“What is that, Sir Brian?” inquired M.
Max, whose opium vision was a faithful imitation of
one related to him by an actual frequenter of the
establishment near the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
“Only once before, M. Gaston, have I compared
notes with a fellow opium-smoker, and he, also, was
a patron of Madame Jean; he, also, met in his dreams
that Eastern Circe, in the grove of apes, just as I"...
“But this is astounding!” cried Max, who
actually thought it so. “Your fancy—your
superstition—was this: that only habitues
of Rue St. Claude met, in poppyland, this vision?
And in your fancy you are now confirmed?”
“It is singular, at least.”
“It is more than that, Sir Brian! Can it
be that some intelligence presides over that establishment
and exercises—shall I call it a hypnotic
influence upon the inmates?”
M. Max put the question with sincere interest.
“One does not always meet her,” murmured
Sir Brian. “But—yes, it is possible.
For I have since renewed those experiences in London.”
“Are you remaining for some time longer in London?”
“Alas! for several weeks yet.”
“Then I will introduce you to a gentleman who
can secure you admission to an establishment in London—where
you may even hope sometimes to find the orange grove—to
meet your dream-bride!”
“What!” cried M. Gaston, rising to his
feet, his eyes bright with gratitude, “you will
do that?”
“With pleasure,” said Sir Brian Malpas,
wearily; “nor am I jealous! But—no!
do not thank me, for I do not share your views upon
the subject, monsieur. You are a devout worshiper;
I, an unhappy slave!”
Into the Palm Court of the Hotel Astoria, Mr. Gianapolis
came, radiant and bowing. M. Gaston rose to greet
his visitor. M. Gaston was arrayed in a light
gray suit and wore a violet tie of very chaste design;
his complexion had assumed a quality of sallowness,
and the pupils of his eyes had acquired (as on the
occasion of his visit to the chambers of Sir Brian
Malpas) a chatoyant quality; they alternately dilated
and contracted in a most remarkable manner—in
a manner which attracted the immediate attention of
Mr. Gianapolis.
“My dear sir,” he said, speaking in French,
“you suffer. I perceive how grievously
you suffer; and you have been denied that panacea
which beneficent nature designed for the service of
mankind. A certain gentleman known to both of
us (we brethren of the poppy are all nameless) has
advised me of your requirements—and here
I am.”
“You are welcome,” declared M. Gaston.
He rose and grasped eagerly the hand of the Greek,
at the same time looking about the Palm Court suspiciously.
“You can relieve my sufferings?”
