Father did not say a word.  Then the professor went on, saying: 

“That would be a splendid invention.  Had I been living till now I would have published a book about it.  Nobody takes the Indian fakir seriously here in Europe.  But, despite this, the buried fakirs, who are two months under ground and then come back into life, are very serious men.  Perhaps they are more serious than ourselves, with all our scientific knowledge.  There are strange, new, dreadful things for which we are not yet matured enough.

“I died upon their methods; I can state that now.  The mental state which they reach systematically I reached accidentally.  The solitude, the absorbedness, the lying in a bed month by month, the gazing upon a fixed point hour by hour—­these are all self-evident facts with me, a deserted misanthrope.

“I died as the Indian fakirs do, and were I not a descendant of an old noble family, who have a tomb in this country, I would have died really.

“God knows how it happened.  I don’t think there is any use of worrying ourselves about it.  I have still four days.  Then we go for good and all.  But not back, no, no, not back to life!”

He pointed with his hand toward the city.  His face was burning from fever, and he knitted his brows.  His countenance was horrible at this moment.  Then he looked at the man with the sunburned face.

“The case of Mr. Gardener is quite different.  This is an ordinary physician’s error.  But he has less than four days.  He will be gone to-morrow or positively day after to-morrow.”

He grasped the pulse of the sunburned man.

“At this minute his pulse beats a hundred and twelve.  You have a day left, Mr. Gardener.  But not back.  We don’t go back.  Never!”

Father said nothing.  He looked at the professor with seriousness, and fondly.  The professor drank a glass of wine, and then turned toward father.

“Go to bed.  You have to get up early; you still live; you have children.  We shall sleep if we can do so.  It is very likely that General Gardener won’t see another morning.  You must not witness that.”

Now father began to speak, slowly, reverently.

“If you, professor, have to send word—­or perhaps Mr.
Gardener—­somebody we must take care of—­a command, if you have—­”

The professor looked at him sternly, saying but one word: 

“Nothing.”

Father was still waiting.

“Absolutely nothing,” repeated the professor.  “I have died, but I have four days yet.  I live those here, my dear old friend, with you.  But I don’t go back any more.  I don’t even turn my face backward.  I don’t want to know where the others live.  I don’t want life, old man.  It is not honorable to go back.  Go, my friend—­go to bed.”

Father shook hands with them and disappeared.  General Gardener sat stiffly on his chair.  The professor gazed into the air.