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The latter, as they entered the dining-room, made a sign to them that they should all keep silence: he did not wish that they should fatigue the tired mind of the child with premature questions; but when they were sitting at the table, Paul, addressing Albert, said,—
"Tell me what passed last night. It is strange I scarcely remember."
"No," said Madame Dalize: "we are at table for breakfast, and we have all need for food,—you, Paul, above all. Come, now, let us eat; a little later we may talk."
"It is well said," said Monsieur Dalize.
There was nothing to do but to obey. And, indeed, Paul was glad to do so, for he was very hungry. He had lost so much strength that the stomach for the moment was more interesting to him than the brain. They breakfasted, and then they went out upon the lawn before the château, under a large walnut-tree, which every day gave its hospitable shade to the Dalize family and their guests.
"Well, my dear Paul," said Monsieur Dalize, "how are you at present?"
"Very well, indeed, sir, very well," answered Paul. "I was a little feeble when I first awoke, but now,—now–"
He stopped speaking; he seemed lost in thought.
"What is the matter?" asked Albert.
"I am thinking of last night at the farm,—the fire."
"Oh, that was nothing," said Albert.
"But," continued Paul, "how did we get back here?"
"In the carriage. Father came for us and brought us home."
"And how did we leave the farm?"
Monsieur Roger followed with rapt attention the workings of Paul's memory. He was waiting in burning anxiety the moment when Paul should remember. One principal fact, only one thing occupied his attention. Would Paul remember how and by whom he had been borne from the torpor which was strangling him? Would he remember that cry,—that name which had had the miraculous power to awake him, to bring him back to life? If Paul remembered that, then, perhaps– And again Monsieur Roger was a prey to his fixed idea,—to his stroke of folly, as Monsieur Dalize called it.
The latter, besides, knew nothing as yet, and Monsieur Roger counted upon the sudden revelation of this extraordinary fact to shake his conviction. But Paul had repeated his question. He asked,—
"How did we leave the farm-house? How were we saved?"
And as Albert did not know whether he should speak, whether he should tell everything, Paul continued:
"But speak, explain to me: I am trying to find out. I cannot remember; and that gives me pain here." And he touched his head.
Monsieur Roger made a sign to Albert, and the latter spoke:
"Well, do you remember the turret, where we had our rooms? You slept above, I below. Do you remember the trap-door that I showed you? In the middle of the night I felt myself awakened by somebody, and I followed him. In my half sleep I thought that this some one was you, my poor friend; but, alas! you remained above; you were sleeping without fear. Why, it was Monsieur Roger who first saw the danger that you were in."
Paul, while Albert was speaking, had bent his head, seeking in his memory and beginning to put in order his scattered thoughts. When Albert pronounced the name of Monsieur Roger, Paul raised his eyes towards him with a look which showed that he would soon remember.
"And afterwards?" said he.
"And afterwards Monsieur Roger climbed upon the roof, at the risk of his life, and reached the loop-hole which opened into your chamber. He broke the glass of the window; but you did not hear him: the smoke which was issuing through the floor had made you insensible,—had almost asphyxiated you."
"Ah, I remember!" cried Paul. "I was sleeping, and, at the same time, I was not sleeping. I knew that I was exposed to some great danger, but I had not the strength to make a movement. I seemed paralyzed. I heard cries and confused murmurs, sounds of people coming and going. I felt that I ought to rise and flee, but that was impossible. My arms, my legs would not obey me; my eyelids, which I attempted to open, were of lead. I soon thought that everything was finished, that I was lost; and still I was saying to myself that I might be raised out of this stupor. It seemed to me that the efforts of some one outside might be so, that an order, a prayer might give back to my will the power which it had lost; but the stupor took hold of me more and more intensely. I was going to abandon myself to it, when, all of a sudden, I heard myself called. Yes, somebody called me; but not in the same way that I have been called before. In that cry there was such a command, such a prayer, so much faith, that my will at once recovered strength to make my body obey it. I roused myself; I saw and I understood, and, luckily, I remembered the trap-door which you had shown me. I could scarcely lift it; but there was some one there,—yes, some one who saved me."
Paul Solange uttered a great cry.
