I made my way as fast as I could back to Grey. The fÊte was in full swing, and the crowd of merry-makers received me with impertinent remarks and jokes.

Five by the station clock! I profited by the time at my disposal to arrange things a little, so that my uncle might the more easily fall into the snare which he had spread with his own hands when he set me the task of repairing part of the machine of which I had a duplicate.

Having put on my blue overalls, dirtied my hands and face, taken out my tool-box, and turned everything in it upside down, I slightly dented the new carburetor, with light taps of a hammer, and dirtied it with blacklead. With a few scrapes of a file I succeeded in giving it the sort of rough look of a newly forged piece of metal.

The train came in. When Lerne touched my shoulder, I was endeavoring, with a great show of effort to screw up a nut which was already perfectly tight.“Nicolas!”

I turned towards my uncle a face like a coal-heaver’s, putting on as harsh an expression as I could.

“I have just finished,” I muttered; “that was a nice trick of yours, getting people to work all for nothing.”

“Does it work all right again?”

“Oh, yes! I have just tried. You can see the engine is smoking.”

“Do you want the bits I carried away put back into the carburetor?”

“Oh, no! keep them as a remembrance of this happy day, uncle. Come, let us get in, I have had enough of standing about here.”

FrÉdÉric Lerne was annoyed.

“You do not mind, Nicolas, do you?”

“Oh no, uncle, I do not mind.”

“I have my reasons, you know. Later on....”

“All right, if you knew me, however, you would not have been so much on your guard, but our agreement justifies all you did. I should have had no right to complain.”

He made a vague, evasive gesture.

“You are not angry, that is the main point. You understand how things are, don’t you?”

Evidently Lerne was afraid he had vexed me, and that, as a result of my annoyance, I might disclose the existence of important secrets at Fonval, even though I might not be able to inform the right people of their nature.

Weighing all the facts of the case, I felt that my presence as a stranger, free to depart when I liked, must have been a subject for constant alarm for my uncle. It seemed to me that in his place, had I been obliged to receive a third party because of his relationship with me, I should assuredly have preferred to make him my accomplice as soon as possible, so as to insure his discretion.

“After all,” thought I to myself, “why has my uncle not thought of it? Before the uncertain, and perhaps illusory date when Lerne is to initiate me, he will have to pass through a long period of torment while he exercises over me the double vigilance of an analyst and a police-officer.

“Suppose I were to anticipate his project? He would doubtless gladly hasten to give the information which is as sacred as a secret of the confessional, and which would unite the master and the pupil in the same plot.

“I do not see why he should take my advances badly, for in either of the two possible eventualities, that is, whether Lerne’s promises to initiate me into his enterprise are made in good faith or not, the situation to-day has only two issues—either my departure, with its threat of revelation, or my connivance.

“Now, Emma and the mystery tie me to the chÂteau, so I shall not go; there remains, therefore, a pretended complicity which would, moreover, have the advantage of allowing me to solve the puzzle—and who except Lerne could reveal it to my eyes, since Emma knows nothing about it, and since each solved problem, if I investigated it by myself, would only leave another one to follow?

“A sage diplomacy might certainly persuade my uncle to make speedy revelations; that is what he wants to do, but how to bring him to do it?

“What I must do is to insinuate that his secrets, however criminal they may be, do not terrify me, so that I shall have to pose as a man of resolution, who does not shrink from contact with crimes, and would not think of denouncing them, because, if need were, he would commit them himself. Yes, that’s it!

“But how to hit on a crime which Lerne might perpetrate, and which I might say is natural and harmless, and one which I would commit on the first occasion myself?

“Good heavens, Nicolas! Yes, his own wicked deeds! Tell him that you know one of the worst things he has done, and that you not only approve of it, but of others of the same sort, and that you are ready to help him in the matter. Then, after such a declaration, he will unbosom himself, and you will learn everything, with the intention of using this confidence, dictated by mere self-interest for your own ends. But let me be cunning. I shall only speak to my uncle when he is in a pleasant humor, and provided the evidence of the old shoe is not too damning.”

So I reasoned, as I took Lerne back to Fonval, but after my stormy afternoon, my ideas were not very brilliant.

