Chapter XVIII
Rouletabille Has Drawn a Circle between the Two Bumps on His Forehead
(Extract from the Note-Book of Joseph Rouletabille, continued)
“We separated on the thresholds of our rooms, with a melancholy shake
of the hands. I was glad to have aroused in him a suspicion of error.
His was an original brain, very intelligent but—without method. I did
not go to bed. I awaited the coming of daylight and then went down to
the front of the château, and made a detour, examining every trace of
footsteps coming towards it or going from it. These, however, were so
mixed and confusing that I could make nothing of them. Here I may make
a remark,—I am not accustomed to attach an exaggerated importance to
exterior signs left in the track of a crime.
“The method which traces the criminal by means of the tracks of his
footsteps is altogether primitive. So many footprints are identical.
However, in the disturbed state of my mind, I did go into the deserted
court and did look at all the footprints I could find there, seeking
for some indication, as a basis for reasoning.
“If I could but find a right starting-point! In despair I seated myself
on a stone. For over an hour I busied myself with the common, ordinary
work of a policeman. Like the least intelligent of detectives I went on
blindly over the traces of footprints which told me just no more than
they could.
“I came to the conclusion that I was a fool, lower in the scale of
intelligence than even the police of the modern romancer. Novelists
build mountains of stupidity out of a footprint on the sand, or from
an impression of a hand on the wall. That’s the way innocent men are
brought to prison. It might convince an examining magistrate or the
head of a detective department, but it’s not _proof_. You writers
forget that what the senses furnish is not proof. If I am taking
cognisance of what is offered me by my senses I do so but to bring the
results within the circle of my reason. That circle may be the most
circumscribed, but if it is, it has this advantage—it holds nothing but
_the truth_! Yes, I swear that I have never used the evidence of the
senses but as servants to my reason. I have never permitted them to
become my master. They have not made of me that monstrous thing,—worse
than a blind man,—a man who sees falsely. And that is why I can triumph
over your error and your merely animal intelligence, Frédéric Larsan.
“Be of good courage, then, friend Rouletabille; it is _impossible_ that
the incident of the inexplicable gallery should be outside the circle
of your reason. You know that! Then have faith and take thought with
yourself and forget not that you took hold of the right end when you
drew that circle in your brain within which to unravel this mysterious
play of circumstance.
“To it, once again! Go back to the gallery. Take your stand on your
reason and rest there as Frédéric Larsan rests on his cane. You will
then soon prove that the great Fred is nothing but a fool.—30th
October. Noon.
“Joseph Rouletabille.”
* * * * *
“I acted as I planned. With head on fire, I retraced my way to the
gallery, and without having found anything more than I had seen on the
previous night, the right hold I had taken of my reason drew me to
something so important that I was obliged to cling to it to save myself
from falling.
“Now for the strength and patience to find _sensible_ traces to fit in
with my thinking—and these must come within the circle I have drawn
between the two bumps on my forehead!—30th of October. Midnight.
“Joseph Rouletabille.”