III. The Dream

Notre âme lorsque le corps dort ... reçoit participation insigne de sa prime et divine origine et en contemplation de cette infinie sphère à laquelle rien n’advient, rien ne passe, rien ne déchet, tous temps sont présens, note non seulement les choses passées en mouvemens inférieurs, mais aussi les futures.

Rabelais (Pantagruel liv. ii. ch. xiii.).

I have had a strange dream wherein, by a sort of dual personality, I beheld myself smaller and slimmer. My hands and feet were adorned with heavy jewels. Rose-coloured silken draperies were wound round my supple body. Precious gems gleamed on my brow and neck. Reclining upon cushions in a room of white marble, I was gazing through a wide archway which gave on to a colonnade. Tall palms bent their sombre tufted heads and plantains waved their pale green leaves in the breeze. Birds of brilliant plumage hovered over flowers of dazzling splendour. Ideas, new to me, but which I felt were of remote antiquity, surged through my brain, the mentality of which seemed extraordinarily increased. I was expecting some one. The violence of my feelings frightened me. Passionate and eager, my heart was yet full of anguish, even horror.

A man entered the room, clad in rich draperies of silk and velvet, embroidered with gold, a turban fastened with a diamond aigrette covered his black hair.

Dismissing the women around me with a slight gesture, he threw himself at my feet.

His musical, softly-cadenced voice murmured words which only my other self understood. I felt for him the fear mingled with the attraction and admiration that one feels for a beautiful tiger, or for one of those glittering jewelled snakes of India.

He drew from his bosom a necklace of black pearls and clasped it around my neck. His eyes, with their pupils dilated, were fixed upon me like those of a bird of prey.

Trembling and fascinated, I swayed towards him, when a man with clear-cut, ascetic features stood between us. The loose sleeve of his monk’s habit fell back as he raised a Crucifix menacingly towards us. I made a brusque movement to separate the two men, and awoke.

My hand was clenched convulsively on the Begum’s black pearl, and the unclasped necklace hung over the edge of the bed.

Next morning I recounted the dream to my uncle, who listened attentively.

“It is really very curious, Jeanne, because that particular pearl once belonged to the wife of a Rajah. Widowed early, and converted to Christianity by one of our missionaries, she took refuge in a convent at Madras, in order to escape the unwelcome attentions of her husband’s successor. The story goes that she had not always been thus obdurate to his advances, but yielding to the thought of the dishonour attached to a wife faithless to her husband’s memory—there are no ‘Merry Widows’ in India—she fled one day, taking her daughter with her.”

“What did the new Rajah do?”

“Nothing. He dared not brave the religious prejudices of his people.”

“And what became of the child?”

“She remained with her mother at the convent, and was brought up in the Christian faith. Later on she married a French doctor and became the mother of Jeanne, who afterwards married our great Dupleix. Don’t you remember how, profiting by her relationship with certain Hindoo Princes, Jeanne procured some important alliances for her husband to the benefit of French rule in India?”

“I remember. And didn’t she sell her jewels to help pay his army when funds did not arrive from France?”

“Yes. Louis XV. preferred to lavish money on his favourites rather than pay the soldiers who fought for him. However, the Begum kept a few pearls of the necklace so famous throughout India, and they were divided between her descendants and kept as precious heirlooms.”

“Then, this black pearl of mine——”

“Is one of them. And the Hindoo Princess of the dream was probably your ancestress.”

“No, uncle, not an ancestress; for she was really—I—I can’t explain. It is too subtle, but I can feel it.”

My uncle laughs.

“The apostles of re-incarnation, that old doctrine, so much in vogue just now, would say that the Princess of Mysore has re-incarnated in my little Jeannette. That would explain,” placing his hand affectionately on my shoulder, “the big velvety eyes and exotic grace of our dear little girl.”

I kiss him to stop further utterance.

“But, dear uncle, who then——”

I stop short, blushing and finishing the sentence in my thoughts only—“Who, then, is the Rajah?”

Happily, my uncle attributes my flushed cheeks to his compliment.