"Ah," said he, "it was Monsieur Roger!" And he ran to throw himself into the arms which Monsieur Roger extended to him.
Miss Miette profited by the occasion to wipe her eyes, which this scene had filled with big tears in spite of herself. Then she turned to Paul, and said,—
"But the one who called to you? Was it true? It was not a dream?"
"Oh, no; it was some one. But who was it?"
"It was Monsieur Roger," answered Albert.
"And so you understood him?" continued Miette, very much interested. "And he called you loudly by your name, 'Paul! Paul!'"
Paul Solange did not answer. This question had suddenly set him to thinking. No, he had not heard himself called thus. But how had he been called?
Seeing that Paul was silent, Albert answered his little sister's question:
"Certainly," said he, "he called Paul by his name."
Then he interrupted himself, and, remembering all of a sudden:
"No," cried he; "Monsieur Roger called out another name."
"What other name?" asked Monsieur Dalize, much surprised.
"He cried out, 'George! George!'"
Monsieur Dalize turned his head towards Roger and saw the eyes of his friend fixed upon his own. He understood at once. Poor Roger was still a slave to the same thought, the same illusion.
Madame Dalize and Miette, who were acquainted with the sorrows of Monsieur Roger, imagined that in this moment of trouble he had in spite of himself called up the image of his child. Paul, very gravely, was dreamily saying to himself that the name of George was the name which he had heard, and that it was to the sound of this name that he had answered, and he was asking himself the mysterious reason for such a fact.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A PROOF?
Monsieur Dalize took his friend Roger by the arm, and they walked together down one of the solitary pathways of the park. When they were some distance off from Madame Dalize and the children, Monsieur Dalize stopped, looked his friend squarely in the eyes, and said, in a faltering tone,—
"Then you still think it? You have retained that foolish idea? You think that Paul–?"
"Yes," interrupted Monsieur Roger, in a firm voice, and without avoiding the eyes of his friend, "I think it, and more than that." Then, lowering his head, in a softened tone, but without hesitation, he said, "I think that Paul is my son."
Monsieur Dalize looked at his friend with a feeling of real pity.
"Your son?" he said. "You think that Paul is your son? And on what do you found this improbable, this impossible belief? Upon a likeness which your sorrowful spirit persists in tracing. Truly, my dear Roger, you grieve me. I thought you had a firmer as well as a clearer head. To whom could you confide such absurd ideas?"
"To you, in the first place, as I have already done," said Monsieur Roger, gravely. "The resemblance which you doubt, and which, in fact, seems impossible to prove, is not a resemblance which I see between Paul and George, but between Paul and her who was his mother; of that I am sure."
"You are sure?"
"Yes; and in speaking thus I am in possession of all my senses, as you see. Now, would you like to know what further clue I have? Perhaps I have one. I will tell it to you."
Here Monsieur Roger interrupted himself.
"No," said he: "you will laugh at me."
"Speak," said Monsieur Dalize. "I am sorry for you, and I shall not laugh at your delusion. Speak. I will listen."
"Well," said Monsieur Roger, "this very morning, when you left the room, the noise that you made troubled the sleep of Paul; a dream passed through his brain, and I followed all its phases. I saw that Paul was going over the terrible scene of the night before; I knew that by the terror of his face and by the murmur of his lips. He evidently thought himself exposed to danger; then it seemed as if he heard something, as if he knew that help was at hand. He made a movement, as if to extend his hands, and from his mouth came this word, 'Papa.'"
Monsieur Roger looked at his friend, who remained silent.
"You have not understood?" he said.
Monsieur Dalize shook his head.
"Ah, but I understood," continued Monsieur Roger; "I am certain that I understood. In his dream Paul—no, no, not Paul, but George, my little George—had heard himself called as ten years ago he had been called at the time of the shipwreck, during the fire on shipboard, and he was answering to that call; and it was to no stranger that he was answering; it was not to Monsieur Roger; no, it was to his father: it was to me."
Monsieur Roger stopped, seeking some other proof which he might furnish to Monsieur Dalize.
The latter was plunged in thought; his friend's faith commenced to shake his doubt. He certainly did not share Roger's idea, but he was saying to himself that perhaps this idea was not so impossible as it would seem at first sight.
