The next day, at breakfast, I was sitting next to a traveler who, on hearing me speaking French to my companion, asked: “Are you French, Monsieur?”
“Yes,” I replied. “French and Parisian.”
“That’s marvelous!” he exclaimed. “I’m a Parisian too. I’m in Bombay on business, buying indigo. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Between Frenchmen far from the fatherland, and especially between Parisians, acquaintance is quickly made. The worthy man, whose name was Duvert, asked for permission to accompany us for the rest of the day—to show us around, he said. Having completed his purchases of indigo, and due to take a steamer got England the next day, he would be happy to spent a few hours with compatriots.
“Look,” he said, “take advantage of an opportunity. “A friend in Bombay has offered to take me to see some temple-dancers this evening. Come with me; my friend will do everything possible to get you admitted to the spectacle. Not everyone gets to see bayaderes in India.”
We accepted his offers gladly. To leave India without seeing bayaderes dancing would, indeed, have been to miss one of the country’s most attractive curiosities.
That evening, we accompanied M. Duvert to the pagoda where the dances were to take place. The pagoda in question was in Mahim, a kind of suburb situated a few kilometers from Bombay on the sea shore. We were taken there by carriage. We arrived in Mahim shortly before sunset. What a delightful spectacle we had before our eyes! The village is hidden in the midst of the most luxurious vegetation imaginable. It was the first time that I had contemplated in all their beauty the riches of verdure and flowers that the hot sun generously grants to countries where it reigns as sovereign.
Is it necessary to describe a bayaderes’ dance in detail? I deem it unnecessary, so many times has the dance been described by travelers who have visited India. I shall only say a few words about it. In the great hall of the pagoda, perfectly lit, an empty space had been reserved for the dancers and musicians, separated from the public by balustrades. The spectators were sitting all around.
When we came in, the dances had not yet begun. There was no one in the reserved enclosure but two young musicians, very elegantly dressed, who were awaiting the arrival of the bayaderes to begin the concert. I studied their costume curiously; it was made of very fine gauze, clinging tightly to their bodies and molding forms of an irreproachable beauty. The headpiece, similar made of translucent gauze, allowed the young men’s long hair to fall over their shoulders.
We did not have long to wait. The bayaderes soon made their entrance. They were five in number. Delicate, rather small, and generally pretty, they made a pleasant impression on me. As for their costumes, they were made of gauze like those of the musicians, very harmonious in bright and varied colors. Different ornaments in gold and silver further enhanced the richness of the fabrics.
The dance began. Slow at first, it gradually speeded up. The bayaderes, with graceful progress and very artful facial expressions, represented scenes of pastoral life and passionate drama for us, for two hours.
When the dance was over, we went out to go back to our carriage. To get there, we had to go along a pathway bordered on either side by clumps of bushes. The night was delightful. The wind, blowing from the sea, brought gusts of coolness with it. After a hot day, it was good to breathe purer air in that way. We were advancing slowly, chatting about the strange spectacle we had just witnessed, when I thought I heard a faint sound in one of the bushes.
Lagging slightly behind in order to investigate the cause of the sound, I allowed my companions to go on alone. Suddenly, a few paces in front of me, I saw a man leap out of the bushes. There was a shiny object in his right hand, which hung down beside his body. I thought I recognized the blade of a dagger, reflecting the faint starlight. Thanks to the darkness, he had not seen me, and headed for my companions, creeping like a wild beast, making no noise on the ground with his bare feet.
My companions, engrossed in their conversation, had no suspicion of the danger that was threatening them. Stealthily, I threw myself in pursuit of the man I believed to be a murderer. He probably heard my footsteps, though, for he turned round abruptly, and, on seeing me, launched himself into the bushes and disappeared.
I called out. My companions stopped, alarmed, not knowing what had happened to me. I ran toward them and told them what I had just seen.
“You were nearly murdered!” I exclaimed. “A man tried to fall upon you, dagger in hand. My presence caused him to run away!”
M. Duvert took a revolver from his pocket.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I have what’s needed to respond to attacks.”
We continued to advance, but nothing disturbed our progress.
A few moments later, we had reached the carriage and were rolling toward Bombay.
Abruptly, a revelation was manifest in my mind. What had at first been only a suspicion became a certainty. Connecting up my attempted murder in the caves of Karla, the theft of the photographic apparatus from the hotel and this new attempted murder, I understood that the fakir, wanting to avenge himself for the theft of his liquor, had sent emissaries after us to kill us and take back the bottle.
I immediately made M. Varlet party to my anxieties.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing for some time,” he said, “but I kept quiet for fear of alarming you. Do you know what I think we should do?”
“Flee?” I asked.
“Yes. Since M. Duvert has told us that there’s a steamer leaving tomorrow for London, the best thing to do is get a berth and get back to France as soon as possible.”
“That would be best,” I said. “All the more so because, deprived of the means of experimenting with our liquor here, it’s important to return to Paris as soon as possible.”
VI. The Green Liquor
We returned to Paris, weary but full of hope.
The day after our arrival, M. Varlet and I shut ourselves up in my laboratory and immediately began experiments on the green liquor.
