The Three Eyes Part 9

"What nonsense! It's ridiculous!"

"The very expression of your eyes. You don't know it yourself. But I do. They have never looked at me like that; but, all the same, they are your eyes, it's their expression, their charm. I know, because these make me feel . . . eh, as yours do, Berangere!"

But the end was approaching. The three geometrical figures began to revolve upon themselves with the same dizzy motion which reduced them to a confused disk which soon vanished.

"They're your eyes, Berangere," I stammered; "there's not a doubt about it; it was as though you were looking at me."

Yes, she had the same look; and I could not but remember then that Edith Cavell had also looked in that way at Noel Dorgeroux and me, through the three strange eyes, and that Noel Dorgeroux similarly had recognized the look in his son's eyes before his son himself appeared to him. That being so, was I to a.s.sume that each of the films--there is no other word for them--was preceded _by the fabulous vision of three geometrical figures containing, captive and alive, the very expression in the eyes of one of the persons about to come to life upon the screen_?

It was a lunatic a.s.sumption, as were all those which I was making! I blush to write it down. But, in that case, what were the three geometrical figures? A cinema trade-mark? The trade-mark of the Three Eyes? What an absurdity! What madness! And yet . . .

"Oh," said Berangere, making as if to rise, "I oughtn't to have come!

It's suffocating me. Can you explain?"

"No, Berangere, I can't. It's suffocating me too. Do you want to go?"

"No," she said, leaning forward. "No, I want to see."

And we saw. And, at the very moment when a m.u.f.fled cry escaped our lips, we saw Noel Dorgeroux slowly making a great sign of the cross.

Opposite him, in the middle of the magic s.p.a.ce on the wall, was he himself this time, standing not like a frail and s.h.i.+fting phantom, but like a human being full of movement and life. Yes, Noel Dorgeroux went to and fro before us and before himself, wearing his usual skull-cap, dressed in his long frock-coat. And the setting in which he moved was none other than the Yard, the Yard with its shed, its workshops, its disorder, its heaps of sc.r.a.p-iron, its stacks of wood, its rows of barrels and its wall, with the rectangle of the serge curtain!

I at once noticed one detail: the serge curtain covered the magic s.p.a.ce completely. It was therefore impossible to imagine that this scene, at any rate, had been recorded, absorbed by the screen, which, at that actual moment, must have drawn it from its own substance in order to present that sight to us! It was impossible, because Noel Dorgeroux had his back turned to the wall. It was impossible, because we saw the wall itself and the door of the garden, because the gate was open and because I, in my turn, entered the Yard.

"You! It's you!" gasped Berangere.

"It's I on the day when your uncle told me to come here," I said, astounded, "the day when I first saw a vision on the screen."

At that moment, on the screen, Noel Dorgeroux beckoned to me from the door of his workshop. We went in together. The Yard remained empty; and then, after an eclipse which lasted only a second or two, the same scene reappeared, the little garden-door opened again and Berangere, all smiles, put her head through. She seemed to be saying:

"n.o.body here. They're in the office. Upon my word, I'll risk it!"

And she crept along the wall, towards the serge curtain.

All this happened quickly, without any of the vibration seen in the picture-theatres, and so clearly and plainly that I followed our two images not as the phases of an incident buried in the depths of time, but as the reflection in a mirror of a scene in which we were the immediate actors. To tell the truth, I was confused at seeing myself over there and feeling myself to be where I was. This doubling of my personality made my brain reel.

"Victorien," said Berangere, in an almost inaudible voice, "you're going to come out of your uncle's workshop as you did the other day, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said, "the details of the other day are beginning all over again."

And they did. Here were my uncle and I coming out of the workshop.

Here was Berangere, surprised, running away and laughing. Here she was, climbing a plank lying across two barrels and dancing, ever so gracefully and lightly! And then, as before, she fell. I darted forward, picked her up, carried her and laid her on the bench. She put her arms round me; our faces almost touched. And, as before, gently at first and then roughly and violently, I kissed her on the lips. And, as on that occasion, she rose to her feet, while I crouched before her.

Oh, how well I remember it all! I remember and I still see myself. I see myself yonder, bending very low not daring to lift my head, and I see Berangere, standing up, covered with shame, trembling with indignation.

Indignation? Did she really seem indignant? But then why did her dear face, the face on the screen, display such indulgence and gentleness?

Why did she smile with that expression of unspeakable gladness? Yes, I swear it was gladness. Yonder, in the magic s.p.a.ce where that exciting minute was being reenacted, there stood over me a happy creature who was gazing at me with joy and affection, who was gazing at me thus because she knew that I could not see her and because she could not know that one day I should see her.

"Berangere! . . . Berangere! . . ."

But suddenly, while the adorable vision yonder continued, my eyes were covered as with a veil. Berangere had turned towards me and put her two hands over my eyes, whispering:

"Don't look. I won't have you look. Besides, it's not true. That woman's lying, it's not me at all. . . . No, no, I never looked at you like that."

Her voice grew fainter. Her hands dropped to her sides. And, with all the strength gone out of her, she let herself fall against my shoulder, gently and silently.

Ten minutes later, I went back alone. Berangere had left me without a word, after her unexpected movement of surrender.

Next morning I received a telegram from the rector of the university, calling me to Gren.o.ble. Berangere did not appear as I was leaving.

But, when my uncle brought me to the station, I saw her, not far from the Lodge, talking with that confounded c.o.xcomb whom she pretended not to know.

CHAPTER VI

ANXIETIES

"You seem very happy, uncle!" said I to Noel Dorgeroux, who walked briskly on the way to the station, whistling one gay tune after another.

"Yes," he replied, "I am happy as a man is who has come to a decision."

"You've come to a decision, uncle?"

"And a very serious one at that. It has cost me a sleepless night; but it's worth it."

"May I ask . . . ?"

"Certainly. In two words, it's this: I'm going to pull down the sheds in the Yard and build an amphitheatre there."

"What for?"

"To exploit the thing . . . the thing you know of."

"How do you mean, to exploit it?"

"Why, it's a tremendously important discovery; and, if properly worked, it will give me the money which I have always been trying for, not for its own sake, but because of the resources which it will bring me, money with the aid of which I shall be able to continue my labours without being checked by secondary considerations. There are millions to be made, Victorien, millions! And what shall I not accomplish with millions! This brain of mine," he went on, tapping his forehead, "is simply crammed with ideas, with theories which need verifying. And it all takes money. . . . Money! Money! You know how little I care about money! But I want millions, if I am to carry through my work. And those millions I shall have!"

Mastering his enthusiasm, he took my arm and explained:

"First of all, the Yard cleared of its rubbish and levelled. After that, the amphitheatre, with five stages of benches facing the wall.

For of course the wall remains: it is the essential point, the reason for the whole thing. But I shall heighten and widen it; and, when it is quite un.o.bstructed, there will be a clear view of it from every seat. You follow me, don't you?"

"I follow you, uncle. But do you think people will come?"