Roger continued, hesitating from the moment he had to pronounce the name of Paul Solange:
"You remember exactly the story that Paul told. Were you not struck with it? Did not Paul acknowledge that in his torpor, in his semi-asphyxia, he had called for help, called to his assistance some unknown force which would shake and awake his dazed and half-paralyzed will? And did not this help come, this sudden force, when he felt himself called? Now, how many times I had cried out 'Paul' without waking the child! Paul was not his name; he did not hear it. I had to shout to him, making use of his own name, his real name. I cried out, 'George!' and George heard and understood me. George was saved."
Monsieur Dalize listened attentively: he was following up a train of reasoning. At the end of some moments he answered Monsieur Roger, who was awaiting with impatience the result of his thoughts.
"Alas, my poor friend! in spite of all my reason tells me, I should like to leave to you your hope, but it is impossible. I have seen Paul's father; I know him; I have spoken to him, I have touched him; that father is not a shadow,—he exists in flesh and blood. You have heard Paul himself speak of him. In a few months he will come to Paris; you will see him; and then you will be convinced."
"But have you seen the birth-register of Paul Solange?" asked Monsieur Roger.
"Have I seen it? I may have done so, but I don't remember just now."
"But that register must have been made; it must be in France, in the hands of some one."
"Certainly."
"Where can it be?"
"At the Lyceum, in the dockets of the registrar."
"Well, my friend, my dear friend, I must see it. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand. You wish to have under your own eyes the proof of your mistake. You shall have it. As the guardian of Paul Solange, I will write the registrar to send me a copy of that birth-register. Are you satisfied?"
"Yes."
"And now, I ask you to be calm, to keep cool."
"Oh, don't be uneasy about me," answered Monsieur Roger.
Then the two friends rejoined the group which they had left.
Miette rose when she saw Monsieur Roger.
"Ah!" she cried, "Monsieur Roger is going to tell us that."
"That? What?" asked Monsieur Dalize.
"Why, what asphyxia is," answered Miette.
"Ah, my friend," said Monsieur Dalize, turning to Roger, "I will leave the word to you."
"Very well," answered Monsieur Roger. "Asphyxia is,—it is–"
And as Monsieur Roger was seeking for some easy words in which to explain himself, Miette cried out, with a laugh,—
"Perhaps you don't know yourself,—you who know everything?"
"Yes, I know it," answered Monsieur Roger, with a smile; "but, in order to tell you, I must first explain to you what is the formation of the blood, and tell you something of oxygen and carbonic acid, and–"
"Well, tell us," cried Miette, "if you think it will interest us.—It will, won't it, Paul?"
Paul bent his head.
Monsieur Roger saw this gesture, and replied,—
"Well, then, I am going to tell you."
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE AIR AND THE LUNGS
"In order to live," continued Monsieur Roger, "you must breathe. You don't doubt that?"
"No," said Miss Miette, seriously.
"Now, respiration consists in the absorption by the blood of some of the oxygen of the air and in breathing out carbonic acid. The oxygen, in combining with the carbon and hydrogen of the blood, excites a real combustion in the lungs, which results in the production of heat and in the exhalation of vapor and carbonic acid."
Monsieur Roger was going to continue in the same scientific tone, when Monsieur Dalize remarked to him that his explanation did not seem to be at all understood by the children.
The latter, a little embarrassed, held their tongues.
"You are right," replied Monsieur Roger, addressing Monsieur Dalize; "that is a silence which is certainly not very flattering. I intend to profit by this lesson by beginning once more at the beginning."
"You are right," said Miette.
"Well, then, respiration is the very important function whose object is to introduce air into our lungs.
