The anteroom that now came into view was a spacious one, dimly lighted
by two candles. I could make out a series of frescos on the four walls
above the paneling, which was of some dark almost black wood, oak or
walnut, I should say. Except for the heads of two stags with antlers,
there were no ornamental furnishings. The doors, in some ancient style,
were so fashioned as to blend, when closed, with the sheathing.
But one detail I did see with absolute distinctness the moment I
crossed the threshold. Standing in front of me, with his left hand
still on the latch which it had just opened, was an old man so like
in every particular to my guide that I turned, despite myself, to be
sure it was really a case of two different individuals and not of one
with an image reflected in a mirror. They had the same long, wide,
flowing snow-white beards; the same serious, motionless, mysterious
eyes. Yes, I turned and stared. Such complete identity was beyond
belief. But yet, they were really two men,--father and son,--the son
bowing with deference to the father. In fact, this demeanor on the part
of the person who had come through the heath with me was the means,
henceforth, by which I managed to distinguish the younger from the
older man; though both, to the eye, seemed equally full of years, not
to say centuries, ages; both equally robust, withal, equally erect of
carriage, equally muscular with the litheness of youth.
I had stopped instinctively, eventually mustering presence of mind
enough to bow deeply to mine host, a greeting which he returned
politely but without pronouncing a word. His eyes, meanwhile, were
surveying me with the most searching fixity. After a time they turned
for the fraction of a second upon my escort, and I understood that they
carried a question, imperiously.
“I took upon myself, Sir, the responsibility of bringing this gentleman
here. I found him lying out in the rain in the hapless state you see
him in. He had gone astray among the boulders at the outer end of the
labyrinth.”
These sentences were uttered in a half-whisper, as though the speaker
were afraid of disturbing a household at slumber.
The father did not answer for a space of time which I found a markedly
long one. Then he said:
“Your conduct was quite proper, I believe, Sir.”
And he too spoke in a half-whisper.
These “Sirs” between father and son astonished me with their savor of
antique formality; and I was impelled thereby to glance at the costume
of this hoary gentleman who was thus addressing his offspring with the
ceremonious formulas of bygone feudal days. Nothing in particular! A
rustic outfit in corduroy, exactly like that of the “boy”; except that
the elder man wore old-fashioned knee-breeches with woolen stockings
and buckles at the knees.
The son was meantime recounting my story to his parent with a fullness
that neglected no detail.
“Monsieur is an officer,” said he. “His name is Narcy, Captain André
Narcy. He is the bearer of a sealed dispatch for the fort on the
Grand Cap, and this dispatch, a very urgent one so it seems, must be
delivered at the earliest possible moment. That is why I judged it
best to offer our hospitality to monsieur for the night: he must have
a good rest to be in condition for a hurried journey tomorrow morning,
when daylight will permit him to make the ascent without such a
distant wandering from his path as he fell into--for lack of a guiding
hand--tonight. For, without any doubt whatever, monsieur met not a
living soul along the trail to set him on the right road. And that,
without any doubt whatever, is the reason why monsieur strayed so very
very far from this Grand Cap where he was going.”
The innuendos in this narrative did not fail to impress me. I scanned
the faces of the two men, one after the other, anxiously; but neither
carried the slightest expression. The father answered also in a tone
that was entirely normal, repeating word for word his earlier sentence
of approval:
“Your conduct was quite proper, I believe, Sir.”
I groped about in my mind for an appropriate phrase of thanks; but
before I hit upon one, mine host, pointing a finger at one of the
invisible doors in the paneling, remarked, still addressing his son:
“It is evident that monsieur should be allowed to retire at once. Be so
good as to show him to his room, Sir! You will need a light.”
I bowed in acknowledgement, without speaking. The son was already in
motion, leading the way with the same spotlight playing on the room
about us. Our first steps on the tiled floor raised a curious echo in
that all but unfurnished chamber, the four walls of which threw each
sound back upon us and seemed to prolong it with a briefly sustained
tremor. The spotlight chanced to cast a round, luminous circle upon one
of the frescos. As far as my hasty glimpse of it enabled me to judge,
it was a mythological subject in faded color and not over-stressed
design--a birth of Aphrodite from the sea, perhaps.
My guide drew back, in succession, three long thick bolts, longer and
thicker than any bolts I could remember ever having seen. They secured
the door to which the elder of the two men had pointed. A closer view
of the wall revealed to me that beside this door there was another,
similarly disguised in the paneling and fastened in the same way.
Taken together, they might have been mistaken for the two wings of one
folding door, joining very badly, for that matter, despite their rugged
hinges; for a gap of a full inch was visible under each of the presumed
wings, leaving free play to draughts.
These observations had scarcely flashed through my mind, when the old
man, the father, that is, who had been standing in the center of the
reception hall with his eyes glued upon me, advanced suddenly in my
direction, and his steps, light as they were, echoed about the room
as ours had done. I stopped and looked at him. With a gesture, and
speaking to me directly for the first time, he said:
“Monsieur, I forgot to remind you that in our house, and not far indeed
from the quarters you will occupy, we have a case of sickness. Might I
request you, therefore, kindly to make as little noise as possible?”
This was the second time I had been urged not to talk; but the pretext
had been different on each occasion....
And then something happened ... a very inconsiderable thing, which
gave me a distinct shiver of excitement. It was not so much myself who
trembled, but rather that submerged, unconscious being we each have
within us which watches while we slumber and ever has a memory and a
consciousness quite apart from our waking selves....
From under the other door--the door which had not been opened,
namely--a sudden draught of warm air came. It was cold, noticeably
cold, in the reception hall; but behind the closed door was a room
which they kept much better heated. Now that draught of warm air!...
As it passed through my nostrils, I became gradually aware of its
fragrance. It was sweet with a perfume which my conscious self did not
recognize, but which my submerged ego at once remembered--my submerged
ego only, indeed. That is why I had crossed the threshold of the open
door before I really understood....
Before I really understood, that is, what the closed door concealed....