Under the influence of my environment, I brooded over Lerne’s unproven crimes and I imagined them to be detestable and innumerable. I forgot that his work, carried on with such secrecy, and secure from risk of imitation, might well have an industrial aim. In my impatience to satisfy my curiosity and by reason of my exhaustion, this strategy seemed to me a brilliant idea.

I underrated the enormity of the fictitious avowal I should have to make before getting anything in exchange.

Further reflection would have indicated the danger to me, but adverse fortune would have it that my uncle, satisfied by my answer, and seeing me take things so well, affected the most surprising joviality. Never would an opportunity more suitable to my designs present itself, so I thoughtlessly seized it.

According to his custom, my uncle waxed enthusiastic over the car, and made me maneuver as I went through the labyrinth, and it was while twisting and turning about that I had been deliberating in the manner described.

“Marvelous, Nicolas, I tell you again, it is prodigious, this automobile! An animal—a real organized animal, and perhaps the least imperfect of all, and who knows to what pitch progress may lift it! A spark of life in it! A little more spontaneity! A touch of brain, and behold the most beautiful creature in the world! Yes, more beautiful than we are, perhaps, for remember what I told you—it is perfectible, and undying—two qualities of which the physical being of man is pitifully devoid.

“Our whole body renews itself almost entirely, Nicolas. Your hair!” (Why the devil was he always talking of hair?) Your hair is not the same as it was last year, for example. It comes up again, less brown, and older, and in smaller numbers, whereas the automobile changes its parts at will, and get young again each time, with a new heart, and new brains which have more cunning than the original parts.

“So that in a thousand years a motor-car, which never ceases to improve, will be as young as it is to-day, if it has been put to rights at the proper time, bit by bit.

“And do not tell me that it will not be the same car, since all its parts shall have been replaced. If you made that objection, Nicolas, what would you think about man, who, during this race to death, that he calls life, is submitting to just as ridiculous transformations, but all in the nature of decay.

“So that we must come to this strange conclusion—the man who dies old, is no longer he who was born. He who has just been born, and must succumb later on, will not die, at least, he will not die all at once, but progressively, scattered to the four winds of heaven in organic dust, during which long phase another being forms itself slowly in that place which is the place of the body.

“This other one, whose birth is imperceptible, develops in each one of us, without our knowledge, as the first one crumbles away. It supplants this latter day by day, and it is modified continually by the death and renewal of myriads of cells, of which he is himself the sum total. He it is who will be seen to die.

“I tell you, Nicolas, if the motor-car were by some miracle to become independent, man might pack his trunks. His era would be near its end. Compared with him, the motor-car would be queen of the world, as before him reigned the mammoth.”

“Yes, but this sovereign queen would always be dependent upon the mind of man.”

“That is a fine argument. Are we not the slaves of the animals, and even the plants which unceasingly rebuild our bodies with their flesh and their pulp?”

My uncle was so pleased with his paradoxes, that he shouted them out, and fidgeted about in his seat, and sawed the air in a frenzy, as if he were seizing ideas in armfuls.

“My dear nephew, what a splendid idea it was of yours to bring this car! It does buck me up wonderfully. I must learn how to drive the beast. I shall be the mahout of this fierce mammoth. Eh! Eh! Ah! Ha!”

At the moment of this outburst of hilarity, I was just finishing my reasoning, and it was the outburst which caused me to make my attack—and to commit my imprudence.

“How amusing you are, uncle! Your gayety cheers me up. I recognize you again. Why aren’t you always like this, and why do you distrust me—me, who, on the contrary—deserve all your confidence?”

“But,” said Lerne, “you know quite well I will give it to you when the time has come. I have quite decided on that.”

“Why not at once, uncle?”

And I plunged bald-headed into my folly. “Are we not made of the same stuff, you and I? You don’t know me! Nothing can astonish me, and I know more than you think! Yes, uncle, I share your opinions and admire your acts.”

Lerne, somewhat surprised, began to laugh.

“What do you know about it?”

“What I know is that one cannot trust to the law. One has to look after one’s own affairs. If some one happens to cross your path, the best way is to get rid of him yourself, and such a removal, if it is illegal, becomes legitimate. A chance incident has confirmed me in this.

“In short, uncle, if my name were FrÉdÉric Lerne, Mr. Macbeth would not be living so comfortably. You do not know me, I tell you.”

By the Professor’s voice, when next he spoke, I perceived I had committed a blunder. He defended himself in a voice which, I observed, betrayed great weariness.

