DRUGGED SUITORS IN 12DP - THE MIDNIGHT ARCHIVE

Passages from The 12 Dancing Princesses, from The Midnight Archive podcast. 

Note how it describes the effects of the drug: somnolence, then complete chemical unconsciousness, then amnesia/blackout and a dreamess sleep. The same effects of rauha, which could have been laudanum, datura, or deadly nightshade (datura also causes identical effects: somnolence, then complete chemical unconsciousness and dreamless sleep, then blackouts).

The suitors here suffer from en-bloc blackouts. IE they don't remember anything that happened during their chemical unconsciousness. And they didn't dream during their chemical sleep. En bloc blackouts are classified by the inability to later recall any memories from the intoxication period, even when prompted. These blackouts are characterized also by the ability to easily recall things that have occurred within the last 2 minutes, yet being unable to recall anything prior to this period. As such, a person experiencing an en bloc blackout may not appear to be doing so, as they can carry on conversations or even manage to accomplish difficult feats. It is difficult to determine the end of this type of blackout as sleep typically occurs before they end, although it is possible for an en bloc blackout to end if the affected person has stopped drinking in the meantime.

In a study of university students in the US, 51% of the students reported that they had had at least one blackout. Blackouts were reported during activities such as spending money (27%), sexual conduct (24%), fighting (16%), vandalism (16%), unprotected intercourse (6%), and driving a car (3%). So a significant number of students were engaged in a range of possibly hazardous activities during blackouts.

(The first suitor)

He can see the 12 beds arranged in a row. He can see the 12 beautiful sisters preparing for sleep. The eldest princess approaches him with a cup of wine. You must be tired from your journey, she says. Her voice is kind. Her smile is warm.

"This will help you stay awake." The prince thanks her. He drinks the wine.

It's delicious, rich, and sweet with an undertone he doesn't recognize. He lies down on his bed. He watches the princesses through the open door. He's determined to stay awake, determined to see whatever happens. He watches and watches and then his eyes grow heavy, his thoughts grow fuzzy, his head nods, jerks up, nods again. He sleeps.

In the morning, the prince wakes to find 12 pairs of shoes worn through to nothing. He saw nothing, heard nothing, remembers nothing after a certain point in the evening. Nothing after drinking that cup of wine the eldest princess gave him. He slept through the entire night deep and dreamless while the princesses did whatever they did, he's confused, frightened. He was so certain he would stay awake, so certain his willpower would be enough. He's given a second night. He's determined to do better this time. He refuses the wine politely, carefully, claiming he doesn't care for it. The eldest princess smiles like he doesn't insist, but somehow he still falls asleep. Still wakes to ruined shoes. Still has no explanation. Did they put something in his food, in the water? Did they use some magic he can't detect? A third night, the same result. Sleep takes him against his will and he wakes to failure.  (The next suitor)

He's trained himself to stay awake for days at a time. He won't make the same mistakes. He makes exactly the same mistakes. He drinks the wine or doesn't drink it, but somehow sleeps anyway. He sees nothing, hears nothing, wakes to ruined shoes and a death sentence. He's executed, too. Then  commoners who have nothing to lose, desperate men willing to risk their lives for the chance at wealth and a princess. Each one confident, each one determined, each one drugged into sleep by wine the princesses offer with sweet smiles and kind words. 

(The fairy warns the hero) 

The second gift is advice. "When the princesses offer you wine, the old woman says, "Don't drink it. They've been drugging their watchers. That's how they've defeated every man before you. Pretend to drink, but let the wine spill. Then pretend to fall asleep. Snore loudly. Make them believe you're unconscious like all the others." She knows. Somehow this old woman on the side of the road knows exactly how the princesses have been maintaining their secret. 

(The hero pretends to drink, but doesn't swallow the wine) 

The eldest approaches with a cup of wine. You must be tired from your journey, she says. Her voice is kind. Her smile is warm. This will help you stay awake. The soldier takes the cup. He brings it to his lips. And he remembers the old woman's words. The soldier pretends to drink. He brings the cup to his mouth, tilts it back, but beneath his chin, hidden by his collar, he's placed a sponge. The wine pours into the sponge instead of his throat. Not a single drop passes his lips. He hands the empty cup back to the eldest princess. 

"Thank you," he says. "You're very kind." She smiles. The same smile she's given to all the others. The same kindness that preceded their drugged sleep and eventual execution. The soldier lies down on his bed. 

He closes his eyes, but not all the way. Through the narrow slits of his lids, he watches the open door, watches the 12 princesses in their chamber, and he begins to snore. Loud snores, theatrical snores, the snores of a man deeply, completely chemically unconscious. The snores that every failed suitor produced after drinking the drugged wine. 

The princesses watch him through the doorway. They wait. They listen. One of them, the youngest, creeps closer, peering at him to make sure he's truly asleep. The soldier snores louder. Finally, satisfied, the princesses begin to move. 

"But the wine, he drank it so quickly. And something felt different when we crossed the grove last time. I heard sounds." 

"You imagine things." The eldest finishes pinning her hair. "Look at him. He's asleep like all the others, snoring like a pig. By morning, he'll remember nothing."

(The following day) 

Everything repeats. The eldest princess brings the drugged wine. The soldier pretends to drink, lets it spill into the hidden sponge. He lies down. He snores. 

No fear shows on their faces. No one has ever discovered their secret. No one has ever stayed awake through the drugged wine. This soldier will fail like all the others. 

