"No; there are five. Look again!" and there were five; and the whole
house was exactly, down to its minutest detail, as it had been once
upon a time. I could see Therese through one of the windows, making my
bed.
"That's better," said the duchess; "you will soon do it--it's very
easy--_ce n'est que le premier pas_! My father taught me; you must
always sleep on your back with your arms above your head, your hands
clasped under it and your feet crossed, the right one over the left,
unless you are left-handed; and you must never for a moment cease
thinking of where you want to be in your dream till you are asleep and
get there; and you must never forget in your dream where and what you
were when awake. You must join the dream on to reality. Don't forget.
And now I will say good-by; but before I go, give me both your hands,
and look round everywhere as far as your eye can see."
It was hard to look away from her; her face drew my eyes, and through
them all my heart; but I did as she told me, and took in the whole
familiar scene, even to the distant woods of Ville d'Avray, a glimpse
of which was visible through an opening in the trees; even to the
smoke of a train making its way to Versailles, miles off; and the old
telegraph, working its black arms on the top of Mont Valerien.
"Is it all right?" she asked. "That's well. Henceforward, whenever you
come here, you will be safe as far as your sight can reach,--from this
spot,--all through my introduction. See what it is to have a friend at
court! No more little dancing jailers! And then you can gradually get
farther by yourself.
"Out there, through that park, leads to the Bois de Boulogne--there's
a gap in the hedge you can get through; but mind and make everything
plain in front of you--_true_, before you go a step farther, or else
you'll have to wake and begin it all over again. You have only to will
it, and think yourself as awake, and it will come--on condition, of
course, that you have been there before. And mind, also, you must take
care how you touch things or people--you may hear, see, and smell; but
you mustn't touch, nor pick flowers or leaves, nor move things about.
It blurs the dream, like breathing on a window-pane. I don't know why,
but it does. You must remember that everything here is dead and gone
by. With you and me it is different; we're alive and real--that is,
_I_ am; and there would seem to be no mistake about your being real
too, Mr. Ibbetson, by the grasp of your hands. But you're _not_; and
why you are here, and what business you have in this my particular
dream, I cannot understand; no living person has ever come into it
before. I can't make it out. I suppose it's because I saw your reality
this afternoon, looking out of the window at the Tete Noire, and you
are just a stray figment of my over-tired brain--a very agreeable
figment, I admit; but you don't exist here just now--you can't
possibly; you are somewhere else, Mr. Ibbetson; dancing at Mabille,
perhaps, or fast asleep somewhere, and dreaming of French churches and
palaces, and public fountains, like a good young British
architect--otherwise I shouldn't talk to you like this, you may be
sure!
"Never mind. I am very glad to dream that I have been of use to you,
and you are very welcome here, if it amuses you to come--especially as
you are only a false dream of mine, for what else _can_ you be? And
now I must leave you: so good-by."
She disengaged her hands and laughed her angelic laugh, and then
turned towards the park. I watched her tall straight figure and
blowing skirts, and saw her follow some ladies and children into a
thicket that I remembered well, and she was soon out of sight.
I felt as if all warmth had gone out of my life; as if a joy had taken
flight; as if a precious something had withdrawn itself from my
possession, and the gap in my periphery had closed again.
Long I stood in thought, with my eyes fixed on the spot where she had
disappeared; and I felt inclined to follow, but then considered this
would not have been discreet. For although she was only a false dream
of mine, a mere recollection of the exciting and eventful day, a stray
figment of my over-tired and excited brain--a _more_ than agreeable
figment (what else _could_ she be!)--she was also a great lady, and
had treated me, a perfect stranger and a perfect nobody, with singular
courtesy and kindness; which I repaid, it is true, with a love so deep
and strong that my very life was hers to do what she liked with, and
always had been since I first saw her, and always would be as long as
there was breath in my body! But this did not constitute an
acquaintance without a proper introduction, even in France--even in a
dream. Even in dreams one must be polite, even to stray figments of
one's tired, sleeping brain.
And then what business had _she_ in _this_, _my_ particular dream--as
she herself had asked of me?
But _was_ it a dream? I remembered my lodgings at Pentonville, that I
had left yesterday morning. I remembered what I was--why I came to
Paris; I remembered the very bedroom at the Paris hotel where I was
now fast asleep, its loudly ticking clock, and all the meagre
furniture. And here was I, broad awake and conscious in the middle of
an old avenue that had long ceased to exist--that had been built over
by a huge brick edifice covered with newly painted trellis-work. I saw
it,--this edifice,--myself, only twelve hours ago. And yet here was
everything as it had been when I was a child; and all through the
agency of this solid phantom of a lovely young English duchess, whose
warm gloved hands I had only this minute been holding in mine! The
scent of her gloves was still in my palm. I looked at my watch; it
marked twenty-three minutes to twelve. All this had happened in less
than three-quarters of an hour!
Pondering over all this in hopeless bewilderment, I turned my steps
towards my old home, and to my surprise, was just able to look over
the garden wall, which I had once thought about ten feet high.
Under the old apple-tree in full bloom sat my mother, darning small
socks; with her flaxen side-curls (as it was her fashion to wear them)
half concealing her face. My emotion and astonishment were immense. My
heart beat fast. I felt its pulse in my temples, and my breath was
short.
At a little green table that I remembered well sat a small boy, rather
quaintly dressed in a bygone fashion, with a frill round his wide
shirt collar, and his golden hair cut quite close at the top, and
rather long at the sides and back. It was Gogo Pasquier. He seemed a
very nice little boy. He had pen and ink and copy-book before him, and
a gilt-edged volume bound in red morocco. I knew it at a glance; it
was 'Elegant Extracts.' The dog Medor lay asleep in the shade. The
bees were droning among the nasturtiums and convolvulus.
A little girl ran up the avenue from the porter's lodge and pushed the
garden gate, which rang the bell as it opened, and she went into the
garden, and I followed her; but she took no notice of me, nor did the
others. It was Mimsey Seraskier.