“Hallo!” said he, “this is something new. What an idea! Are you really as unprincipled as you make out? Well, so much the worse. As for me, I am not tarred with that brush, nephew. Macbeth is mad, but I had nothing to do with it. It is a pity you saw him. It is an ugly sight. The poor creature! I had to put him away. What nonsense, Nicolas! What are you going to invent next? It is a good thing, however, you have spoken to me about it. It has opened my eyes. Appearances are indeed against me. I was awaiting till the patient got better, before telling his people what had happened, so that they might be less affected by a misfortune whose signs were less obvious; but no, this timorous policy is too dangerous. My own safety requires that at the risk of hurting their feelings more, I must inform them. I shall write to them no later than to-night to come and fetch him. Poor Donovan! His departure will, I hope, disprove your suspicion, but you have disappointed me very much, Nicolas.”

I was greatly confused. Had I made a mistake, or had Emma lied to me? Or else, did Lerne want to lull my suspicions? However, it was, I had committed a great piece of stupidity, and Lerne, whether innocent or criminal, would bear me a grudge for having accused him falsely or otherwise.

I was defeated. All I had gained was a fresh doubt—this time in regard to Emma.

“In any case, uncle, I swear to you that it was only by chance that I discovered Macbeth.”

“If chance leads you to discover other reasons for maligning me,” replied Lerne harshly, “do not fail to inform me of it. I shall clear myself immediately. Anyhow, the strict observance of your word will prevent you from helping any chance which should favor your meeting with madmen ... or madwomen!”

We had arrived at Fonval.“Nicolas,” said Lerne, in a gentler tone, “I have a great liking for you. I wish you well. Obey me, my lad.”

“Ah, he wants to soft-sawder me,” I thought to myself. “He is paying court to me now. Look out!”

“Obey me,” he went on, with honeyed sweetness, “and show by your reserve that you are already my ally; intelligent as you are, you must surely understand this fine point. The day is not far off, unless I am mistaken, when I shall be able to tell you about everything. You shall then see the magnificent things that I have dreamt of, and of which I destine a share for you.”

“Meanwhile, since you know about Macbeth’s absence—come, here is a sign of the good faith I ask of you. Come with me and visit him. We shall decide if he is strong enough to stand a railway journey, and the crossing.”

After a short hesitation I followed him into the yellow drawing-room.

The madman at the sight of him humped his back, and growling recoiled into a corner with a look of terror and a revengeful gleam in his eye.

Lerne thrust me in before him—I was afraid he meant to shut me in.

“Take hold of his hands and bring him into the middle of the room.”Donovan allowed me to touch him. The Doctor examined him thoroughly, but obviously the scar attracted his greatest attention. In my opinion, the rest of the inspection was merely a sham for my benefit.

The scar—it was an incised crown that almost disappeared under the long hair; a wound that went round the back of the head. What possible fall could have caused it?

“His health is excellent,” said my uncle. “You see, Nicolas, he was violent at first, and hurt himself badly all over. In a fortnight, it will all have disappeared. He can be taken away. The consultation is at an end. So you advise me to get rid of him as soon as possible, Nicolas? Tell me your opinion, I attach value to it.”

I congratulated him on his resolution, although so much kindliness kept me on the alert.

Lerne gave a sigh. “You are right! The world is so evil-minded. I am going to write immediately. Will you take my letter to the post at Grey? It will be ready in ten minutes.”

My nerves relaxed. I had asked myself as I came into the chÂteau if I should ever come out again, and sometimes, even now the demon of unhealthy dreams shows me the madman’s room as a dungeon.

The old rascal was really showing himself paternal and benevolent; though he could dispose of my liberty and imprison me, he sent me for a run in the fields, which might have ended in a flight.

Was a freedom, granted so readily, worth profiting by? I wasn’t such a fool! I would not make use of it.

Whilst Lerne was writing his letter to the Macbeths, I went for a stroll in the park, and I there witnessed an incident which made the strangest possible impression upon me.

As has been seen, fortune made ceaseless sport of me. She jerked me like a marionette—first towards calm, and then towards trouble. This time she used a trivial cause to upset my mind. Had I been feeling more at ease, I should not have interpreted what was perhaps only a freak of nature, as so great a mystery, but marvels were in the air. I felt them everywhere, and this phrase was always sounding in my ears:

“Since the night of my arrival, there were certain things outside which should not have been there.”

