For Zizi
often helped them with their amateur planchette, only they told him it
was electricity: _le magnetisme_, _le fluide_, was the term they
generally made use of. Its vagueness covered all possible explanations
with just the needed touch of confusion and suggestion in it.
They settled down in a corner of the room, where the ivy from the
ceiling nearly touched their heads. The small round table was
produced; the saucer, with an arrow pencilled on its edge, was
carefully placed upon the big sheet of paper which bore the letters of
the alphabet and the words _oui_ and _non_ in the corners. The light
behind them was half veiled by ivy; the rest of the old room lay in
comparative darkness; through the half-opened door a lamp shone upon
the oil-cloth in the hall, showing the stains and the worn, streaked
patches where the boards peeped through. The house was very still.
They began with a little prayer--to _ceux qui ecoutent_,--and then
each of them placed a finger on the rim of the upturned saucer,
waiting in silence. They were a study in darkness, those three
pointing fingers.
'Zizi, tu as beaucoup de fluide ce soir, oui?' whispered the widow
after a considerable interval.
'Oh, comme d'habitude,' he shrugged his shoulders. He loved these
mysterious experiments, but he never claimed much _fluide_ until the
saucer moved, jealous of losing his reputation as a storehouse of
this strange, human electricity.
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