looked round stupidly." What have I done?" he said. "Nothing!" snarled
Cyril. "I did it, I. Quick! can't we save her?" But the sculptor burst into
lamentation: he was incapable of anything but tears. He flung himself upon
the body of his model, and wept passionately. Cyril gritted his teeth; the girl
was on the borderland. "Master!" he cried, in a terrible voice.
"In a case of this kind," said Simple Simon, who was standing unperceived
within a foot of him, "where Nature has been outraged, an attempt made to
interfere violently with her laws, it is permissible to act — or rather, to
counteract just so much as is necessary to restore equilibrium. There was a
seed of quarrel in the hearts of these young people; the blow aimed at you,
when your own will became divided, struck aslant; their own division
attracted the murder-force to them.
"I will administer The Medicine." He took a flask from his pocket, put a
drop of the contents on the lips of the girl, and one in each nostril. He then
sprinkled a little upon a handkerchief, and put it to the wound on her head.
Suddenly the sculptor rose to his feet with a great cry. His hands were
covered in blood, which streamed from his own scalp.
"Quick! back to the studio!" said Simon. "We don't want to make
explanations. They'll both be all right in five minutes, and they'll think it all a
dream. As, indeed, like the rest of things, it is!"
But Cyril had to carry la Giuffria. The rapid successions of these
mysterious events had ended by throwing her consciousness completely out
of gear. She lay in a deep trance. [71]
"A very fortunate circumstance!" remarked Simon, when he observed it.
"This is the time to take her over to the Profess-House." Cyril wrapped her in
her furs; between them they carried her to the boulevard, where Simon Iff's
automobile was in waiting.
The old mystic held up his left hand, with two of the fingers crossed. It was
a signal to the chauffeur. In another moment they were running on easy speed
up the Boulevard Arago.
Lisa came to herself as the car, crossing the Seine, pointed at the heights of
Montmartre; and she was perfectly recovered as it stopped before a modest
house of quite modern type, which was set against the steepest part of the
hill.
The door opened, without alarm being given. Lisa learnt later that in this
house no orders needed to be issued, that simplicity had reached so serene a
level that all things operated together without question. Only when unusual