The Beetle (31 page)

Again I bowed.

'A predicament, I fancy, of an altogether unparalleled sort. I
take it that anything I may say to you will be as though it were
said to a father confessor.'

'You may rest assured of that.'

'Good.—Then, to make the matter clear to you I must begin by
telling you a story,—if I may trespass on your patience to that
extent. I will endeavour not to be more verbose than the occasion
requires.'

I offered him a chair, placing it in such a position that the
light from the window would have shone full upon his face. With
the calmest possible air, as if unconscious of my design, he
carried the chair to the other side of my desk, twisting it right
round before he sat on it,—so that now the light was at his back
and on my face. Crossing his legs, clasping his hands about his
knee, he sat in silence for some moments, as if turning something
over in his mind. He glanced round the room.

'I suppose, Mr Champnell, that some singular tales have been told
in here.'

'Some very singular tales indeed. I am never appalled by
singularity. It is my normal atmosphere.'

'And yet I should be disposed to wager that you have never
listened to so strange a story as that which I am about to tell
you now. So astonishing, indeed, is the chapter in my life which I
am about to open out to you, that I have more than once had to
take myself to task, and fit the incidents together with
mathematical accuracy in order to assure myself of its perfect
truth.'

He paused. There was about his demeanour that suggestion of
reluctance which I not uncommonly discover in individuals who are
about to take the skeletons from their cupboards and parade them
before my eyes. His next remark seemed to point to the fact that
he perceived what was passing through my thoughts.

'My position is not rendered easier by the circumstance that I am
not of a communicative nature. I am not in sympathy with the
spirit of the age which craves for personal advertisement. I hold
that the private life even of a public man should be held
inviolate. I resent, with peculiar bitterness, the attempts of
prying eyes to peer into matters which, as it seems to me, concern
myself alone. You must, therefore, bear with me, Mr Champnell, if
I seem awkward in disclosing to you certain incidents in my career
which I had hoped would continue locked in the secret depository
of my own bosom, at any rate till I was carried to the grave. I am
sure you will suffer me to stand excused if I frankly admit that
it is only an irresistible chain of incidents which has
constrained me to make of you a confidant.'

'My experience tells me, Mr Lessingham, that no one ever does come
to me until they are compelled. In that respect I am regarded as
something worse even than a medical man.'

A wintry smile flitted across his features,—it was clear that he
regarded me as a good deal worse than a medical man. Presently he
began to tell me one of the most remarkable tales which even I had
heard. As he proceeded I understood how strong, and how natural,
had been his desire for reticence. On the mere score of
credibility he must have greatly preferred to have kept his own
counsel. For my part I own, unreservedly, that I should have
deemed the tale incredible had it been told me by Tom, Dick, or
Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham.

He began in accents which halted not a little. By degrees his
voice grew firmer. Words came from him with greater fluency.

'I am not yet forty. So when I tell you that twenty years ago I
was a mere youth I am stating what is a sufficiently obvious
truth. It is twenty years ago since the events of which I am going
to speak transpired.

'I lost both my parents when I was quite a lad, and by their death
I was left in a position in which I was, to an unusual extent in
one so young, my own master. I was ever of a rambling turn of
mind, and when, at the mature age of eighteen, I left school, I
decided that I should learn more from travel than from sojourn at
a university. So, since there was no one to say me nay, instead of
going either to Oxford or Cambridge, I went abroad. After a few
months I found myself in Egypt,—I was down with fever at
Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo. I had caught it by drinking polluted
water during an excursion with some Bedouins to Palmyra.

'When the fever had left me I went out one night into the town in
search of amusement. I went, unaccompanied, into the native
quarter, not a wise thing to do, especially at night, but at
eighteen one is not always wise, and I was weary of the monotony
of the sick-room, and eager for something which had in it a spice
of adventure, I found myself in a street which I have reason to
believe is no longer existing. It had a French name, and was
called the Rue de Rabagas,—I saw the name on the corner as I
turned into it, and it has left an impress on the tablets of my
memory which is never likely to be obliterated.