"What are the lungs, and why is it necessary to introduce air into them? And, in the first place, how is this air introduced? Through the mouth and through the nose. Then it passes through the larynx and arrives at a large tube, which is called the trachea, or wind-pipe. It is this tube which, as I shall show you, forms the two lungs. As it enters the chest, this tube branches out into two smaller tubes, which are called the primary bronches. One of these bronches goes to the right, to make the right lung; the other to the left, to make the left lung. Each primary bronche is soon divided into a number of little tubes, called secondary bronches. The secondary bronches divide up into a number of other tubes, which are still smaller; and so on, and so on. Imagine a tree with two branches, one spreading towards the right, and the other towards the left. Upon these two branches grow other branches; upon these other branches still others, and so on. The branches become smaller and smaller until they become mere twigs. Now, imagine these twigs ending in leaves, and you will have some idea of that which is sometimes called the pulmonary tree, with its thousand branches."
"No," said Miette: "bronches."
"Bronches,—you are right," said Monsieur Roger, who could not help smiling at Miss Miette. "The tree which I have taken as a comparison finishes by dividing itself into twigs, which, as I have said, end in leaves. But you know, of course, that the twigs of the pulmonary tree in our breast do not end in leaves. They end in a sort of very small cells, surrounded by very thin walls. These cells are so small that they need a microscope to detect them, and their walls are very, very thin; the cells are all stuck fast together, and together they constitute a spongy mass, which is the lung. Now let us pass to the second question: Why is it necessary to introduce air into the lungs?"
"Yes," said Miette; "let us pass to that."
"The blood, in going out of the heart, circulates to all the parts of the body in order to make necessary repairs; at the same time it charges itself with all the old matter which has been used up and is no longer any good and carries it along. Now, what is it going to do with this old matter? It will burn it. Where will it burn it? In the lungs. Now, there can be no combustion when there is no air. The blood, wishing to burn its waste matter, and wishing also to purify the alimentary principles which the veins have drawn from the stomach, has need of air. Where will it find it? In the lungs. And that is why it is necessary to introduce air into our lungs, or, in other words, that is why we breathe. The lungs are a simple intermediary between the air and the blood. Among the cells of the lungs veins finer than hair wind and turn. These veins gather up the blood filled with waste matter. It is blood of a black color, which is called venous blood. The walls of the veins which transport the blood are so thin that air, under the atmospheric pressure,—this pressure which I have told you all about,—passes through them and into the blood. Then the venous blood charges itself with the oxygen contained in the air, and frees itself from what I have called its waste material, and which is nothing less than carbon. Immediately its aspect changes. This venous blood becomes what is called arterial blood; this black blood becomes rich vermilion,—it is regenerated. It goes out again to carry life to all our organs. Now, this time," asked Monsieur Roger, pausing, "have I made myself understood?"
"Yes," said Miette, speaking both for Paul and for herself; "yes, we have understood,—except when you speak of oxygen, of carbon, and of combustion."
"Oh, I was wrong to speak of them," answered Monsieur Roger, pretending to be vexed.
"That may be," answered Miss Miette, very calmly; "but as you did speak of them, you must tell us what they are."
"Yes, you must, my friend," remarked Monsieur Dalize, taking sides with his little girl.
"Mustn't he, papa? mustn't Monsieur Roger explain?" asked Miette.
"Come, now," said Monsieur Roger, in a resigned tone. "You must know, then, that air is composed of two gases,—oxygen and nitrogen; therefore, when we breathe, we send into our lungs oxygen and nitrogen. You might think, when we throw out this air, when we exhale,—you might think, I say, that this air coming out of our lungs is still composed of oxygen and of nitrogen in the same proportions. Now, it is not so at all. The quantity of nitrogen has not varied, but, in the first place, there is less oxygen, and there is another gas,—carbonic acid gas; where, then, is the oxygen which we have not exhaled, and whence comes this carbonic acid which we did not inhale? Then, besides, in the air exhaled there is vapor. Where does that come from? These phenomena result from the combustion of which I speak; but, in order that you should understand how this combustion occurs, I must explain to you what is oxygen and what is nitrogen. And as it is a long story, you must let me put it off till this evening; then I will talk until you are weary, my dear little Miette."
Miette looked at Albert and Paul, and answered for them with remarkable frankness:
"It will be only right if you do weary us. It is we who asked you, and, besides, we have so often wearied you that it is only right you should have your revenge on us. Still–"
"Still, what?"
"Still, we can trust you," added Miette, laughing, and throwing her arms around Roger's neck.
CHAPTER XXV.
