"Give us a fine tattoo to finish," said I, when the sounds had completely ceased. The reply was a series of sounds like the heavy roll of drums, given with such force that the table trembled on its legs. I put my hand on it and very plainly felt the vibrations of the wood as it was struck by the invisible force.

I asked if I might inspect the table. It was turned upside down in my presence, and I examined it, as well as the floor, very carefully. I discovered nothing. Besides, M. X. could not, you know, foresee, that, during my visit, a military band would pa.s.s by, and that I should ask the table to accompany it by imitating the drum.

I afterwards returned to the city where these things occurred and was present at other very curious seances. I should be enchanted, my dear master and friend, as I have said to you, to be your guide there some day. But this "high functionary" absolutely insists on his incognito.

These remarkable observations by my friend Joncieres evidently have their value, and belong here, in the train of all the preceding ones.

I give a few others below which we owe to an attentive and sceptical observer, M. Castex-Degrange, sub-director of the National School Of Fine Arts at Lyons, upon whose veracity and sincerity not the least shadow of suspicion can rest, any more than in the preceding instances. I owe to his kindness a large number of interesting letters, and I will ask his permission to cite from them the most important pa.s.sages.

The following is dated the 18th of April, 1899.

For the second time, I affirm upon my honor that I will tell you nothing that is not strictly true, and usually easy to verify.

In spite of the calling I follow, I am not at all gifted with imagination. I have lived much in the company of physicians, men from the nature of their profession little given to credulity; and, whether it is in consequence of my natural disposition, or by reason of the principles which I absorbed in this kind of company, I have always been very sceptical.

This is, indeed, one of the reasons why I abandoned my psychical experiments. I reached the most stupifying results, and yet it was impossible for me to get to believe myself. I was thoroughly convinced that I was not seeking to deceive myself or to deceive others, and, not being able to surrender myself to the evidence, I was always seeking some other reason than the one given by the believers. That made me suffer, and I stopped.

I here end this preamble, and am going to unfold to you the course of my observations.

I was acquainted with a company of people, who were occupied with Spiritualism and with turning-tables, and had made them the b.u.t.t of my wit,[76] a little; for, although not bitter or severe, I never neglected to play a good practical joke on them when occasion served.

It seemed to me that these worthy people, who were, moreover, very sincere, were all a little "cracked" (_maboules_), if I may be allowed so uncouth, or _fin de siecle_, an expression.

One day I was visiting them. The drawing-room was lighted by two large windows. I began, as usual, by some pleasantries. Their reply was in the shape of an invitation to me to take part in the experiments.

"But," said I, "if I take a seat at your table it will not turn any more, because I shall not push it."

"Come all the same."

Well, I declare upon my honor that, just for a joke, I tried it. I had scarcely put my hands on the table when it made a rush at me.

I said to the person facing me, "Don't push so hard."

"But, dear sir, I was not pushing."

I put the centre-table back in its place, but the same thing occurred again, once, twice, thrice. I began to get impatient and said,

"What you are doing is not very clever. If you want to convince me, don't push."

He replied to me, "n.o.body is pushing, only you probably have so much fluid in you that the table is attracted toward you. _Perhaps you could make it go, by yourself._"

"Oh, if I myself could make it go, that would be different!"

"Try it."

They all moved back. I remained alone face to face with the table. I took hold of it, lifted it, thoroughly examined it. There was no trick about it. I made every body go behind me. I was facing the windows, and had my eyes open, I a.s.sure you. I stretched my arms out as far as possible, in order to have a good view, only placing the ends of my fingers on the table.

In a little less than two minutes it began to rock to and fro. I confess that I felt a little foolish, not wishing to surrender--

"Yes, perhaps it moves," said I. "It is possible that an unknown fluid is acting upon it; at any rate, it does not come toward me, and just now some one was pushing it."

"No," said one of the sitters, "n.o.body was pushing it; but, although you are highly charged with fluid, the a.s.sistance of another person is needed for the production of the phenomenon: you are not enough by yourself. Will you allow one of us to put a hand _upon_ yours, without touching the table?"

"Yes."

Someone put a hand on mine and _I watched_. The table at once began to move, and came and pressed against me. They all cried out, and claimed that they had caught a medium in me. I was not very much flattered with the t.i.tle, which I considered as synonymous with "lunatic."

"You ought to try to write," said some one to me.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, see here. You take paper and pen, let your arm lie pa.s.sive, and have the wish in your mind that _some unknown person or force_ shall cause you to write."

I tried it. At the end of five minutes, my arm felt as if it were wrapped in a woolen blanket. Then, in spite of myself, my hand began to trace at first mere strokes, then _o's_, _a's_, letters of all sorts, as a schoolboy learning to write would do. Then, all of a sudden, came the notorious word attributed to Cambronne at Waterloo! I a.s.sure you, my dear sir, that I am never in the habit of using this coa.r.s.e and dirty term, and that there was no auto-suggestion, or unconscious act of my own, in the case. I was absolutely _stupefied_ by the occurrence.

I continued these experiments at my own home.

1. One day, when I was seated at my writing-desk, I felt the weird seizure in my arm. I let my arm remain pa.s.sive. The Unknown wrote:

"Your friend Aroud is coming to see you. He is at this moment in such and such an omnibus-office in the suburbs. He is asking the price of tickets and the hour of departure."

(This M. Aroud is chief of the bureau of police, prefecture of the Rhone.) In fact, a half-hour afterwards, Aroud made his appearance. I told him what had taken place.

"It is a good thing for you that you are living in the nineteenth century," said he to me. "A few hundred years ago you would not have escaped death at the stake."

2. On another occasion the phenomenon occurred again, and this time also I was at my writing desk:

"Your friend Dolard is coming to see you."

An hour afterward, sure enough he came. I told him how it happened that I was waiting for him. Although he was very incredulous by nature, yet, for all that, this fact set him to thinking. The next day saw his re-appearance.

"Can you get a reply to a question I am going to ask you?" said he.

"Don't ask," I replied, "think it. We will try."

I must here tell you parenthetically that I had known of Dolard for thirty years. He was my comrade at the Beaux-Arts. I knew that he had lost an elder brother, that he had been married, and had had the misfortune to lose, one by one, all the members of his family. That was all I knew about them.

I took the pen and the Invisible wrote, "The sufferings of your sister Sophia have just ended."

Now Dolard had mentally asked what had become of the spirit of a sister named Sophia, whom he had lost forty-two years ago, and about whom I had never heard a word spoken.

3. My princ.i.p.al at the School of Fine Arts in Lyons, a former architect of the city of Paris, was M. Hedin. This M. Hedin had an only daughter, who some years ago had married another architect, M.

Forget, in Paris. The woman became enceinte.

One day when I was thinking of anything but her, the same thing occurred as before. The Invisible wrote:

"_Mme. Forget is going to die._"