The next day the same levitation occurred in broad daylight, at noon, while we were waiting for a guest who was late to luncheon. This time the round table used was much heavier.
"Is there a spirit there?" some one asks.
"Yes."
"Is he willing to give his name?"
"Yes."
Someone takes an alphabet, counts the letters, and receives, by taps made by one of the feet of the table, the name Leopoldine Hugo.
"Have you something to say to us?"
"Charles, my husband, would like to be reunited to me."
"But where is he?"
"Floating in s.p.a.ce."
"And you?"
"In the presence of G.o.d."
"All that is very vague. Could you give us a proof of ident.i.ty to show us that you are really the daughter of Victor Hugo, the wife of Charles Vacquerie? Do you remember the place where you died?"
"Yes, at Villequier."
"Inasmuch as the accident of your shipwreck in the Seine is well known, and since the whole thing may be latent in our brains, could you please give us other facts? Do you remember the year of your death?"
"1849."
"I do not think so," I replied, "for I have in my mind"s eye a page of the _Contemplations_ where the date of September 4, 1843, is written.
Has my memory played me false?"
"Yes. It is 1849."
"You astonish me very much, for in 1843, Victor Hugo returned from Spain on account of your death, while in 1849 he was a representative of the people in Paris. Moreover, you died six months after your marriage, which took place in February, 1843."
At this point, the Countess of Mouzay remarked that she was very well acquainted with Victor Hugo and his family, that they were living then in the street of Latour-d"Auvergne, and that the date 1849 must be correct.
I maintain the contrary. The spirit sticks to its fact.
"In what month did the event take place?"
"July."
"No, it was in September. You are not Leopoldine Hugo. How old were you when you died?"
"Eighteen years. They don"t remember very often to decorate my tomb with flowers."
"Where?"
"At Pere-Lachaise."
"You are wrong, it was at Villequier that you were buried, and I went myself to visit your tomb. Your husband, Charles Vacquerie is also there, with the two other victims of the catastrophe. You don"t know what you are talking about."
At this point our hostess declares that she was not thinking at all of Pere-Lachaise, and that, in her opinion, Leopoldine Hugo and her husband remained at the bottom of the Seine.
After luncheon we sit down again at the seance table. Various oscillations. Then a name is dictated.
"Sivel."
"The aeronaut?"
"Yes."
"In what year did you die?"
"1875." (Correct.)
"What month?"
"March." (It was April 15.)
"From what point did your balloon start?"
"La Villette." (Correct.)
"Where did you fall?"
"In the river Indre."
All these "elements" were more or less known to us. I ask for a more special proof of ident.i.ty.
"Where did you know me?"
"With Admiral Mouchez."
"It is impossible. I first knew Admiral Mouchez at the time of his appointment to the directorship of the Paris Observatory. He succeeded Le Verrier in 1877, two years after your death."
The table is agitated and dictates as follows:
"Give your name."
"Witold. Marchioness, I love you still."
"Are you happy?"
"No, I behaved badly to you."