'It was a narrow street, and, of course, a dirty one, ill-lit,
and, apparently, at the moment of my appearance, deserted. I had
gone, perhaps, half-way down its tortuous length, blundering more
than once into the kennel, wondering what fantastic whim had
brought me into such unsavoury quarters, and what would happen to
me if, as seemed extremely possible, I lost my way. On a sudden my
ears were saluted by sounds which proceeded from a house which I
was passing,—sounds of music and of singing.

'I paused. I stood awhile to listen.

'There was an open window on my right, which was screened by
latticed blinds. From the room which was behind these blinds the
sounds were coming. Someone was singing, accompanied by an
instrument resembling a guitar,—singing uncommonly well.'

Mr Lessingham stopped. A stream of recollection seemed to come
flooding over him. A dreamy look came into his eyes.

'I remember it all as clearly as if it were yesterday. How it all
comes back,—the dirty street, the evil smells, the imperfect
light, the girl's voice filling all at once the air. It was a
girl's voice,—full, and round, and sweet; an organ seldom met
with, especially in such a place as that. She sang a little
chansonnette, which, just then, half Europe was humming,—it
occurred in an opera which they were acting at one of the
Boulevard theatres,—"La P'tite Voyageuse." The effect, coming so
unexpectedly, was startling. I stood and heard her to an end.

'Inspired by I know not what impulse of curiosity, when the song
was finished, I moved one of the lattice blinds a little aside, so
as to enable me to get a glimpse of the singer. I found myself
looking into what seemed to be a sort of cafe,—one of those
places which are found all over the Continent, in which women sing
in order to attract custom. There was a low platform at one end of
the room, and on it were seated three women. One of them had
evidently just been accompanying her own song,—she still had an
instrument of music in her hands, and was striking a few idle
notes. The other two had been acting as audience. They were
attired in the fantastic apparel which the women who are found in
such places generally wear. An old woman was sitting knitting in a
corner, whom I took to be the inevitable patronne. With the
exception of these four the place was empty.

'They must have heard me touch the lattice, or seen it moving, for
no sooner did I glance within than the three pairs of eyes on the
platform were raised and fixed on mine. The old woman in the
corner alone showed no consciousness of my neighbourhood. We eyed
one another in silence for a second or two. Then the girl with the
harp,—the instrument she was manipulating proved to be fashioned
more like a harp than a guitar—called out to me,

'"Entrez, monsieur!—Soye le bienvenu!"

'I was a little tired. Rather curious as to whereabouts I was,—
the place struck me, even at that first momentary glimpse, as
hardly in the ordinary line of that kind of thing. And not
unwilling to listen to a repetition of the former song, or to
another sung by the same singer.

'"On condition," I replied, "that you sing me another song."

'"Ah, monsieur, with the greatest pleasure in the world I will
sing you twenty."

'She was almost, if not quite, as good as her word. She
entertained me with song after song. I may safely say that I have
seldom if ever heard melody more enchanting. All languages seemed
to be the same to her. She sang in French and Italian, German and
English,—in tongues with which I was unfamiliar. It was in these
Eastern harmonies that she was most successful. They were
indescribably weird and thrilling, and she delivered them with a
verve and sweetness which was amazing. I sat at one of the little
tables with which the room was dotted, listening entranced.

'Time passed more rapidly than I supposed. While she sang I sipped
the liquor with which the old woman had supplied me. So enthralled
was I by the display of the girl's astonishing gifts that I did
not notice what it was I was drinking. Looking back I can only
surmise that it was some poisonous concoction of the creature's
own. That one small glass had on me the strangest effect. I was
still weak from the fever which I had only just succeeded in
shaking off, and that, no doubt, had something to do with the
result. But, as I continued to sit, I was conscious that I was
sinking into a lethargic condition, against which I was incapable
of struggling.

