CHAPTER VIII

DELAPINE MAKES AN EXPERIMENT IN BOTANY

Delapine and Villebois left the room arm in arm, and entered the library where they found Riche idly glancing over a magazine, and at the same time quietly smoking his pipe.

"Hullo, Riche," called out Villebois in his usual cheery tones. "What have you been doing with yourself for the last hour?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I have been amusing myself looking through your charming work on Turner's paintings illustrated in colour. Ah, Turner was a great artist, a very great artist," said Riche. "He was to England what our Claude Lorraine was to France. Between them they succeeded in teaching the world the true art of landscape painting. Until their time the Dutch and Flemish schools alone had attained a moderate degree of success, but when all is said and done Dutch and Flemish pictures were in the main--that is, in the majority of cases--merely cold, flat, and very conventional. But with the advent of Turner, a great change came over art. He not only copied Nature, but he improved on it, idealised it, and gave it life, warmth, breadth, and depth, such as only Claude before him could conceive. Ma parole, were I not a Frenchman, I would place him in the world of painters absolutely alone in his glory."

"Right again, Riche, as usual," said Delapine, much interested. "It is a pleasure to hear Turner praised and appreciated. Not so very long ago it was the fashion to decry him, but all the disparagement could not gainsay the revolution he caused in art."

"Look," continued Riche, encouraged in one of his pet hobbies to find so sympathetic an enthusiast in Delapine--the man of science and psychic phenomena, "look at the picture of Dido building Carthage. See the towering marble buildings on either side like fairy castles in the air. Look how every figure, every object is so cunningly painted that collectively they form graceful curves which insensibly lead the eye to the 'point d'apui', which in this case, as you will notice, is the setting sun in the infinite distance beyond, giving immense depth and plasticity to the scene. Look again at his picture of Venice. Here we have a city of pink, and gold, and white, rising like a mist out of an emerald sea under a dome of sapphire blue. What a vista of exquisitely tender loveliness. How beautifully, and yet almost impossibly real. Compare it with the Venice of Canaletti--the same buildings, the same Grand Canal, and yet how vast the gulf between the two painters. Turner's may be likened to a poetic dream; the other, well--the other is merely conventional prose. Take again his 'Ulysses deriding Polyphemus.' Look at the huge rugged rocks frowning over the sea, and the half-hidden giant heaving a large boulder at the Grecian galley. Note the defiant look of Ulysses as he waves a blazing olive tree, while his men are climbing the rigging to unfurl the sails. See the skilful outlining of the shadowy horses of Phoebus in the slanting rays of the rising sun. Could anything tell a tale better? What conception! what genius! it is the power of imagination over the stern reality of facts."

"Yes, you have seized the keynote of his genius," said Villebois, admiring his friend's enthusiasm. "But in my humble opinion his 'Fighting Temeraire' being towed to her last resting place by the fiery little steamtug is the finest picture of them all."

"By the way, what has become of Delapine? I wanted him to have a glass of wine or some coffee with us in the summer-house, let us go and look for him."

"He cannot be far away," said Villebois, as the latter and Riche left the room together. "He was with us a moment ago. How quietly he must have slipped out of the library. I expect he has gone to look for Renée."

"No, you won't find him with her," said Riche thoughtfully. "He is not the kind of man who wastes his time running after a woman. I fancy that our friend is far too absorbed and occupied scientifically."

"I am not so very sure about that," replied Villebois, smiling to himself, as the scene that he had witnessed about an hour previously flitted across his mind.

"Well, you seem to make out that you know him better than I do. Take my word for it, he is making an experiment somewhere. Let us go into the garden, we are sure to find him playing with some worms, or spiders, or something like that. There you are," cried Riche as they approached the conservatory, "did I not tell you where we would find him?"

Delapine, fully occupied with some plants, looked up on hearing their voices.

"Hullo, what on earth are you doing with that Venus's fly-trap?" called out Villebois, as he watched Delapine letting a tiny spider which was hanging by the end of its thread drop inside the lobes of the carniverous plant, known to science as the Dionaea muscipula, with one hand, while he held his watch in the other.

"This is exceedingly interesting, Riche, I am trying an experiment to find out how long the trap takes to close again after the spider has touched the little hair filaments projecting out from the inside of the leafy pair of lobes."

