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ordered to be there at one o’clock to take
Geneviève home. She was to start with her by the
night express to Normandy with a letter from me
to the curé of the village explaining the situation
and begging him to prevent at all costs
Geneviève’s return to Paris.
I sat down at the dining table again smoking
furiously cigarette after cigarette.
“What has the nurse to say to all this?”
asked Norstrom.
“She says nothing, she is English. She knows
me well, she trusts my judgment absolutely.”
“I wish I did,” growled Norstrom puffing at
his cigar.
The Cromwell clock on the mantelpiece struck
half-past-one confirmed with uncanny precision
by the voice of half-a-dozen old clocks from
every room.
“Failure,” said Norstrom phlegmatically,
“and so much the better for both of us, I am
d—d glad not to be mixed up in this business.”
I did not close my eyes that night, this time it
was Geneviève and not the two peasants that
kept me awake. I had since long been so spoiled
by luck that my nerves were ill adapted for
failure. What had happened?
I felt sick and slightly faint as I entered the
amphitheatre of the Salpêtrière the next
morning. Charcot had already begun his Tuesday
lecture on hypnotism, Geneviève was not there
in her usual place on the platform. I slipped
out of the room and went up to the Salle de
Gardes. One of the internes told me he had been
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