Part 17 (1/2)

”Wait a minute,” I suggested. ”Stay where you are.” Cutter looked at me, and shrugged his shoulders.

”You can't do any harm,” he replied, indifferently. ”I think she has a faint remembrance of you.”

You know I can speak the Russian language fairly well, for I have lived some time in the country. It had struck me, while I was waiting in the study, that it would be worth while to try the effect of a remark in a tongue with which Madame Patoff had been familiar for over thirty years.

I went quietly up to the couch where she was lying, and spoke to her.

”I am sorry I saved your life, since you wished to die,” I said, in a low voice, in Russian. ”Forgive me.”

Madame Patoff started violently, and her white hands closed upon her book with such force that the strong binding bent and cracked. Cutter could not have seen this, for I was between him and her. She looked up at me, and fixed her dark eyes on mine. There was a great sadness in them, and at the same time a certain terror, but she did not speak.

However, as I had made an impression, I addressed her again in the same language.

”Do you remember seeing Paul to-day?” I asked.

”Paul?” she repeated, in a soft, sad voice, that seemed to stir the heart into sympathy. ”Paul is dead.”

I thought it might have been her husband's name as well as her son's.

”I mean your son. He was with you to-day; you were unkind to him.”

”Was I?” she asked. ”I have no son.” Still her eyes gazed into mine as though searching for something, and as I looked I thought the tears rose in them and trembled, but they did not overflow. I was profoundly surprised. They had told me that she had no memory for any one, and yet she seemed to have told me that her husband was dead,--if indeed his name had been Paul,--and although she said she had no son, her tears rose at the mention of him. Probably for the very reason that I had not then had any experience of insane persons, the impression formed itself in my mind that this poor lady was not mad, after all. It seemed madness on my own part to doubt the evidence before me,--the evidence of attendants trained to the duty of watching lunatics, the a.s.surances of a man who had grown famous by studying diseases of the brain as Professor Cutter had, the unanimous opinion of Madame Patoff's family. How could they all be mistaken? Besides, she might have been really mad, and she might be now recovering; this might be one of her first lucid moments. I hardly knew how to continue, but I was so much interested by her first answers that I felt I must say something.

”Why do you say you have no son! He is here in the house; you have seen him to-day. Your son is Paul Patoff. He loves you, and has come to see you.”

Again the low, silvery laugh came rippling from her lips. She let the book fall from her hands upon her lap, and leaned far back upon the couch.

”Why do you torment me so?” she asked. ”I tell you I have no son.” Again she laughed,--less sweetly than before. ”Why do you torment me?”

”I do not want to torment you. I will leave you. Shall I come again?”

”Again?” she repeated, vacantly, as though not understanding. But as I stood beside her I moved a little, and I thought her eyes rested on the figure of the professor, standing at the other end of the room, and her face expressed dislike of him, while her answer to me was a meaningless repet.i.tion of my own word.

”Yes,” I said. ”Shall I come again? Do you like to talk Russian?” This time she said nothing, but her eyes remained fixed upon the professor.

”I am going,” I added. ”Good-by.”

She looked up suddenly. I bowed to her, out of habit, I suppose. Do people generally bow to insane persons? To my surprise, she put out her hand and took mine, and shook it, in the most natural way imaginable; but she did not answer me. Just as I was turning from her she spoke again.

”Who are you?” she asked in English.

”My name is Griggs,” I replied, and lingered to see if she would say more. But she laughed again,--very little this time,--and she took up the book she had dropped and began to read.

Cutter smiled, too, as we left the room. I glanced back at the graceful figure of the gray-haired woman, extended upon her couch. She did not look up, and a moment later Cutter and I stood again in the antechamber.

The professor slowly rubbed his hands together,--his gigantic hands, modeled by nature for dealing with big things. Mrs. North rose from her reading.

”I have an idea that our patient has recognized this gentleman,” said the scientist. ”This has been a remarkably eventful day. She is probably very tired, and if you could induce her to go to bed it would be a very good thing, Mrs. North. Good-evening.”

”Good-evening,” I said. Mrs. North made a slight inclination with her head, in answer to our salutation. I pushed aside the heavy curtain, and we went out. Cutter had a pa.s.s-key to the heavy door in the pa.s.sage, and opened it and closed it noiselessly behind us. I felt as though I had been in a dream, as we emerged into the dimly lighted great hall, where a huge fire burned in the old-fas.h.i.+oned fireplace, and Fang, the white deerhound, lay asleep upon the thick rug.

”And now, Mr. Griggs,” said the professor, stopping short and thrusting his hands into his pockets, ”will you tell me what she said to you, and whether she gave any signs of intelligence?” He faced me very sharply, as though to disconcert me by the suddenness of his question. It was a habit he had.