The Double Life. Гастон Леру

differed from his real character. It had always been difficult for him to associate the handwriting with Théophraste.

      “Really,” said Théophraste, “what character do you ascribe to me?”

      “Well, if you will promise not to bear me any ill, I will tell you!”

      On this assurance he painted Théophraste’s character. It was that of a kind citizen, an honest merchant, an excellent husband, but a man incapable of showing any firmness, wit or energy. He told him also that his timidity was excessive, and that kindness was always ready to degenerate into weakness. The picture was not at all flattering, and Théophraste felt a little hurt.

      “And now,” said he, “that you have told me what you think of my character, tell me what you think of my writing.”

      Then he made observations on his handwriting which would not have failed to make him quite angry if he had not remembered that Signor Petito had said the same. He said:

      “Your writing expresses all the contrary sentiments in your nature as I know it, and I can imagine nothing more antithetical than your writing and your real character. Thus you do not write a characteristic hand, but the handwriting of the Other.”

      Théophraste was deeply interested. He thought of the strength and energy of the Other, he imagined that he was a great captain. However, Adolphe’s next remark completely disillusioned him.

      “Any sign in those formations, in the pointed fashion they have of reuniting, and in the way of growing tall and of climbing up, and of passing each other, show energy, firmness, obstinacy, ardor, activity, and ambition, but all for evil.”

      This dismayed him, but he exclaimed with a show of spirit: “Where is the evil? Where is the good? If Attila had known how to write perhaps he would have written like Napoleon.”

      “They called Attila the scourge of God.”

      “And Napoleon the scourge of man,” replied Théophraste, with difficulty controlling his anger.

      How could it be that Théophraste Longuet could have been anything else but an honest being before his birth, during his life, and after his death?

      Marceline agreed with him, and Adolphe fearing that he had gone too far made apologies.

      CHAPTER VII

      Théophraste and His Black Plume

      FOR the next few days M. Lecamus and M.

      Longuet occupied themselves with evidence of this phenomenon, and were often seen together, conversing mysteriously, in the bar-rooms and about town, about the treason of the first of April. They left the Villa Flots d’Azure to return to Paris, with the intention of searching the libraries. They worked diligently for several days without any result, until M. Longuet began to lose spirit. M. Lecamus was more patient.

      One evening as they were walking towards the Rond Point, in the Champs Elysees, he turned around and said, “What can we do to find the approximate place where the treasures are buried if you have not your black plume?” Théophraste and Marceline could not understand this, and asked for an explanation. He commented:

      “You have heard of the water witches who could discover water by the aid of a wand, by a phenomenon which nobody has as yet been able to explain. These witches traced water across the various beds of earth, and by pointing the little rods, indicated where it was necessary to dig in order to make a well. I do not despair of showing you, Théophraste, where your treasures are buried. I will conduct you over the ground shown in the document, and tell you where it is that you must dig to find your treasure.”

      “Yes,” interrupted Théophraste, “but this does not explain to us what you mean by ‘the black plume.’”

      “I am coming to that now. I am obliged to speak of Darwin. You will understand directly. You know that Darwin devoted himself to several celebrated experiments, of which the best known is that with pigeons.

      “Desirous of accounting for the phenomenon of heredity and the value that he attached to it, he closely studied the breeding of pigeons, which is sufficiently rapid to have enabled him to draw conclusions upon an appreciable number of generations. At the end of the tenth generation he found the same type of pigeon, with the same defects, the same qualities, the same form, the same outline, and the same black plume there in the same place where the first pigeon had a black feather. Very well! With that I will prove to you that it is the same with souls as it is with bodies.

      “At the end of the tenth generation, we find the same soul, as far as it exists, with the same defects, the same virtues, and, as it were, with the original black feather. While giving you this illustration, it is necessary to distinguish between the soul which reappears thus hereditarily, and that which comes back by reincarnation. Believing that it is the result of a unique combination which nothing can oppose, and, since it dwells in a case called a body, is hereditary in the same degree as that body, an hereditary soul which comes from an ancestor always has his black feather, while a soul which comes back by reincarnation finds itself in a body which is in no way prepared to receive it. The aggregate materials of this body are original, and decaying, momentarily impose a silence on that soul.

      “But a time comes when this soul becomes the strongest, when it speaks, when it shows itself entirely, just as the black feather does.

      “Now, Théophraste, for several generations you were the honest gardeners in the Ferte-sous-Jonarre. But when that soul speaks in you, you are no longer yourself. Théophraste Longuet has disappeared. It is the Other who is there. It is the Other who has the gesture, the manner, the action, the black feather. It is the other who recalls the mystery of the treasure, it is the Other who remembers the Other.”

      “Oh! This is admirable!” exclaimed Théophraste, who was so deeply moved that he could hardly refrain from weeping with excitement. “And now I understand what you mean by my black feather. My black feather returns to me when I am the Other.”

      “And he will help you then, my friend,” declared Adolphe with conviction. “But until we have released the unknown who is hidden in Théophraste Longuet, and until he lives with sufficient strength, audacity, and liberty, until he is resuscitated, in a word, until he appears to us with his ‘black feather,’ we will confine ourselves to the study of that interesting document which you brought from the Conciergerie. Let us make a plan for penetrating the mystery. We will find out exactly where the treasures are buried, but we must wait for the spirit who dwells in you to say to us, ‘It is there.’”

      “My friend,” said Marceline, overflowing with admiration, “you talk like a book, and I wonder that you have not more often tried to teach us these things, for we are so ignorant. You must not leave a stone unturned to find the treasure. I do not fear the destruction of the earth on account of the object of our search.”

      Adolphe turned around to reprove Marceline for her flippancy, but at this moment M. Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, approached, and Adolphe rose to greet his friend.

      Adolphe introduced M. Milfroid to M. and Mme. Longuet. He was a man of about forty years of age, elegantly dressed, immaculate gloves, a silvery ringlet of hair on the white forehead. He advanced, smiling and bowing.

      “We have often heard our friend M. Adolphe speak of you,” said Marceline. “Your fame has gone before you.”

      “Oh, madame, I have known you for a long time. Every time I meet M. Lecamus he speaks to me of his friends of the Rue Gerauds, and in such terms that it has been my greatest desire to have the happiness of being presented to you.”

      Marceline was conquered by such gallant manners. “I hear that you play the violin very well,” she said.

      “I am equally interested in philosophy,” said M. Milfroid. “An interest which I owe to M. Adolphe, who is continually in dispute with me over the immortality of the soul, and other psychic matters. He has really made a convert of me.”

      “Monsieur,” said Théophraste, who had not yet taken part in the conversation, “Adolphe and I like to converse about serious matters, also. We were just speaking of the relations between the soul and the body, and