In that clouded red the doctor felt
himself reading a new yet powerful Valentine, and in the grotesque
orchids leaning their misshapen chins upon the rosy rim of their vase.
Those flowers had evil faces, and they seemed strangely at home in the
silent room where no clock ticked and no caged bird twittered. Only the
red cloud spoke like a dull voice, and Doctor Levillier sat and listened
to it, until he felt as if he began to know a new Valentine. There is an
influence that emanates from lifeless things, strong, subtle, and
penetrating; an influence in form, in colour, in scent, even in
juxtaposition. And such influence is like a voice speaking to the soul.
There was a voice in that empty room; and the words it uttered stirred
the doctor to a greater surprise, a greater dread than the words of
Cuckoo. Her painted lips related that which might well be a legend of
her fancy or of her hate. This voice related a reality and no legend.
As the doctor sat there he conversed of many strange and evil matters,
of many discomforting affairs. He was the interrogator, the perpetual
anxious questioner, and the voice in the empty room gave vague and
sinister answers. That was a terrible catechism, a catechism of the
devil, not of God.
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