new significance, that line of Baudelaire's poem—"The hell wherein my heart delights."
Averaud was unaware of my revulsion, in his dark rhapsody. When I turned to leave, unable to bear any longer the blasphemous atmosphere of that room, and the sense of strange depravity which emanated from its owner, he pressed me to return as soon as possible.
"I think," he exulted, "that all will be in readiness before long. I want you to be present in the hour of my triumph."
I do not know what I said, nor what excuses I made to get away from him. I longed to assure myself that a world of unblasted sunlight and undefiled air could still exist. I went out; but a shadow followed me; and execrable faces leered or moved from the foliage as I left the cypress-shaded grounds.
For days afterward I was in a
condition verging upon neurotic
disorder. No one could come as
close as I had been to the primal effluence
of evil, and go thence unaffected.
Shadowy noisome cobwebs
draped themselves on all my
thoughts, and presences of unlineamented
fear, of shapeless horror,
crouched in the half-lit corners of
my mind but would never fully declare
themselves. An invisible gulf,
bottomless as Malebolge, seemed to
yawn before me wherever I went.
Presently, though, my reason reasserted itself, and I wondered if my sensations in the black triangular room had not been wholly a matter of suggestion or auto-hypnosis. I asked myself if it were credible that a cosmic force of the sort postulated by Averaud could really exist; or, granting it existed, could be evoked by any man through the absurd intermediation of a musical device. The nervous terrors of my experience faded a little in memory; and, though a disturbing doubt still lingered. I assured myself that all I had felt was of purely subjective origin. Even then, it was with supreme reluctance, with an inward shrinking only to be overcome by violent resolve, that I returned to visit Averaud once more.
For an even longer period than usual, no one answered my knock. Then there were hurrying footsteps, and the door was opened abruptly by Fifine. I knew immediately that something was amiss, for her face wore a look of unnatural dread and anxiety, and her eyes were wide, with the whites showing blankly, as if she had gazed upon horrific things. She tried to speak, and made that ghastly inarticulate sound which the mute is able to make on occasion, as she plucked my sleeve and drew me after her along the somber hall to the triangular room.
The door was open; and as I approached it, I heard a low, dissonant, snarling murmur, which I recognized as the sound of the gongs. It was like the voice of all the souls in a frozen hell, uttered by lips congealing slowly toward the ultimate torture of silence. It sank and sank till it seemed to be issuing from pits below the nadir.
Fifine shrank back on the threshold, imploring me with a pitiful glance to precede her. The lights were all turned on; and Averaud, clad in a strange medieval costume, in a black gown and cap such as Faustus might have worn, stood near the percussive mechanism. The hammers were all beating with a frenzied rapidity; and the sound became still
