standing side by side on a broad pedestal that had once supported a statue, but that had been empty since a lightning bolt had shattered it into a hundred pieces... Yes, on that pedestal, inside a great nimbus of light, stood two pale human forms... and it was from there that the moans came from... Oh! I can still hear them! They were moans of pain mixed with ecstasy, suffering mingling with voluptuousness! But I did not remain still and nailed to the ground for long, for I was aware that a force was attracting me toward the luminous nimbus, toward the two moaning forms which—I was now certain—were those of Laure and Madeleine...
“I remember very well how I ran... But, when I was no more than two or three steps away from the stone pedestal, the nimbus was extinguished. It disappeared. It vanished. Despite the sudden, opaque night, I could still make out the two human forms. From them a double cry broke out and I saw them grasping one another, hugging, staggering, collapsing... I advanced. I opened my arms. I received them heavily on my chest and fell beneath them. But then, with as much skill as was in my power, I disengaged from them. I got down on my knees and, with my still-lit electric lamp, which I’d kept mechanically in my clenched hand, I illuminated the faces of Laure and Madeleine. They looked as if they were dead, their faces more emaciated than ever, their eyes closed. But their lips were frozen in a smile... a smile of unspeakable happiness!”
He went silent, and closed his eyes.
Looking at this man, whom he had known as one of the most balanced officers in the French army, Saint-Clair did not have the slightest doubt: Jacques d’Hermont was not mad. He had not dreamed the events of that night; what he had just told him was the living truth, which he had heard with his ears and seen with his eyes.
Given the exhaustion of one and the meditative observance of the other, the two men’s silence lasted for several minutes.
At last, Saint-Clair said:
“Did they remain passed out for a long time?”
“A little above an hour,” replied d’Hermont.
“But you took them to the castle right away?”
“Yes! One after the other, of course. Each one to her bed. They had gone out from their rooms, from the house, without putting on any clothes over their night dresses. They were frozen. I was strong, agile, lucid, although in a state of intense fever. I did not call either Amélie or Jeannette. I took care of my sister and daughter alone. Fortunately, the heater was working at its full. I quickly filled two hot water bottles and prepared a grog, using powerful English salts. Once revived, Laure and Madeleine passed instantly from their fainting state into normal sleep.
“In the morning, when they were awake, I called them to my room and told them what had happened, I questioned them and they remembered everything—yes, everything! It was summed up first by each one separately, then by the two of them together: they had woken up with the irresistible desire to go out, and had jumped out of bed. They had met each other in the hallway, and from there, taking each other by the hand, they had gone running onto the lawn toward the pedestal, above which they could see a beautiful halo of light twinkling and palpitating!
“Then they were seized with an exultation at once painful and pleasurable which had kept them there. This sort of conscious ecstasy had stopped abruptly once the inexplicable light had gone. They had felt themselves bathed in ecstasy, having the sensation of being penetrated and impregnated. The abrupt cessation of such a state had given them a kind of brutal trauma, which had thrown them into unconsciousness. There it is, my dear friend.”
D’Hermont gave a heavy sigh. Saint-Clair murmured, as if to himself:
“This is one of the strangest things I have even heard in my life—which has been so full of strange things.”
In another tone, he said:
“What happened afterward, Jacques?”
“That’s when I thought of you and wrote to you. Oddly, after this extraordinary nocturnal episode, my sister, my elder daughter and myself felt less exhausted, and were given a return of vitality and hope, which undoubtedly contributed to the letter I sent you. Saint-Clair, you are our only recourse! What we face is beyond the natural order of things, and I know that you see clearly not only through tangible darkness, but also through... How can I put it…?”
“The occult?” suggested Saint-Clear.
“Yes,” exclaimed Jacques d’Hermont, illuminated. “For it is from within the occult that the phenomena from which we suffer, from which my wife has died, from which we ourselves are in danger of dying, originates! Yes, in danger of dying, and soon! Because…”
He stopped, panting again.
“Because?” asked Saint-Clair, calmly.
“There is something else...”
“What is it?”
“I found out just this morning, after such an extraordinary night, that, for the first time in months, Laure, Madeleine and I have slept normally! It was just because of this beneficent, restful sleep that Laure and Madeleine were able to accompany Basilie to the church of Saint-Christophe, to attend the yearly service of a friend...”
“Is there anything else?” asked Saint-Clair.
“Yes. This morning, Laure and Madeleine told me a secret. They betrayed an oath that my wife Lucile had demanded of them when she was bedridden. They thought this oath no longer held, and that I should know everything.”
“Well?”
“A few nights before the bed rest from which she would go to her tomb, Lucile had a night of painful and voluptuous ecstasy on the pedestal, trapped in the same luminous nimbus!. After that, she enjoyed a few days of the same vital renewal that Laure and Madeleine presently enjoy. And then, the relapse was brutal, complete, definitive... My dear Saint-Clair, if I hadn’t written to you yesterday, after that inexplicable night, I would surely have written to you this morning after that revelation. Do you understand what this means? If your intervention is ineffective, in a few days, my sister and my elder daughter will take to bed the same way that my wife did, and soon af
ter… death!”
“Enough moping!” said the Nyctalope, almost violently. “Courage and calm, Captain d’Hermont! Do not fall again into despair. Listen to me, look at me! I do not know if I will be able to discover the cause of the abominable attack, but I am going to do everything in my power to find out the truth and to battle on behalf of you and your family—and win! Have you told me everything? Do I need to know anything else?”
“Thank you! Thank you!” answered d’Hermont, seized by enthusiasm.
“Do I know everything that Laure and Madeleine know told you
“Yes! I am sure of it.”
“I must insist! Did they hide anything from you?”
“No! They swore they told me everything, and know nothing else... Besides, you will speak to them and...”
“Today! Let’s go, Jacques, let’s move!”
Saint-Clair was already standing. His friend rose. They walked with a quick step, elbow to elbow, on their way down into the valley. Thinking, Saint-Clair contemplated the landscape, infinitely pleasant and sweet on that serene afternoon with so little winter in it. Suddenly, he said:
“Jacques, do you have any errand to run in the village or around there?”
Surprised, the chatelain hesitated, but then he said:
“No, not exactly. But I could go and talk to one of my farmers, who told me yesterday that some repairs were necessary in his stables. Why?”
“Because I would like to talk right away to Doctor Luvier, your physician and friend. And I would like to do so alone. Perhaps he will say some things to me alone that he would not tell you, even if they are only vague thoughts, hypotheses...”
“Yes, indeed...”
“Will I find him at home?” asked Saint-Clair.
“Today? Let’s see, what is day are we?”
“Tuesday.”
“Ah, yes! Precisely on Tuesday afternoons, Luvier stays home to give consultations.”
“Good. Point me toward his house. Can you walk a little faster?”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 3