'After a while the original performer ceased her efforts, and, her
companions taking her place, she came and joined me at the little
table. Looking at my watch I was surprised to perceive the
lateness of the hour. I rose to leave. She caught me by the wrist.

'"Do not go," she said;—she spoke English of a sort, and with the
queerest accent. "All is well with you. Rest awhile."

'You will smile,—I should smile, perhaps, were I the listener
instead of you, but it is the simple truth that her touch had on
me what I can only describe as a magnetic influence. As her
fingers closed upon my wrist, I felt as powerless in her grasp as
if she held me with bands of steel. What seemed an invitation was
virtually a command. I had to stay whether I would or wouldn't.
She called for more liquor, and at what again was really her
command I drank of it. I do not think that after she touched my
wrist I uttered a word. She did all the talking. And, while she
talked, she kept her eyes fixed on my face. Those eyes of hers!
They were a devil's. I can positively affirm that they had on me a
diabolical effect. They robbed me of my consciousness, of my power
of volition, of my capacity to think,—they made me as wax in her
hands. My last recollection of that fatal night is of her sitting
in front of me, bending over the table, stroking my wrist with her
extended fingers, staring at me with her awful eyes. After that, a
curtain seems to descend. There comes a period of oblivion.'

Mr Lessingham ceased. His manner was calm and self-contained
enough; but, in spite of that I could see that the mere
recollection of the things which he told me moved his nature to
its foundations. There was eloquence in the drawn lines about his
mouth, and in the strained expression of his eyes.

So far his tale was sufficiently commonplace. Places such as the
one which he described abound in the Cairo of to-day; and many are
the Englishmen who have entered them to their exceeding bitter
cost. With that keen intuition which has done him yeoman's service
in the political arena, Mr Lessingham at once perceived the
direction my thoughts were taking.

'You have heard this tale before?—No doubt. And often. The traps
are many, and the fools and the unwary are not a few. The
singularity of my experience is still to come. You must forgive me
if I seem to stumble in the telling. I am anxious to present my
case as baldly, and with as little appearance of exaggeration as
possible. I say with as little appearance, for some appearance of
exaggeration I fear is unavoidable. My case is so unique, and so
out of the common run of our every-day experience, that the
plainest possible statement must smack of the sensational.

'As, I fancy, you have guessed, when understanding returned to me,
I found myself in an apartment with which I was unfamiliar. I was
lying, undressed, on a heap of rugs in a corner of a low-pitched
room which was furnished in a fashion which, when I grasped the
details, filled me with amazement. By my side knelt the Woman of
the Songs. Leaning over, she wooed my mouth with kisses. I cannot
describe to you the sense of horror and of loathing with which the
contact of her lips oppressed me. There was about her something so
unnatural, so inhuman, that I believe even then I could have
destroyed her with as little sense of moral turpitude as if she
had been some noxious insect.

'"Where am I?" I exclaimed.

'"You are with the children of Isis," she replied. What she meant
I did not know, and do not to this hour. "You are in the hands of
the great goddess,—of the mother of men."

'"How did I come here?"

'"By the loving kindness of the great mother."

'I do not, of course, pretend to give you the exact text of her
words, but they were to that effect.

'Half raising myself on the heap of rugs, I gazed about me,—and
was astounded at what I saw.

'The place in which I was, though the reverse of lofty, was of
considerable size,—I could not conceive whereabouts it could be.
The walls and roof were of bare stone,—as though the whole had
been hewed out of the solid rock. It seemed to be some sort of
temple, and was redolent with the most extraordinary odour. An
altar stood about the centre, fashioned out of a single block of
stone. On it a fire burned with a faint blue flame,—the fumes
which rose from it were no doubt chiefly responsible for the
prevailing perfumes. Behind it was a huge bronze figure, more than
life size. It was in a sitting posture, and represented a woman.
Although it resembled no portrayal of her I have seen either
before or since, I came afterwards to understand that it was meant
for Isis. On the idol's brow was poised a beetle. That the
creature was alive seemed clear, for, as I looked at it, it opened
and shut its wings.