OXYGEN
"We were saying that oxygen–" cried Miss Miette, with a smile, that evening, after dinner, seeing that Monsieur Roger had completely forgotten his promise.
"Yes," Monsieur Dalize hastened to add, as he wished to distract his friend from sad thoughts; "yes, my dear Roger, we were saying that oxygen–"
"Is a gas," continued Monsieur Roger, good-humoredly. "Yes, it is a gas; and Miette, I suppose, will want to ask me, 'What is gas?'"
"Certainly," said Miette.
"Well, it is only recently that we have found out, although the old scientists, who called themselves alchemists, had remarked that besides those things that come within reach of our senses there also exists something invisible, impalpable; and, as their scientific methods did not enable them to detect this thing, they had considered it a portion of the spirit land; and indeed some of the names which they adopted under this idea still remain in common use. Don't we often call alcohol 'spirits of wine'? As these ancients did not see the air which surrounded them, it was difficult for them to know that men live in an ocean of gas, in the same way as fish live in water; and they could not imagine that air is a matter just as much as water is. You remember that universal gravitation was discovered through–"
"The fall of an apple," said Miette.
"Yes; and that was something that every one knew; it was a very common fact that an apple would fall. Well, it was another common fact, another well-known thing, which enabled the Fleming Van Helmont to discover in the seventeenth century the real existence of gases, or at least of a gas. Van Helmont, one winter evening, was struck by the difference between the bulk of the wood which burned on his hearth and the bulk of the ashes left by the wood after its combustion. He wished to examine into this phenomenon, and he made some experiments. He readily found that sixty-two pounds of charcoal left, after combustion, only one pound of ashes. Now, what had become of the other sixty-one pounds? Reason showed him that they had been transformed into something invisible, or, according to the language of the times, into some aërial spirit. This something Van Helmont called 'gaast,' which in Flemish means spirit, and which is the same word as our ghost. From the word gaast we have made our word gas. The gas which Van Helmont discovered was, as we now know, carbonic acid. This scientist made another experiment which caused him to think a good deal, but which he could not explain. Now, we can repeat this experiment, if it will give you any pleasure."
"Certainly," said Miette; "what shall I bring you?"
"Only two things,—a soup-plate and a candle."
Monsieur Roger lit the candle and placed it in the middle of the soup-plate, which he had filled with water. Then he sought among the instruments which had come with the air-pump, and found a little glass globe. He placed the globe over the candle in the middle of the plate. Very soon, as if by a species of suction, the water of the plate rose in the globe; then the candle went out.
"Can Miss Miette explain to me what she has just seen?" said Monsieur Roger.
Miette reflected, and said,—
"As the water rose in the globe, it must have been because the air had left the globe, since the water came to take its place."
"Yes," answered Monsieur Roger; "but the air could not leave the globe, as there is no opening in the globe on top, and below it there is water. It did not leave the globe, but it diminished. Now, tell me why it diminished."
"Ah, I cannot tell you."
"Well, Van Helmont was in just your position. He could not know anything about the cause of this diminution, because he was ignorant of the composition of the air, which was not discovered until the next century by the celebrated French chemist Lavoisier. Now, this is how Lavoisier arrived at this important discovery. In the first place, he knew that metals, when they are calcined,—that is to say, when they are exposed to the action of fire,—increase in weight. This fact had been remarked before his time by Dr. Jehan Rey, under the following circumstances: A druggist named Brun came one day to consult the doctor. Rey asked to be allowed to feel his pulse.
"'But I am not sick,' cried the druggist.
"'Then what are you doing here?' said the doctor.
"'I come to consult you.'
"'Then you must be sick.'
"'Not at all. I come to consult you not for sickness, but in regard to an extraordinary thing which occurred in my laboratory.'
"'What was it?' asked Rey, beginning to be interested.
"'I had to calcine two pounds six ounces of tin. I weighed it carefully and then calcined it, and after the operation I weighed it again by chance, and what was my astonishment to find two pounds and thirteen ounces! Whence come these extra seven ounces? That is what I could not explain to myself, and that is why I came to consult you.'
"Rey tried the same experiment again and again, and finally concluded that the increase of weight came from combination with some part of the air.