“So on the whole you find that your stratagems have culminated in a brilliant success!” Austin exclaimed, unable to contain himself.
“A partial success,” the doctor corrected him modestly.
“A partial success?”
“Yes. I had hoped he would also wipe out Bergen for us, but he wasn’t ripe for that yet.”
Austin could think of nothing to say in reply and gazed at him in a sort of daze. This rational method of exploiting human passions filled Austin with indignation, yet at the same time he could not help feeling a certain admiration for the psychological approach. His curiosity got the better of him, and it was in the humble tone of a student questioning his master that he asked for further explanations.
“How could he have behaved so heroically under torture after showing such abject cowardice before?”
“I’m sure my fellow psychiatrists could give you at least a dozen reasons, all of them more or less valid. They would tell you that paranoia frequently entails such incongruities. They would quote the case of the coward who commits suicide because he is frightened of dying. The truth, Austin . . .”
Until then he had been speaking in his professional tone. His attitude now underwent a sudden change, as frequently happened. He leaned forward, his eyes shining, his face illuminated as though by some inner flame—symptoms, the young man thought, which in others might have indicated enthusiasm or violent excitement, but which in this case betrayed the solution of a difficult problem.
“The truth is that on the first occasion, you realize, it was only a question of the lives of some fifty people. Fifty human lives—that wasn’t a sufficiently clear or striking symbol of duty to enable him to overcome his instincts. Whereas the second time . . .”
Austin automatically broke in.
“The second time, he himself was at stake.”
“He and he alone,” Dr. Fog agreed. “He, with that dream world of his—he, the ideal creature of his own imagination! He would have accepted the destruction of everyone on earth, Austin, but not of that fabulous being. For himself, for himself alone, he was capable of showing heroism.”
Austin lapsed into a painful meditation, confused, constantly haunted by fleeting shadows that he felt were converging
toward some mysterious point, and constantly disappointed by interferences that hindered the clear perception of this pole. After several minutes of these discouraging mental gymnastics, he felt the need to seize on some more tangible elements.
“There are certain steps to be taken, sir. Morvan must be vindicated. As for Claire, whom I've brought back to London and who is more or less under house arrest. . .”
The doctor made a listless gesture, as though to dismiss these unimportant details.
“You can set your mind at rest. Morvan will be showered with honors—the highest posthumous awards. I've
already seen to that. As for him . . .” It was now his turn to appear uncertain and distracted. After a pause he went on:
“Morvan’s citations will be sufficiently glorious for the family to renounce any idea they may have of wreaking their vengeance on a ghost. As for him . . . No one knows his story in detail, apart from the two of us. Do you feel it’s necessary to spread it abroad, Austin?’’
Austin did not reply. With slow, deliberate gestures Dr. Fog took a pair of scissors, detached the tape, and started cutting it up into small pieces that he dropped into the metal basket in which he burned his top-secret papers. He went on speaking while he applied himself methodically to this task. Every now and then his voice acquired a curious pitch, which he seemed to regret and tried to correct immediately afterward.
“An intellectual, Austin—I summed him up correctly. Mind you, intellectuals are to be found just as frequently among stonemasons and professional soldiers as among artists and men of letters. If you look hard enough, you will even unearth one or two among members of the secret service. Don’t you agree?”
Austin gave a faint smile. The doctor dropped some pieces of paper into the bucket, set fire to them, and watched with close attention as they burned.
“I think he has paid the price. When a man has paid the price he ought to be allowed to rest in peace. . . . You spoke about hell just now, Austin? As a matter of fact, I think there’s quite a chance he’ll rest in peace. What do you think?”
There was a suggestion of real anxiety in the question, in spite of the casual manner in which it was put. Instead of giving a direct reply, Austin described something else he had remembered.
“When I went back into the room, sir, when I forced myself to look at him closely, I was struck by the expression on his face. His body was hideously contorted, of course, and his limbs all twisted, but his features were relaxed, almost serene. It was incredible. His face bore the mark of a wonderful beatitude and an ecstatic smile still lingered on his lips.”
“A reflection of his dying thoughts,” said Dr. Fog.
“I’m not surprised. Yet you accused me just now of mental cruelty! Believe me, I haven’t failed in my duties as a doctor ... I did much more for him than simple humanity required.”
He went so far as to indulge in certain remarks that were hardly those of a man of science. He seemed willing to discuss the Arvers case forever. Austin could have sworn he was positively reluctant to dismiss it from his mind. Each word he uttered appeared to reveal a fresh horizon.
“I’ve found myself thinking about him quite a lot these last few days,” he said in a low voice, “even here, in this room, where he only made one brief appearance—remember?—but where the file is kept containing the essentials of his troubled spirit. His reports constitute an extraordinary body of work that can’t be judged by the standards of his professional writing—a cathedral, Austin, a cathedral constructed in the baroque architectural style of his ideal, its walls permeated with anguish, its stones cemented together with the fierce exertions of his despair, its spire soaring toward some inaccessible star.”
“Romanesque, sir?” said, Austin, peering at him intently.