CHAPTER III
THE RING.
RENÉ CAOUDAL held out to the doctor his left hand, on which glittered a pearl with a superb setting. Stephen Patrice sat silent for a long time, his eyes riveted on the ring, puzzled, perplexed, with a hundred contradictory theories chasing one another through his brain. Although reason and common sense seemed on the side of doubt, he felt sure, in his character of physician, that René was not delirious. That he was speaking in his sleep could not for a moment be admitted, or that he was inventing the story; his frankness and loyalty to his friend were too thoroughly understood. But over and above the moral testimony of his young friend, there remained this strange token—this ring—which, even in ordinary circumstances, would have struck the most indifferent observer. The unique beauty of the pearl constituted a mystery in itself.
Whence came it? Its purity, its shape, its size, its incomparable perfection, proved it to be a royal jewel, a historic ornament of priceless value, which could not have been stolen and concealed without a noise being made about it, much less worn by the thief, without being very quickly traced. It must have been celebrated, described minutely in the archives of some old mansion. The mounting was, if possible, more marvellous than the pearl. Cleopatra herself could not have dissolved and swallowed one more choice. Patrice was somewhat of a relic hunter, like many others in these modern times; but he had, in a degree that few others can have, that artistic sense so common among children in his birthplace, the south of France, where it seems as if sculpture, painting, music, singing, eloquence, and the belles-lettres grow spontaneously. He instinctively recognized a work of art, and experience had taught him to class it with certainty, to attribute to it, without hesitation, a date, a school, a country. But here, with this chef-d’œuvre in miniature before him, he was completely nonplussed. Was it Greek art? Doubtless. But Greek, strictly speaking, like the words of the young girl and the old man, which sounded like Greek to René, “though he did not understand a word,” it certainly was not. He had never seen this style of ornamentation anywhere. It did not belong to the dawn of Grecian art, nor to its meridian, nor to its decline; he could find none of the essential features of the Doric, Ionic, Corinthian or Neo-Greek schools. He could not give a name to the marvellously chiselled faces in the setting right and left of the imperial pearl.
No animal, no bird, no kind of fossil reembodied by science was represented here. The chimera, that strange creation of the ancient imagination, could not have suggested the design, for the singular feature of it was the expression, even more than the form, of the face. Whether it was the likeness of a veritable creature, or the capricious symbol of an obsolete creed, it was impossible to say. The material, of which the mounting was composed, was another subject of perplexity. It was impossible to decide whether it was metal, wood, or stone. One would judge it to be metal. But was it gold—silver—platinum? No. An unknown combination? Perhaps. It resembled nothing he had ever seen. It was altogether an enigma, Between the artist that had conceived it and those who at the moment contemplated it there was an abyss,— an abyss of time, of space, of religion, of thought, of genius, of race, of language, of manners. That was evident.
“One might think that it had fallen from another planet,” said the doctor, involuntarily.
“You think so!” said René, “I felt sure I had n’t dreamt it. But whether I was inclined to believe or disbelieve it, of one thing I am now perfectly certain, —that what I have told you of my doings has been seen and lived; I am as certain of it as I am of my accident on board
Stephen Patrice examining the ring.
the Hercules, and of my own identity. There! you may say what you like to the contrary. If I had any doubts, what can one say in answer to this tangible proof?”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor, thoughtfully. “If only there were an inscription,” added René, turning the ring about.
“An inscription! At the time in which this jewel was engraved I should be surprised to hear if they had recourse to our means of writing. Believe me, the arrangement of these faces constituted in itself a phrase legible to her for whom the ring was destined.”
“To her for whom it was destined,” repeated René, in a dreamy voice. “Ah, if you had but seen her, Stephen, you would no longer be surprised at the ring, wonderful as it is!”
“Possibly,” said the doctor, nodding his head; “but, if I may say all I think about it, I should not like to see you musing too much about these experiences of yours. I do not pretend to explain that which I do not understand, and I do not deny that which is beyond me. There are mysteries that may be good and safe to sound; but this does not appear to be one of them. Siren or mortal, goddess or daughter of the Evil One, I do not admire your goddess with her mysterious beverages and her enigmatical hospitality. Take my advice; put this ring away somewhere, or, better still, throw it into the sea, like the ancient who must have done so long ago, as a propitiatory offering to the gods; turn your back resolutely on these reminiscences which can only trouble your brain; cease to look into an unknown sphere, and fix your thoughts on things nearer home.”
“Never!” cried the midshipman, indignantly, “Never! I? How can I forget this vision? No, my friend, I would not if I could. Look here! You speak of throwing it away and yet you are fascinated by it; you can’t take your eyes from it; your hand is held out, in spite of yourself, to take it again. Never mind, the power which ordains that I shall find these mysterious beings again, the attraction which draws me towards them, is more imperious than you imagine. I must see them again and their submarine home. I must learn their secret, and obtain their confidence, so that I may establish communication with them.”
“You must, above all, get up your strength,” said the doctor, a little alarmed at this outbreak of excitement. “You should go to your mother and get better. Do you not see that all you have gone through has tried you severely, and, before attempting any fresh adventures, it will be necessary to get a little flesh on your bones?”
“That is true,” said René, seriously. “To succeed in any enterprise whatever, one must first make provision in the shape of health and strength. I have a good mind to ask for leave, and to get away to ‘The Poplars,’ as soon as I am free.”
“‘The Poplars!’,” repeated the doctor, in a melancholy tone. “ Ah, René! how is it possible that any other image can efface the one you will find there?”
“What,” said the middy, in an amused tone, “are you going to take part with the rest? You mean Hélène. How many times shall we have to beg oui friends not to try to make us happy in spite of ourselves!”
“Your mother would be so pleased to call her daughter.”
“But that matter is settled,” said René, laughing. “Don’t you see that it is absolutely impossible? Even if I could adorn with idealistic virtues the playfellow with whom I have grown up, with whom I have exchanged hard knocks on the head, and uncomplimentary home-truths, I dare not propose such a thing to her. Poor Hélène! she deserves a better fate than to be forced into a distasteful marriage. But, happily, she is not the sort of girl to allow any one to choose for her. And besides,” added he, not without a spark of malice, “ unless I am much mistaken, she will not have to go far to find an admirer far more satisfactory than I.”
“By the way,” said the doctor, abruptly changing the subject, “ have you heard from Kermadec?”
“Certainly,” said Caoudal. “The lad was allowed to see me as soon as he arrived at the hospital. He has even more need of rest and change than I. Do you know what I ‘ve been thinking of? To take him with me to ‘The Poplars.’ He is alone in the world. Mother and Hélène know him through my letters, and I am sure that he would enjoy himself there.”
“A capital idea,” said the doctor. “ If it were not in your service that he was wounded, it is not for want of wishing it. His one grief was at having survived you, as he thought, and to have done nothing to save you. You have made a devoted friend there.”
“With very little trouble, t am sure. But the friendship is reciprocated. Kermadec has rare qualities, but the simplicity of a child. His naivety and credulousness expose him to the worst influences.”
“Those he will meet at ‘The Poplars’ can only be of the very best,” said the doctor. “It is an understood thing, then. With his consent, which will not be difficult to get, we will ask for a double furlough. You go to recruit your strength together in the country air, and I will find time to pay a flying visit to *The Poplars.’ Do you know that yesterday I was ordered to serve on anything but a cheerful errand? — the mission of going to inform your mother—”
“That her René had served as breakfast for the crabs?” said the midshipman, in a tone which belied the levity of his words. “ Poor mother! Bah! Let us think no more of that. It is all over now. Make haste and get your furlough, and come and -join us as soon as you can.”