"Yes," he replied, "I am happy as a man is who has come to a decision."
"You've come to a decision, uncle?"
"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 crammed3 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 remains4: it is the essential point, the reason for the whole thing. But I shall heighten and widen it; and, when it is quite unobstructed, 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?"
"Will they come? What! You, who know, ask me that question! Why, they will pay gold for the worst seat, they'll give a king's ransom5 to get in! I'm so sure of it that I shall put all I have left, the last remnant of my savings6, into the business. And within a year I shall have amassed7 incalculable wealth."
"The place is quite small, uncle, and you will have only a limited number of seats."
"A thousand, a thousand seats, comfortably! At two hundred francs a seat to begin with, at a thousand francs! . . ."
"I say, uncle! Seats in the open air, exposed to the rain, to the cold, to all sorts of weather!"
"I've foreseen that objection. The Yard will be closed on rainy days. I want bright daylight, sunshine, the action of the light and other conditions besides, which will still further decrease the number of demonstrations8. But that doesn't matter: each seat will cost two thousand francs, five thousand francs, if necessary! I tell you, there's no limit! No one will be content to die without having been to Noël Dorgeroux's Yard! Why, Victorien, you know it as well as I do! When all is said, the reality is more extraordinary than anything that you can imagine, even after what you have seen with your own eyes."
I could not help asking him:
"Then there are fresh manifestations9?"
He replied by nodding his head:
"It's not so much that they're new," he said, "as that, above all, they have enabled me, with the factors which I already possess, to probe the truth to the bottom."
"Uncle! Uncle!" I cried. "You mean to say that you know the truth?"
"I know the whole truth, my boy," he declared. "I know how much is my work and how much has nothing to do with me. What was once darkness is now dazzling light."
And he added, in a very serious tone:
"It is beyond all imagination, my boy. It is beyond the most extravagant10 dreams; and yet it remains within the province of facts and certainties. Once humanity knows of it, the earth will pass through a thrill of religious awe11; and the people who come here as pilgrims will fall upon their knees—as I did—fall upon their knees like children who pray and fold their hands and weep!"
His words, which were obviously exaggerated, seemed to come from an ill-balanced mind. Yet I felt the force of their exciting and feverish12 influence:
"Explain yourself, uncle, I beg you."
"Later on, my boy, when all the points have been cleared up."
"What are you afraid of?"
"Nothing from you."
"From whom then?"
"Nobody. But I have my misgivings13 . . . quite wrongly, perhaps. Still, certain facts lead me to think that I am being spied upon and that some one is trying to discover my secret. It's just a few clues . . . things that have been moved from their place . . . and, above all, a vague intuition."
"This is all very indefinite, uncle."
"Very, I admit," he said, drawing himself up. "And so forgive me if my precautions are excessive . . . and let's talk of something else: of yourself, Victorien, of your plans . . ."
"I have no plans, uncle."
"Yes, you have. There's one at least that you're keeping from me."
"How so?"
He stopped in his walk and said:
"You're in love with Bérangère."
I did not think of protesting, knowing that Noël Dorgeroux had been in the Yard the day before, in front of the screen:
"I am, uncle, I'm in love with Bérangère, but she doesn't care for me."
"Yes, she does, Victorien."
I displayed some slight impatience14:
"Uncle, I must ask you not to insist. Bérangère is a mere15 child; she does not know what she wants; she is incapable16 of any serious feeling; and I do not intend to think about her any more. On my part, it was just a fancy of which I shall soon be cured."
"Lovers' quarrels! Now this is what I have to say to you, Victorien. The work at the Yard will take up all the winter. The amphitheatre will be open to the public on the fourteenth of May, to the day. The Easter holidays will fall a month earlier; and you shall marry my god-daughter during the holidays. Not a word; leave it to me. And leave both your settlements and your prospects18 to me as well. You can understand, my boy, that, when money is pouring in like water—as it will without a doubt—Victorien Beaugrand will throw up a profession which does not give him sufficient leisure for his private studies and that he will live with me, he and his wife. Yes, I said his wife; and I stick to it. Good-bye, my dear chap, not another word."
I walked on. He called me back:
"Say good-bye to me, Victorien."
"Who can tell if we shall ever meet again? At my age! And threatened as I am, too!"
I protested. He embraced me yet again:
"You're right. I am really talking nonsense. You think of your marriage. Bérangère is a dear, sweet girl. And she loves you. Good-bye and bless you! I'll write to you. Good-bye."
I confess that Noël Dorgeroux's ambitions, at least in so far as they related to the turning of his discovery to practical account, did not strike me as absurd; and what I have said of the things seen at the Yard will exempt20 me, I imagine, from stating the reasons for my confidence. For the moment, therefore, I will leave the question aside and say no more of those three haunting eyes or the phantasmal scenes upon the magic screen. But how could I indulge the dreams of the future which Noël Dorgeroux suggested? How could I forget Bérangère's hostile attitude, her ambiguous conduct?
True, during the months that followed, I often sought to cling to the delightful21 memory of the vision which I had surprised and the charming picture of Bérangère bending over me with that soft look in her eyes. But I very soon pulled myself up and cried:
"I saw the thing all wrong! What I took for affection and, God forgive me, for love was only the expression of a woman triumphing over a man's abasement22! Bérangère does not care for me. The movement that threw her against my shoulder was due to a sort of nervous crisis; and she felt so much ashamed of it that she at once pushed me away and ran indoors. Besides, she had an appointment with that man the very next day and, in order to keep it, let me go without saying good-bye to me."