Hang stretched a blank canvas on a wooden frame, I drew a portrait of sorts by spreading the liquor on the canvas with a brush. On drying out, the green tint disappeared completely, with the result that the canvas seemed absolutely blank after the complete desiccation of the liquor.
“Be economical with the liquor,” M. Varlet never ceased repeating, during the operation. “We have very little of it. We’ll need more of it to paint other canvases, to make further experiments, and, above all, for your analyses—for without analysis, we can’t renew our supply.”
“You can see,” I sad “that I’ve saved as much as possible. The picture is complete now, and I’ve only used enough to fill a small liqueur-glass. There’s still enough for at least 20 more.”
The canvas having been prepared, we photographed it.
What excitement there would be at the moment when the negative proof was revealed! What joy if we were to obtain the desired result! What disillusion in the contrary case! A failure would be the waste of all our efforts’ the voyage we had undertaken to India would have been a total loss; it would be the ruination of all our hopes.
But success, on the other hand, meant celebrity for us in the scientific world, and perhaps, at least for me, a seat in the Académie des Sciences. To begin with, I would make a thoroughgoing study of the liquor’s properties. Then, knowing its composition, I would be able to reproduce it in large quantities, while searching for industrial applications, and take out a patent. Generalizing my studies, I would seek out other substances possessed of analogous properties; I would have added a whole new chapter to the study of physics, and not the least interesting. Then, thanks to the connections I would have with the great scientists, I would offer myself as a candidate for the first vacant chair in the Académie des Sciences. I would certainly be elected.
Such were the dreams I had during the photographic operations.
The glass plate is in the revelatory bath. Our two faces are anxiously p
oised over the gutta-percha dish. The red square illuminates us, so faintly that it cannot act on the silver bromide, and colors us with its fantastic gleam.
Victory! The black features are outlined on the plate. The portrait appears in all its vigor.
Then we make a hasty exit from the darkroom and dance a hectic jig around the laboratory. We laugh like lunatics; we pause, shake hands, then resume our momentarily-interrupted dance.
Finally, our nerves calm down.
“My dear Monsieur Varlet,” I said, “we have just imitated the famous chemist Davy when he discovered potassium.”
“I’ve never danced with so much pleasure,” my companion replied. “Why don’t we have dancing girls?”
“You’re mistaken,” I replied, “for our dancing-girls are named Science and Hope. They’re better than the bayaderes of India.”
That experiment was only the first, for we had still to photograph the canvas in daylight. It was necessary now to ascertain whether the canvas would become luminous under the influence of moist air, and especially whether we could obtain a proof by photographing it in the dark. For me, there was not a shadow of doubt about these further experiments. There was no possible doubt about it; we possessed the liquor of which Narayanha had made use in preparing the pictures that MacFerdin had had in his possession.
M. Varlet having a strong desire to verify these further experiments, I carried them out immediately.
As I had anticipated, the picture became luminous in moist air, and I was able to obtain a magnificent proof by photographing it in complete darkness.
“Until tomorrow,” I said to M. Varlet. “Let’s leave it there for today. I’m tired.”
“I ask no more,” he replied, “for I’m experiencing the same fatigue. Until tomorrow, then. But I implore you to analyze the liquor as soon as possible.”
“First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll set to work. Come at nine o’clock, and we’ll start the chemical analyses together.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” said M. Varlet. “Goodbye.”
I left the bottle with it precious liquor on my laboratory table, and accompanied M. Varlet to the bottom of the stairs.
VII. The Reluctant Spiritualist
The next morning, when I got up, I told my domestic Pierre to go up to the laboratory to tidy up a little, to wash some glassware and, in a word, get everything ready for my analyses.
The domestic in question is a trustworthy fellow who has been in my employ for three years. I have always been content with his zeal and hard work. I employ him in both my apartment and the laboratory. Aged about 30, very vigorous and alert, I know him to have only one fault: he’s a glutton. In sum, though, that fault can have no great consequences in my home. Being a bachelor, I eat at the restaurant and only possess a few bottles of liquor. I have sometimes noticed the excessively rapid lowering of the levels in these bottles, but, as I’m well content with Pierre in every other way, I turn a blind eye to that petty gluttony. Who doesn’t have his faults?
At 9 a.m., M. Varlet arrived, as arranged. We went up to the laboratory.
I opened the door.
At the first glance, I perceived the bottle on the table, in the place where I had left it the previous evening, but it seemed to me to be empty.
I hurried forward to confirm the exactitude of what I had seen. I was trembling in every limb. Alas, yes—the bottle was empty.
I uttered a terrible cry, and nearly fell over backwards.
“What’s the matter?” cried M. Varlet, catching me in his arms.
“The bottle! The bottle!” I cried, in a voice strangled by emotion.
“What’s the matter?” repeated M. Varlet.
“The bottle’s empty!” I articulated, more clearly.
“Empty!” cried my companion, troubled in his turn by my words. “But where’s the liquor?”
I finally regained possession of myself.
“It’s possible,” I said, that my domestic has substituted another bottle, or emptied the contents into another bottle.”
