_Théophraste Remembers Himself_
|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 Cœur, 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.