about the mysteries of nature,’ I said, ‘and especially the most extraordinary of all: sleep.’
‘He’d kept a diary of his dreams since he was fifteen. He liked to boast that few people wrote them down as religiously as he did, and he rarely forgot them. In the morning my children and I were often given a detailed account of a dream which had particularly struck him and he would recount it candidly and unselfconsciously. I think he became a physiologist because of the dreams. He tried, at least at first, to find a scientific explanation for how they are created in the human psyche.’
‘When you say, with regard to your husband, that imagination had taken hold of reason,’ I continued, ‘you are no doubt referring to his psychic work?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did that begin?’
‘Shortly after he was elected to the Académie des Sciences. He met a Professor Charles Richet who made a strong impression on him and who became his friend. Professor Richet is an internationally renowned physiologist. He also founded the Institut Métapsychique 9 . Certain great men who make key discoveries in science and medicine also seem to be taken in by the most hackneyed fantasies.’
‘Mother!’ Amélie exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe that Professor Richet led anyone down the wrong path, as you are implying. Papa didn’t need anyone else’s encouragement to throw himself into the work you disapproved of so much.’
‘Yes, my dear, you’re probably right. It’s grief which makes me speak with such bitterness.’
‘I’ve heard that he was working on the possibility of controlling his dreams. Is that true?’
I had addressed the Marquise. The subject seemed to sadden her greatly and her eyes brimmed with tears again. Amélie, who seemed more at ease in this area, answered for her.
‘To some extent, yes. He was convinced that dreams enable one to attain a higher level of knowledge. But he didn’t generally discuss the results of his research with us.’
‘Did he see people from the Institut Métapsychique often?’
‘To begin with, my father visited the Institut at 89 Avenue Niel in Paris once a week. Later, his work became very demanding so he went there less frequently and the metapsychists came to him.’
‘Have any of them been here recently?’
‘Professor Richet came to see him three weeks before his death; Dr Osty just before that.’ 10
‘Over the last few days, did the Marquis receive any visitors, anyone at all?’ asked Superintendent Fourier.
‘Apart from local people, not that I know of. Only that so-called professor who absolutely insisted on seeing him.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No. At least, I can’t remember it. He was a foreigner with a German … or Austrian … or maybe Swiss accent.’
‘Was he a doctor or a physiologist too?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you there either.’
‘Hmm! I imagine the Marquis didn’t tell you the purpose of his visit.’
‘His visits, plural. He came twice, three days apart. First, on Tuesday 9 October and then last Friday, the day before his death. I don’t know what they discussed but my father didn’t seem to enjoy his visits.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Fourier more forcefully.
‘Sixty, average height, seventy-odd kilos. His nose was hooked, like a beak. He had enormous sideburns and tufts of unkempt sparse white hair that stuck out. He was like an actor in the theatre. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were black, very piercing, and hidden behind ridiculous Chinese glasses with square frames. He was not very nice and that’s putting it mildly.’
‘Ah! You didn’t mention his visits before!’
‘I most certainly did! I told one of Second Lieutenant Rouzé’s men! He didn’t seem very interested.’
Poor Monsieur Rouzé looked as if he would have liked the earth to swallow him up but Monsieur Breteuil unexpectedly came to his rescue.
‘We seem to have wandered off the subject,
‘He’d kept a diary of his dreams since he was fifteen. He liked to boast that few people wrote them down as religiously as he did, and he rarely forgot them. In the morning my children and I were often given a detailed account of a dream which had particularly struck him and he would recount it candidly and unselfconsciously. I think he became a physiologist because of the dreams. He tried, at least at first, to find a scientific explanation for how they are created in the human psyche.’
‘When you say, with regard to your husband, that imagination had taken hold of reason,’ I continued, ‘you are no doubt referring to his psychic work?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did that begin?’
‘Shortly after he was elected to the Académie des Sciences. He met a Professor Charles Richet who made a strong impression on him and who became his friend. Professor Richet is an internationally renowned physiologist. He also founded the Institut Métapsychique 9 . Certain great men who make key discoveries in science and medicine also seem to be taken in by the most hackneyed fantasies.’
‘Mother!’ Amélie exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe that Professor Richet led anyone down the wrong path, as you are implying. Papa didn’t need anyone else’s encouragement to throw himself into the work you disapproved of so much.’
‘Yes, my dear, you’re probably right. It’s grief which makes me speak with such bitterness.’
‘I’ve heard that he was working on the possibility of controlling his dreams. Is that true?’
I had addressed the Marquise. The subject seemed to sadden her greatly and her eyes brimmed with tears again. Amélie, who seemed more at ease in this area, answered for her.
‘To some extent, yes. He was convinced that dreams enable one to attain a higher level of knowledge. But he didn’t generally discuss the results of his research with us.’
‘Did he see people from the Institut Métapsychique often?’
‘To begin with, my father visited the Institut at 89 Avenue Niel in Paris once a week. Later, his work became very demanding so he went there less frequently and the metapsychists came to him.’
‘Have any of them been here recently?’
‘Professor Richet came to see him three weeks before his death; Dr Osty just before that.’ 10
‘Over the last few days, did the Marquis receive any visitors, anyone at all?’ asked Superintendent Fourier.
‘Apart from local people, not that I know of. Only that so-called professor who absolutely insisted on seeing him.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No. At least, I can’t remember it. He was a foreigner with a German … or Austrian … or maybe Swiss accent.’
‘Was he a doctor or a physiologist too?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you there either.’
‘Hmm! I imagine the Marquis didn’t tell you the purpose of his visit.’
‘His visits, plural. He came twice, three days apart. First, on Tuesday 9 October and then last Friday, the day before his death. I don’t know what they discussed but my father didn’t seem to enjoy his visits.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Fourier more forcefully.
‘Sixty, average height, seventy-odd kilos. His nose was hooked, like a beak. He had enormous sideburns and tufts of unkempt sparse white hair that stuck out. He was like an actor in the theatre. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were black, very piercing, and hidden behind ridiculous Chinese glasses with square frames. He was not very nice and that’s putting it mildly.’
‘Ah! You didn’t mention his visits before!’
‘I most certainly did! I told one of Second Lieutenant Rouzé’s men! He didn’t seem very interested.’
Poor Monsieur Rouzé looked as if he would have liked the earth to swallow him up but Monsieur Breteuil unexpectedly came to his rescue.
‘We seem to have wandered off the subject,
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