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Updated: June 5, 2025
And Julian had turned quite away, trembling. But now Valentine moved slightly, pressed his elbows on the cushions that supported him, and half sat up, still with closed eyes. "Julian," Dr. Levillier said in a low, summoning voice, "Julian, do you see what I see? Is he indeed alive? Julian."
For even Doctor Levillier was curiously moved that night, and was unable to suppress every trace of abnormal emotion. They sat down. There were no flowers in the room. Valentine explained that he had remembered Cuckoo's fainting fit and feared its renewal. "I am afraid you are still scarcely yourself," he added, with a solicitude that was too elaborate to be agreeable.
Doctor Levillier was in perplexity; he had been brought to the very threshold of revelation, and then thrust back into an every-day world of thwarted hopes and broken ambitions. But the memory of magic was still with him, and gave him a feeling of unrest, and a pertinacity that was not to be without reward forever.
It laid hands upon so many perceptions, so many emotions, with which it should surely have had nothing to do, and made subtle inroads upon every dark corner of the girl's nature. From it came this ritardando. For Cuckoo was filled with a very human dread of exposing Doctor Levillier to misconception by her appearance in the midst of his patients.
Suddenly Cuckoo sprang on her, twisted her round, and spun her out into the cold passage. "Light the fire, I tell you!" She banged the bedroom door and went on with her rapid toilet. When she came into the sitting-room an uneasy fire was sputtering in the grate, one gas-jet flared, and Doctor Levillier was standing by the window looking out at the fog. He turned to greet her.
And so he sat motionless, making the tour of an eternity of suffering, of wonder, of doubt, and hope, and yet, through it all, in some strange, indefinite way, numb, phlegmatic, and actually stupid. At last the bell rang. Dr. Levillier had arrived. He was struck at once by Julian's heaviness of manner. "What is it? What is the matter?" he asked. "I don't know. You tell me."
Levillier gently condemned him for putting a great art to a small and degraded use. "His very success makes me regret the waste of his time more deeply, Cresswell," he said. "He is a marvellous painter in sound. He has improved upon Berlioz, if it is improvement to cry sin with a clearer, more determinate voice. Think what a heaven that man could reproduce in music."
If you listen too attentively you may succeed in hearing a sound that is not. Now, shut your eyes again." Julian obeyed. "I am going to clap my hands presently," said the doctor. "Tell me as soon as you have heard me do so." "Yes." Doctor Levillier made no movement for some time.
When Valentine's man-servant went into the room in the morning and drew up the blinds, he found, to his horror, the picture of "The Merciful Knight" lying upon the floor. The canvas hung from the gold frame in shreds, as if rats had been gnawing it. Doctor Levillier and Julian bade each other good-bye on the doorstep. The doctor hailed a hansom, but Julian preferred to walk.
He felt that she was dead, as long ago he had felt that his loved friend, that Valentine who had protected him and taught him the right way of life, was dead in the night. Doctor Levillier seemed to see Rip crouching down against the wall. And now Valentine's will prepared to assert itself finally. It rose up to triumph as it had risen up to triumph over Rip.
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