My months of exile therefore were painful months. I wrote to Bérangère in vain. I received no reply.
My uncle in his letters spoke23 of nothing but the Yard. The works were making quick progress. The amphitheatre was growing taller and taller. The wall was quite transformed. The last news, about the middle of March, told me that nothing remained to be done but to fix the thousand seats, which had long been on order, and to hang the iron curtain which was to protect the screen.
It was at this period that Noël Dorgeroux's misgivings revived, or at least it was then that he mentioned them when writing to me. Two books which he bought in Paris and which he used to read in private, lest his choice of a subject should enable anyone to learn the secret of his discovery, had been removed, taken away and then restored to their place. A sheet of paper, covered with notes and chemical formulae, disappeared. There were footprints in the garden. The writing-desk had been broken open, in the room where he worked at the Lodge24 since the demolition25 of the sheds.
This last incident, I confess, caused me a certain alarm. My uncle's fears were shown to be based upon a serious fact. There was evidently some one prowling around the Lodge and forcing an entrance in pursuance of a scheme whose nature was easy to guess. Involuntarily I thought of the man with the glasses and his relations with Bérangère. There was no knowing. . . .
I made a fresh attempt to persuade the girl to communicate with me:
"You know what's happening at the Lodge, don't you?" I wrote. "How do you explain those facts, which to me seem pretty significant? Be sure to send me word if you feel the least uneasiness. And keep a close watch in the meantime."
I followed up this letter with two telegrams dispatched in quick succession. But Bérangère's stubborn silence, instead of distressing26 me, served rather to allay27 my apprehensions28. She would not have failed to send for me had there been any danger. No, my uncle was mistaken. He was a victim to the feverish condition into which his discovery was throwing him. As the date approached on which he had decided29 to make it public, he felt anxious. But there was nothing to justify30 his apprehensions.
I allowed a few more days to elapse. Then I wrote Bérangère a letter of twenty pages, filled with reproaches, which I did not post. Her behaviour exasperated31 me. I suffered from a bitter fit of jealousy32.
At last, on Saturday, the twenty-ninth of March, I received from my uncle a registered bundle of papers and a very explicit33 letter, which I kept and which I am copying verbatim:
"My Dear Victorien,
"Recent events, combined with certain very serious circumstances of which I will tell you, prove that I am the object of a cunningly devised plot against which I have perhaps delayed defending myself longer than I ought. At any rate, it is my duty, in the midst of the dangers which threaten my very life, to protect the magnificent discovery which mankind will owe to my efforts and to take precautionary measures which you will certainly not think unwarranted.
"I have, therefore, drawn34 up—as I always refused to do before—a detailed35 report of my discovery, the investigations36 that led up to it and the conclusions to which my experiments have led me. However improbable it may seem, however contrary to all the accepted laws, the truth is as I state and not otherwise.
"I have added to my report a very exact definition of the technical processes which should be employed in the installation and exploitation of my discovery, as also of my special views upon the financial management of the amphitheatre, the advertising37, the floating of the business and the manner in which it might subsequently be extended by building in the garden and where the Lodge now stands a second amphitheatre to face the other side of the wall.
"I am sending you this report by the same post, sealed and registered, and I will ask you not to open it unless I come by some harm. As an additional precaution, I have not included in it the chemical formula which has resulted from my labours and which is the actual basis of my discovery. You will find it engraved38 on a small and very thin steel plate which I always carry inside the lining39 of my waistcoat. In this way you and you alone will have in your hands all the necessary factors for exploiting the invention. This will need no special qualifications or scientific preparation. The report and the formula are ample. Holding these two, you are master of the situation; and no one can ever rob you of the material profits of the wonderful secret which I am bequeathing to you.
"And now, my dear boy, let us hope that all my presentiments40 are unfounded and that we shall soon be celebrating together the happy events which I foresee, including first and foremost your marriage with Bérangère. I have not yet been able to obtain a favourable41 reply from her and she has for some time appeared to me to be, as you put it, in a rather fanciful mood; but I have no doubt that your return will make her reconsider a refusal which she does not even attempt to justify.
"Ever affectionately yours,
Noël Dorgeroux."
This letter reached me too late to allow me to catch the evening express. Besides, was there any urgency for my departure? Ought I not to wait for further news?
A casual observation made short work of my hesitation42. As I sat reflecting, mechanically turning the envelope in my hands, I perceived that it had been opened and then fastened down again; what is more, this had been done rather clumsily, probably by some one who had only a few seconds at his disposal.
The full gravity of the situation at once flashed across my mind. The man who had opened the letter before it was dispatched and who beyond a doubt was the man whom Noël Dorgeroux accused of plotting, this man now knew that Noël Dorgeroux carried on his person, in the lining of his waistcoat, a steel plate bearing an inscription43 containing the essential formula.
I examined the registered packet and observed that it had not been opened. Nevertheless, at all costs, though I was firmly resolved not to read my uncle's report, I undid44 the string and discovered a pasteboard tube. Inside this tube was a roll of paper which I eagerly examined. It consisted of blank pages and nothing else. The report had been stolen.
Three hours later, I was seated in a night train which did not reach Paris until the afternoon of the next day, Sunday. It was four o'clock when I walked out of the station at Meudon. The enemy had for at least two days known the contents of my uncle's letter, his report and the dreadful means of procuring45 the formula.
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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13
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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15
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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39
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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42
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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43
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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44
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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45
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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