The House of the Secret

This day, January 20, 1909, I have decided to set my story down in writing. Dangerous and terrifying the task! But I must perform it. For day after tomorrow I shall be dead. Day after tomorrow.... Just two days! And death from old age! Of this I am as certain as a man can be of anything. What, then, have I to lose by speaking?

Speak I must!

That much I owe to the unsuspecting men and women who are to survive me. They are in danger; and I must warn them.... Day after tomorrow I shall be safe. Day after tomorrow I shall be dead.... And this is my testament and last will, written in my own hand! To all men and women, my brothers and my sisters, I bequeath--a Secret, the Secret. May my death serve as a warning to them, one and all! Such is my last will and testament....

Now I am quite in my right mind--let there be no doubt of that. I am sound, absolutely sound, in mind and, for that matter, in body. I have never known what it means to be sick. But I am old, old beyond human experience of age. How old, I wonder? Eighty? A hundred? Make it a hundred and fifty! It really doesn’t matter. I have nothing to decide the question. You might find my birth certificate, papers I may have written, people who may have known me. Such things would not help. Not even my own sensations give me any accurate impression of my actual age. I have been old for such a very few days! I have had no time to grow accustomed to the sudden change. There is no comparison, either, between my absorption of the centuries and ordinary old age--this last, indeed, has never been mine. I became what I am instantaneously, one may say.

I am cold, inside here, in my blood, in my flesh, in my bones. And tired, horribly, unendurably tired, with a fatigue that sleep cannot alleviate! My arms and legs are heavy and my joints are stiff. My teeth are chattering. I cannot bring them together on my food. I struggle to stand erect; but my shoulders stoop inexorably. I am hard of hearing. My eyes are dim. And these infirmities are the more excruciating because they each are new. No living man, I am sure, has ever been quite as miserable as I.

But it will all be over in two days! Forty-eight hours! Two thousand eight hundred and forty-eight minutes! What is a matter of two days? The prospect fills my heart with hopefulness; though death, in itself, is a terrible thing, far more terrible than living men imagine. That I know, as no one else knows. But I am ready! The life I am leading has ceased to be anything resembling life.

So then, I am in my right mind. My head is clear. Furthermore, I am about to die. Two considerations, these, that should dispel all doubt as to my veracity. A man does not lie when he stands on the threshold of Eternity! So I beg of you who find this little book of mine, of all you who read this story of my Adventure--in the name of your God, if you have one, do not doubt me! I am not spinning you a yarn, nor telling you a tale for an idle hour. A great danger hangs over you, over your son, your daughter, your wife, your dear ones! Do not scorn my warning, therefore! Do not shrug your shoulders, or tap your forehead! I am not a lunatic! And death is standing near you! Do not laugh, either. But read, understand, believe--and, then--do as your best judgment dictates.

Forgive me if I write with a trembling hand. The words may seem faint, almost illegible, at times. I found a pencil lying in a gutter on the roadside. Its point is dulled, and it is too short for my stiffened fingers. And this paper--from a funeral register--is not of the best. Its broad black border leaves very little space and compels me to cramp my lines. A broad black border! How inconvenient! Yet how appropriate! This funeral page is perchance the best for such a story as mine!

Here I begin. And again I beg of you; doubt me not, but read, understand, believe!

II

It all started with a letter from Colonel Terrisse, commander of field artillery, to Vice-Admiral de Fierce, commander-in-chief of the Western Mediterranean, prefect of the Maritime reserve, line-officer, and governor of the fortress of Toulon. The letter in question came in to Staff Headquarters by the evening mail of Monday, December 21, 1908. Notice now! That was the twenty-first of last December. It is now the 20th of January, 1909. Not quite a month ago! It will be a month tomorrow, day for day. A month! One single month! Gods of Heaven and Hell!