While still speaking, he allowed the spider to fall lower and lower until its body touched a hair. Then, before the little fellow had time to climb up over the leaf, the two lobes closed together and held him prisoner.

"Now let us sit here and watch," said Delapine, thoroughly absorbed in the experiment. "Before many minutes have elapsed the animal will be killed by the secretion clogging up its spiracles, and then the insect will be digested by the juices secreted by the glands."

"And then what will happen?" asked Villebois.

"Wait a moment and you will see."

After a lapse of about fifteen minutes the lobes began slowly to open again, and there before the eyes of the deeply interested watchers lay the spider, sucked half dry and shrivelled up at the bottom of the cavity.

"What I cannot understand, and what I have been trying to discover," said Delapine, "is what makes the leaves close instantly when the hairs are touched, and what it is that causes the gastric juices to pour out precisely as it does in the stomach when one has taken a meal. In our own case the reason is clear enough because the stomach is supplied with nerves and nerve-ends. But botanists assure us that plants have no traces of nerves. And again, why should the leaves reopen the very moment that the plant has had a sufficient meal? Now here is another plant which, like a chameleon, devotes all its energies to catching flies," continued Delapine as he led them over, and pointed to a fine specimen of Drosera.

"You surely recognise the familiar sun-dew with its round head stuck all over with little stalk-like tentacles each having a knob at the end, the whole reminding one of a round pincushion stuffed with pins. Now I have noticed that the heads of these tentacles secrete a sticky, treacly juice, and the moment a fly alights to suck that juice its legs become entangled, and the fly is at once a prisoner. Immediately this happens, all the neighbouring tentacles bend over the captive fly, exactly as the tentacles of a sea-anemone bend over their prey, and suck its life-blood."

"I have not studied these plant problems," said Riche, "but now that you demonstrate some of them so clearly they do indeed appear marvellous."

"Ah, my dear doctor," said Delapine, "there are quite a host of problems awaiting solution in the actions of that plant. The moment one begins to think, and to ask one-self Why and How, one becomes aware of one's dense ignorance of the every-day operations of Nature. We are accustomed to look upon a plant as if it were an inanimate thing, and yet there can be no doubt that it enjoys life, and feels and thinks after some sort of fashion. I have often wondered if it ever occurs to a girl as she plucks a flower that the plant might decidedly object to having its head cut off. Of course I do not lay it down that a plant can feel pain in the same way that we do. That it can feel, I have amply shown you, and that it has some dim consciousness of existence I am fully convinced."

"It is intensely interesting, and must be a splendid relaxation for you, Delapine," said Villebois, "but all the same you should not forget that there are other relaxations also, and one of them is to come over to the summer-house where I see François has just brought some coffee and liqueurs."

As they entered the cool shades of the arbour, Duval, who had been passing a quiet half hour there in deep thought, rose to meet them.

"Ah, glad to see you, Pierre," called out Villebois in a cheerful tone, and mindful of his promise to Delapine. "We have just come over for a little refreshment and cool air after the heat of the conservatory. Which do you prefer," he continued, "some coffee or a liqueur? I can recommend this Curaçao but perhaps you would rather have some coffee," and he proceeded to light the samovar.

"Coffee and a cigarette for me by all means," replied Pierre, "I always think the two go so admirably together, each seems to bring out the acme of flavour in the other."

"Very true," said Villebois, who delighted in playing the host, as he proceeded to fill all the four cups with the fragrant Mocha. At this moment Céleste appeared on the verandah.

"Look, papa, what a lovely orchid I am going to bring you," she called out, with a wealth of love and laughter shining in her eyes.

"No, no, stay where you are," shouted Villebois, "we'll make it a prize." Turning to his companions he added smiling, "Let us race for it; physics, medicine and law running for a prize in botany, and the privilege of having the decoration placed on his breast by Céleste."

Villebois, Delapine, and Riche, each shouting 'Go' as the word for starting, darted off and ran as hard as they could across the lawn, while Duval, swift as lightning, seized the opportunity to drop something quickly into Delapine's coffee unnoticed by anyone, and then with one bound sped after the racers.

"Well done, doctor," called Céleste to Riche, as with a wonderful effort he just managed to grasp the girl's skirt a second before Delapine, while Villebois and Duval came panting behind, almost on their heels.

