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Authors: Brian Stableford
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installation—and perhaps to take a further peek at the symbols in her flesh. I saw no such necessity, having already done my part, and took Chapelain into the smoking-room for a stiff brandy.
“Well,” I said to him, “I must say that this is most unexpected. Have you the slightest idea what Dupin is up to?”
“Not the slightest,” Chapelain confirmed, with a sigh, “but it is fascinating, is it not? From what I have been able to observe over the last year or two, Monsieur Dupin is a veritable magnet for strange occurrences—and I must say that you do not seem at all surprised by this bizarre sequence of events.”
“I think I’m immune to astonishment now, where Monsieur Dupin is concerned,” I told him. “You’re right—fate does seem to have singled him out as a target for strange events. Fate…or the angels. She is mad, isn’t she?”
“Utterly,” Chapelain confirmed. “I must confess, though, to some anxiety regarding this latest development. I had hoped that I had entranced her sufficiently to allow her to remain lost in her dream of Oberon, Merlin, Tristan and the like—where she seems reasonably content, in spite of her anxieties about being punished. If she sinks of her own accord into some further and more nightmarish dream-arena, however, I might have difficulty returning her to any kind of illusory stability. I have no idea what she was trying to say when that fit came upon her, but it sounded truly horrible. Monsieur Dupin seemed to recognize it, though, if not to understand it. Have you heard anything like it before?”
“No,” I said. “If I had to guess, I’d say that it resembles or recalls something he’s reading one of his so-called forbidden books. Not the Harmonies de l’enfer , though—I never heard anything less harmonic.”
“Nor I,” said Chapelain. “That story of the pirate treasure seemed intriguing, mind—although the connection between the pirate Levasseur and Ysolde’s cryptogram still seems extremely tenuous to me. This Breisz fellow might have expressed an interest in the name Leonys for some reason entirely unconnected with his interest in the Levasseur cryptogram.”
“I can see why Dupin was struck by the coincidence, though,” I observed. “You know how inquisitive he is when his attention is caught by something like that. He cannot rest until he finds a satisfactory explanation—or becomes satisfied that the coincidence is of no significance at all.”
“True,” Chapelain admitted. “He will want me to entrance her again, I presume, as soon as she wakes—or, given that she will probably still be entranced, to assist him to interrogate her.”
“You may be certain of it,” I said. “I wish I could tell you what he hopes to gain from further intelligence, but I cannot. If the marks on her back were not tattooed, as you seem to believe, do you have any idea how they might have been inscribed there?”
“I can only think that it is some strange kind of scar tissue,” he said “The only other hypothesis that springs to mind seems too ridiculous.”
“The Devil’s mark?” I queried.
“Not literally—but I have attended patients, in Bicêtre and elsewhere, who have manifested bloody symbols of a different sort, apparently psychosomatically.”
“You mean stigmata?” I asked.
“The cases I have seen involved the classic stigmata,” he confirmed.
“But this is far more intricate than vague imprints of Christ’s nails, crown of thorns and spear-wound,” I said, although I was slightly relieved that he had had the same thought as myself, thus making to seem somewhat less ridiculous than it had while still unvoiced. “And she surely cannot be manifesting them by means of some perverted wish-fulfilment.”
“Agreed,” he said, “but I have read reports in the mesmeric literature of stigmata-like imprints emerging by an effort of unconscious will, in response to suggestions planted by a magnetizer. Sometimes, if the reports
“Well,” I said to him, “I must say that this is most unexpected. Have you the slightest idea what Dupin is up to?”
“Not the slightest,” Chapelain confirmed, with a sigh, “but it is fascinating, is it not? From what I have been able to observe over the last year or two, Monsieur Dupin is a veritable magnet for strange occurrences—and I must say that you do not seem at all surprised by this bizarre sequence of events.”
“I think I’m immune to astonishment now, where Monsieur Dupin is concerned,” I told him. “You’re right—fate does seem to have singled him out as a target for strange events. Fate…or the angels. She is mad, isn’t she?”
“Utterly,” Chapelain confirmed. “I must confess, though, to some anxiety regarding this latest development. I had hoped that I had entranced her sufficiently to allow her to remain lost in her dream of Oberon, Merlin, Tristan and the like—where she seems reasonably content, in spite of her anxieties about being punished. If she sinks of her own accord into some further and more nightmarish dream-arena, however, I might have difficulty returning her to any kind of illusory stability. I have no idea what she was trying to say when that fit came upon her, but it sounded truly horrible. Monsieur Dupin seemed to recognize it, though, if not to understand it. Have you heard anything like it before?”
“No,” I said. “If I had to guess, I’d say that it resembles or recalls something he’s reading one of his so-called forbidden books. Not the Harmonies de l’enfer , though—I never heard anything less harmonic.”
“Nor I,” said Chapelain. “That story of the pirate treasure seemed intriguing, mind—although the connection between the pirate Levasseur and Ysolde’s cryptogram still seems extremely tenuous to me. This Breisz fellow might have expressed an interest in the name Leonys for some reason entirely unconnected with his interest in the Levasseur cryptogram.”
“I can see why Dupin was struck by the coincidence, though,” I observed. “You know how inquisitive he is when his attention is caught by something like that. He cannot rest until he finds a satisfactory explanation—or becomes satisfied that the coincidence is of no significance at all.”
“True,” Chapelain admitted. “He will want me to entrance her again, I presume, as soon as she wakes—or, given that she will probably still be entranced, to assist him to interrogate her.”
“You may be certain of it,” I said. “I wish I could tell you what he hopes to gain from further intelligence, but I cannot. If the marks on her back were not tattooed, as you seem to believe, do you have any idea how they might have been inscribed there?”
“I can only think that it is some strange kind of scar tissue,” he said “The only other hypothesis that springs to mind seems too ridiculous.”
“The Devil’s mark?” I queried.
“Not literally—but I have attended patients, in Bicêtre and elsewhere, who have manifested bloody symbols of a different sort, apparently psychosomatically.”
“You mean stigmata?” I asked.
“The cases I have seen involved the classic stigmata,” he confirmed.
“But this is far more intricate than vague imprints of Christ’s nails, crown of thorns and spear-wound,” I said, although I was slightly relieved that he had had the same thought as myself, thus making to seem somewhat less ridiculous than it had while still unvoiced. “And she surely cannot be manifesting them by means of some perverted wish-fulfilment.”
“Agreed,” he said, “but I have read reports in the mesmeric literature of stigmata-like imprints emerging by an effort of unconscious will, in response to suggestions planted by a magnetizer. Sometimes, if the reports
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