Those that I saw in the park that day—and which I insist would not have astounded any ordinary person as they did me—seemed to me to fill up a gap in my evidence with regard to the Lerne question.

It brought that study, so to speak, to a close. It was very indistinct. I caught a glimpse of a solution of all the problems—an abominable one—but my ideas were not precise enough to express it to myself. For the space of a second, however, they were of unimaginable violence, and if I shrugged my shoulders after the little scene which inspired them, I must admit that they caused me agony. This is what it was: Intending to spend my ten minutes in having a look at the old shoe, I was going down an avenue where the evening dew was already moistening the high grass. The night was beginning to fill the underwood. One heard the chirping of sparrows growing less and less frequent. I think it was about half-past six. The bull bellowed. As I rounded the paddock I could only count four animals there—PasiphaË was no longer walking about there in the half-mourning of her pied robe, but that is a matter of no interest.

I was walking slowly on, when a tornado of whistling, mingled with little cries—a mass of shrill squeakings, if I may so say, made me pause.

The grass was stirring. I approached noiselessly, stretching out my neck.

A duel was going on there: one of those countless combats which make each cart-rut an abyss of death, in order that one of the combatants may feed on the other.

It was a little bird and a serpent.The serpent was a rather imposing viper, whose triangular head was marked with a white stigma of the same shape.

The bird looked like a black-headed wren, with this essential difference, however, that its head was white. A variety, doubtless, from the aviary, which I should be able to describe less awkwardly if I were better versed in natural history.

The two combatants were face to face—one approaching the other.

Imagine my bewilderment! It was the wren which was forcing the serpent to recoil! It advanced in little quick jumps, without a quiver of its wings, and as if hypnotizing its enemy. Its fixed eye had the magnetic gleam of a dog’s when it points, and the helpless viper was recoiling before it, fascinated by its implacable looks, whilst terror was wringing half-suppressed whistlings from its throat.

“Deuce take it,” I said to myself, “is the world upside down, or is my mind topsy-turvy?”

I then made the mistake of drawing too near the scene in order to witness its denouement, and this made a change. The wren saw me and flew away, and its enemy gliding off into the grass left the trace of its passage there in zigzags.

Already the ridiculous and exaggerated anguish which had frozen me was dissipated. I took myself severely to task. “I must be half blind! It is merely an example of maternal love—nothing else. The heroic little bird is merely defending its nest. One does not realize the love of mothers. What a fool I have been!”

“Hallo! Hallo!” My uncle was hailing me. I retraced my steps, but this incident haunted my mind. In spite of my assurance that there was nothing extraordinary in it, I did not speak about it to Lerne.

The Professor looked cheerful. He wore the smiling expression of a man who had just taken a great resolution, and is much pleased at it. He was standing before the principal door of the chÂteau, the letter in his hand, and looking at the boot-scraper with interest.

My presence not having interrupted his fit of absent-mindedness, I thought it would be enlightening to look at the scraper, too. It was a sharp blade, mortized into the wall, and generous use by many soles had curved it into the shape of a sickle.

I presume that Lerne, in his meditation, was looking at that knife without seeing it. Indeed, he seemed suddenly to wake up.

“Here, Nicolas, here is the letter! Pardon the trouble I am giving you.”

“Oh, uncle, I am used to it! Chauffeurs are messengers despite themselves. Presuming on the pleasure which rolling along without any aim is supposed to give them, many a lady asks them to roll along for something, and to cart away many lots of very urgent and heavy parcels. Our sport is taxed that way.”

“Ah, ha!” says uncle, “you are a good fellow. Off with you, the night is falling!”

I took the sad letter which was to announce Donovan’s madness to his parents in Scotland—the blessed letter which was going to send Emma’s lover from her.

George Macbeth Esq.,
12, Trafalgar Street,
Glasgow,
(Ecosse).

The writing of the address gave me food for thought.

Only a few vestiges of the former flowing script made it resemble Lerne’s handwriting, but most of the letters and the general appearance, denoted a “graphic spirit” the exact opposite of that of long ago. Graphology is never at fault. Its decrees are infallible. The writer of this address had changed altogether.

In his youth, my uncle had given proof of every virtue. What vices were now not his, and how he must hate me, he who had loved me so much!