brains, the muscles of their arms, to convey to the paper the message it could neither speak nor write itself.
Presently the pencil ceased to move, and, after another period of patient waiting, the stricken mother took the paper from beneath the instrument and read the "message" of the queer, wavering writing, feeble, unpunctuated, and fantastic, but quite legible, although conjoined.
"My Dearest Maman," it ran. "Why do you grieve so for me and make me so unhappy? How can I be joyous when you are sad? Let me be happy by being happy yourself. I cannot come to you while you mourn. Be glad, and let me be glad and then you must be more happy still, because I am happy. I never felt any pain at all. I just awoke to find myself here, where all would be joy for me, except for your grief. I have left a world of pain, to wait a little while for you where we shall be together in perfect happiness for ever. Let me be happy, dearest Maman, by being resigned, and then happy, yourself. When you are at peace I can come to you always in your dreams, and we can talk together. Give me happiness at once, darling Mother. Please do. Your Petit Gingembre" ... which was not a bad effort for an unimaginative and dull-witted man.
He had his instant reward, for on finishing the reading of the "message," Madame Gallais threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears—the life-giving, reason-saving, blessed relief of tears.
An hour later she slept, for the first time in five days, holding her husband's big hand as he sat by her bed.
When she stirred and relinquished it, the next morning, the Major arose and went out.
"What a sacred liar I am!" quoth he. "Garçon, bring me an apéritif."
It is notorious that a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive. And Major Gallais practised hard. Two and three and four times daily did he manufacture "messages" from the dead child, and strive, with his heart in his mouth, to make the successful cheat last until the first wild bitterness of his wife's grief had worn off.
His hair went grey in the course of a month.
The mental strain of invention, the agony of rasping his own cruel wound by this mockery—for he had loved le petit Gingembre as much as the child's mother had done—and the constant terror lest some unconvincing expression or some unguarded pressure on the "planchette" should betray him, were more exhausting and wearing than two campaigns against the "pirates" of Yen Thé.
But still he had his reward, for his wife's sane grief, heavy though it was and cruel, was a very different thing from the mad abandonment and wild insanity of those dreadful days before he had his great idea.
Many and frequent still were the dreadful throes of weeping and rebellions against Fate—but "planchette" could always bring distraction and comfort to the tortured mind, and the soothing belief in real presence and a genuine communion.
But there was no anodyne for the man's bitter grief, and the "planchette" became a hideous nightmare to him. Even his work was no salvation to him, for though the Adjudant-Major is a regimental staff officer, corresponding somewhat to our Adjutant—(the "Adjudant" is a non-com. in the French army)—and a very busy man, Gallais found that his routine duties were performed mechanically, and by one side of his brain as it were, while, undimmed, in the fore-front of his mind, blazed the baleful glare of a vast "planchette," in the flames of which his little son roasted and shrieked.
And still the daily tale of "messages" must be invented, and daily grew a greater and more distressing burden and terror.
How much longer could he go on, day after day, and several times a day, producing fresh communications, conversations, messages, ideas? How much longer could he go on inventing plausible and satisfactory answers to the questions that his wife put to the "spirit" communicant? How could Adjudant-Major Gallais of La Légion Étrangère describe Heaven and the environment, conditions, habits, conduct and conversations of the inhabitants of the Beyond? How much longer would he be able to use the jargon of his wife's books on Occultism and Spiritualism, study them as he might, without rousing her suspicions? The swindle could not have lasted a day had she not been only too anxious to believe, and only too ready to be deceived.
What would be the end of it all? What would his wife do if she found out that he had cheated her? Would she ever forgive him? Would she leave him? Would the shock of the disappointment kill her? Would she ever believe him again?
What could the end of it be?
He must stick it out—for life, if need be—and he was not an imaginative man.
What would be the end?
The end was—that she felt she must go home to France and see her boy's grave, tend it, pray by it, and give such comfort as she could to her poor mother, almost as much to be pitied as herself.
Gallais encouraged the idea. The change would be good for her, and he would be able to join her in a few months. Also this terrible "planchette" strain would cease for him, and he might recover his sleep and appetite....
"To think that we shall be parted, this time to-morrow, my dearest Edouard," wept Madame Gallais, as they sat side by side in their bed-sitting-room, in the Hôtel de la République at Saigon. "I on the sea and you on your way back alone. If every thing were not arranged, I would not go. Let us have a last 'planchette' with our son, and get to bed. We are having petit déjeuner at five, you know."
The Major racked his brain for something to write, as Madame went to her dressing-case for the little instrument (to the Major, an instrument of torture)—racked his brain for something he had not said before, and racked in vain. He grew hotter and hotter and broke into a profuse perspiration as she seated herself beside him. Nom de nom de Dieu de Dieu de sort! What could he write? Why had his brain ceased to operate?
Nombril de Belzébuth! Could he not make up one more lie after carrying on for weeks—weeks during which his waking hours—riding, drilling, marching along the muddy causeways between the rice-fields, working in his office, inspecting, eating, and drinking—had been devoted to hatching "messages," conversations, communications and lies, till he had lost health, weight, sleep, and appetite....
No.... He could not write a single word, for his mind was absolutely blank.
Minutes passed.
Sweating, cursing, and praying, the unfortunate man sat in an agony of misery, and could not write a single word.
Would not le bon Dieu help him? Just this one last time? ...
Minutes passed.
Not to have saved his life, not to have saved the life of his wife, not to have brought back le petit Gingembre, could the poor tortured wretch have written a single word.... What would his wife do when she discovered the cheat—for if no words came during the next minute or two he knew he must spring to his feet, make full confession, and throw himself upon his wife's mercy.
That or go mad.
What would she do? .... Leave him for ever? ... Spit upon him and call him "Liar," "Cheat," and "Heartless, cruel villain"?
Would the dreadful reaction and shock kill her?—deprive her of reason?
Suddenly he perceived that, with hands which were acres in extent, he was endeavouring to move a "planchette" the size of Indo-China—a "planchette" that was red-hot and of which the fire burnt into his brain. Its smoke and fumes were choking him;