"Three cheers for the winner of the Great Flower Stakes," called out Villebois as Céleste shyly pinned the prize in Riche's button-hole, "I think it was a clear case of the favourite winning. Now let us 'return to our muttons,' or rather our coffee," and so saying the four men moved off in the direction of the summer-house, while Céleste went indoors.

"What a pity you were not here earlier," said Villebois, turning to Duval, "Delapine has been entertaining us with some experiments on feeding insectivorous plants in the conservatory, and began by showing us how remarkably susceptible they are to the faintest traces of certain drugs. By the way, professor, now that we are all here quietly, will you give us an exhibition of your thought-reading powers?"

"Certainly, my dear Villebois, with all the pleasure in the world," said Delapine; "but it is a pity that our amiable friend, Pierre, should have missed the experiments in the conservatory. Would you mind if we all went back there as I should like very much to let him see the effect of this coffee on one of the plants."

So saying he took up the cup, which had been filled for him, and moved towards the hothouse followed by his three companions. Edging up alongside Delapine, Pierre, with almost murderous thoughts surging in his breast, watched for an opportunity either to snatch, or even to risk all and dash the tell-tale cup from his rival's hand. Appearing, however, not to notice the agitated manner of the man walking so close to him, Delapine adroitly handed the cup to Riche while bending over to whisper something in his ear. Then turning towards Duval he quietly linked arms with him in the most natural and friendly manner in the world, without any apparent pressure, but at the same time so skilfully that it would have been very difficult for Pierre to have freed himself without arousing suspicion.

"My dear Duval," said Delapine, affectionately pressing the arm resting against his own, "you will be delighted with what I am going to show you, it's a most surprising experiment."

Once more in the conservatory, Riche at a sign from Delapine handed him a spoonful of the coffee, and Delapine gently let a few drops of the liquid fall on the tentacles of the Drosera.

As Delapine had previously remarked, the effect was surprising, but in a totally different manner from what he had meant at the time. Immediately the drops touched them the tentacles turned over and lost their colour, while the glands changed from a rich purple to a sickly pink.

"This is very strange, I cannot for the moment understand it," said Delapine. "Whoever would have thought that the coffee would have had such an effect?" Then after a minute of deep reflection he turned to Villebois--"Doctor, would you mind getting me a fresh cup of coffee, this result is so extraordinary that I must repeat the experiment."

So saying, Delapine calmly took the cup from Riche, and poured the remaining contents into an empty bottle, corked it, and then calmly put it in his pocket.

It was all done so quietly and naturally that Duval, although beside himself with suppressed rage, dared not put out a hand to prevent it, fearing to awaken the suspicions of the others.

Villebois, impressed with the calmness and with the queer look of determination and severity in Delapine's eyes, ran back to the summer-house, and brought a fresh cup of coffee.

"Thank you so much: it is always better to repeat an experiment, especially when the result is so unexpected," said Delapine as he poured a few drops of the fresh coffee on another sun-dew plant. "How odd," he muttered, his grey eyes lighting up with a peculiar smile of surprise, mingled with severity.

"It is very strange," he continued, "in this case nothing whatever has happened--the tentacles have not even moved."

"But look at this plant here," said Riche, pointing to the Drosera on which a drop of Delapine's coffee had been poured.

"Why, bless my soul, it is dead."

"This is very interesting," said Delapine, "I must take some of the coffee out of my first cup to a friend of mine, a very clever analyst--and find out what he thinks of it. This is just the kind of delicate experiment that delights my friend Paul Romaine."

At the sound of this name uttered so calmly and apparently so casually, Pierre Duval--already alarmed at the turn which events were taking--became deathly pale, and felt that he could not restrain himself a moment longer, nor prevent his growing agitation from betraying him. With a supreme effort, however, he pulled himself together, and it was almost with his usual every-day sang-froid that he quietly excused himself owing to a legal appointment, and hurriedly went back to the house.

"Well," said Riche as the three slowly retraced their steps towards the summer-house, "there's no doubt about it but your experiment in botany was something out of the common, and besides, it seemed to me that there was something in it which so far I cannot fathom, but it has not allowed me to forget your promise to give us an exhibition of your wonderful powers of thought-reading. When are you going to keep that promise?"

"My dear doctor," replied Delapine with a peculiar smile, half sad, half severe, "I have just now done so. Are you not satisfied?"

Riche and Villebois looked at each other for a moment, and then at Delapine as if seeking an explanation.

Then a sudden thought flashed across Riche's mind, but he said nothing.