“So your domestic has been in here?”
“Yes, this morning, to tidy up, as usual,” I replied.
“What imprudence!” cried M. Varlet.
“I’ll call him,” I said.
I rang. Pierre came in. I noticed that his expression was a trifle anxious.
“Have you touched the bottle that was here, on the table?” I asked him. “It contained a green liquor.”
“No, Monsieur,” he replied.
“Then what has become of the liquor? The bottle was full yesterday evening and I find it empty this morning. You’re the only one who has been in here.”
“I don’t know, Monsieur,” said Pierre, insolently.
The man was lying; I understood that from his embarrassed manner. Wanting to know the truth, I thought of employing a subterfuge.
“It contained a strong poison that would kill anyone who drank its contents within two hours,” I said, continuing to address myself to the domestic. “I really need to know what has become of the poison.”
At these words, my domestic’s face became distraught. “It was me, Monsieur!” he cried. “It was me who drank it. I thought it was absinthe. Help! I have a stomach-ache. I’m going to die!” And, pronouncing these words haltingly, he writhed and pulled frightful faces.
“Wretch!” I shouted, at the top of my voice. “Wretch!” Seizing him by the arm, I pushed him, and sent him spinning to the far end of the laboratory.
“Help! Help!” he cried, getting up and throwing himself at my knees. “I can feel myself dying. Ow! Ow! Mercy! For pity’s sake.”
During the whole of this scene, M. Varlet had remained mute. He alone maintained his composure.
“Calm down, Ranbel, calm down!” he said, stopping me as I was about to hurl myself on my domestic again. “The damage is done. It’s necessary to support it with dignity.”
M. Varlet was right; it was unworthy of me to come to blows with a domestic like that. I seized my companion’s hands, and, with a shameful expression, said: “Yes, my dear friend, it only remains for us to console one another in our misfortune. I shall regret my negligence as long as I live.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” M. Varlet went on, “for you couldn’t suppose that the liquor would tempt this man’s stupid gluttony to that extent.”
A quarter of an hour after that terrible scene, I went out with Monsieur Varlet. If I had stayed at home, I think that anger would have made me commit some further stupidity. I only went back that evening.
I had had all day to calm my nerves, and it was in a calm tone that I asked my domestic: “Pierre, don’t you feel any indisposition from this morning’s imprudence?”
“No, Monsieur,” he replied, in a meek voice. Forgive me for my greed; I promise you that I won’t drink liquor again as long as I live. I didn’t know that I was making things so difficult for Monsieur.”
At the same time, he threw himself at my feet.
I pulled him to his feet, telling him that I forgave him, but only this once. On taking him by the hand, I perceived that he had a large scratch.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Nothing, Monsieur,” he relied, snatching his hand away and hiding it behind his back.
I understood. That morning, when treating him harshly and knocking him down, I had injured him. The brave fellow didn’t want to admit the truth. That discretion touched me.
“Bring me some water and a handkerchief,” I said. “I want to wash that cut and bandage it myself.”
He gave in. A few moments later, he came back with water and a bandage. Steeping the handkerchief in water, I moistened the graze.
At the same moment, I uttered a screech and dropped the glass on the floor.
“What’s the matter, Monsieur?” Pierre exclaimed. “Are you ill?”
“No, my friend,” I replied, “no…but look at your hand.”
“Oh!” Pierre exclaimed. “It’s luminous!”
/> Yes, my domestic’s hand was luminous, and it was that observation that had caused me to cry out.
That glow, generated under the influence of moisture, had been a revelation for me. Having drunk the green liquor, Pierre now had the same properties as the magic picture. He was a magic man himself. He would become luminous in the dark under the influence of a current of moist air. He could be photographed in the blackest darkness.
“Pierre,” I said to him, “Come up to the laboratory with me.”
Ten minutes later, I had placed the domestic in front of the objective lens, in complete darkness. The revelatory liquid gave me a portrait resembling Pierre admirably, as clearly as if he had been photographed in broad daylight.
I went down the stairs four at a time. I ran like a madman to M. Varlet’s house, knocking over a few pedestrians on the way and causing dogs to run after me, howling. A sergent de ville tried to block my way, mistaking me for a thief. I went into my friend’s home like a bomb and told him about the strange discovery I had just made.
“Perfect!” he cried, laughing at the top of his voice. “Perfect! Do you know what we’re going to do?”
“Tell me,” I said.
“We’re going to hold spiritualist séances and make it known in all the salons in Paris that we’ve discovered an extraordinary medium. That medium will be your domestic.”
“That’s an idea!” I cried, laughing in my turn. “To make luminous hands appear in the dark, it will be sufficient to blow on Pierre’s hands. To make him appear in his entirety, we’ll moisten his skin a little. Moreover, we’ll be able to photograph him in the dark and pretend that we’ve captured the image of a spirit. We’ll be all the rage in spiritualist society.”
What was said was done. The very next day we carried out the most astonishing experiments in spiritualism in one of the great drawing-rooms of Paris. Pierre’s hands and feet were a marvel. As for the photographs, that was a delirium.
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