Why they drug their watchers and send them to death.

(The crown princess reveals everything)

And she's tired. Tired of the secret, tired of the drugged wine and the dead suitors and the constant fear of discovery. 

"It's true," she says. Her voice is quiet but steady. "Everything he says is true."

The other princesses say nothing. They don't need to. The eldest has spoken for all of them. Their secret is exposed.

(Of course there is a happy ending; the hero marries the crown princess).

(Commentary)

Every night... They drug their watchers.

MAIS... UN NARCOTIQUE DANS LE CAFÉ? IRONIE!

FRANÇOIS FLAHAULT
LA PENSÉE DES CONTES 

C'est bien lui, c'est bien elle

À la recherche de l'époux disparu

Dans les contes du type À la recherche de l'époux disparu, très répandus en Europe et même en Asie,

Une nuit, voici qu'elle n'entend plus le ronflement de cochon de son mari. Elle approche une bougie: "Oh ! mon chéri, comme tu es beau !" s'exclame-t-elle. Son époux lui demande de garder le secret de son heureuse métamorphose. Plusieurs jours passent. Sa belle-mère, la voyant si contente, I'interroge à maintes reprises, de sorte qu'à la fin la jeune femme ne peut s'empêcher de lui dire le secret de son mari. "Malheureuse, tu m'as trahi, je vais te quitter", lui annonce le roi-cochon. "Et si tu veux me retrouver, il te faudra user sept paires de sabots de bois et sept paires de sabots de fer." Le lendemain, l'héroïne achète les chaussures nécessaires et se met en route. Un soir, alors qu'elle a déjà usé quatre paires, elle demande asile à une femme. "Je veux bien, mais mon mari pourrait vous manger." L'ogre rentre. "Ne lui fais pas de mal, lui dit la dame, c'est la femme du roi-cochon." Et l'ogre lui donne une noix magique. Après plusieurs mois de marche, l'héroïne arrive chez un frère de l'ogre, et tout se passe comme la première fois. Elle parvient enfin chez le troisième frère, le plus terrible, mais qui lui aussi se laisse amadouer, lui annonce que son mari va bientôt se remarier, et l'aide à atteindre le château où il réside. "Justement, lui dit-on, on cherche quelqu'un pour laver la vaisselle." Le soir de la noce, elle casse la première noix, en sort une robe de soie et la revêt. La nouvelle épouse la voit et veut la lui acheter. "Je ne demande pas d'argent, lui est-il répondu, mais je veux que vous me laissiez passer la nuit auprès de votre mari." Marché accepté - mais la nouvelle épouse verse un narcotique dans le café du roi-cochon ! De toute la nuit, l'héroïne ne parvient pas à le réveiller. Le soir suivant, c'est une robe d'argent qui sort de la seconde noix, et la même scène se répète, sans plus de résultats. Au cours de la journée du lendemain, une personne qui dormait dans la chambre voisine avertit le roi-cochon: "Qu'est-ce qui se passe dans votre chambre ? Toute la nuit, j'ai entendu une femme vous parler, se rappeler à vous." Le soir venu, lorsque l'héroïne, après avoir vendu une troisième robe, gagne la chambre de son ancien mari, celui-ci (il s'est arrangé pour ne pas boire son café) l'attend bien éveillé, et les époux tombent dans les bras l'un de l'autre. Le lendemain, l'homme annonce qu'il repart chez lui avec sa vraie femme.

Mais dans cette version française des Hautes-Alpes donnée comme example, ce qui m'a étonné le plus est que la nouvelle épouse verse son narcotique dans le café du roi-mari. Ça est parfois de l'ironie, hein? Dans beaucoup de versions c'est du vin ou de l'eau-de-vie, du lait chaud ou de l'infusion de tilleul... mais jamais du café qui a l'effet contraire!

Les motifs de la peau animale amovible, de l'écart à maintenir entre relation de sang et d'alliance, ainsi que celui des trois robes merveilleuses acquises par l'héroïne de La Recherche de l'époux nous ramènent au conte de Peau-d'âne. Essayons de préciser les relations qu'entretiennent ces deux types de contes. Une analogie générale : un premier temps centré sur le court-circuit (et, dans nombre de versions des deux types de contes, ce court-circuit équivaut au non-respect de l'écart entre relations de sang et d'alliance). Cet écart n'étant pas maintenu, la distance entre les deux termes qu'il devrait séparer se reproduit sous une forme à la fois différente et radicale. Ce qui conduit, dans un second temps, à un processus de médiation. 
Mais aussi des relations de transformation précises: l'autre héroïne voit au contraire son époux la fuir parce qu'elle n'a pu éviter la transgression. Du coup, la peau animale change elle aussi de fonction, car, si dans les deux cas l'un des personnages ne peut être tout à l'autre, l'apparence animale est ce que Peau-d'Ane revêt pour rétablir cet écart, alors que cette apparence animale est ce que perd l'époux du fait même du court-circuit. Quant aux trois robes merveilleuses, elles constituent bien de part et d'autre le prix payé par l'un des personnages pour se rapprocher de l'autre. Tandis que dans La Recherche de l'époux, l'héroïne cède à la seconde femme de son mari ce qui se vend à grand prix pour retrouver ainsi ce qui ne s'achète pas. ... dans l'autre (cas), il est du côté de la seconde femme, qui cède au mirage des robes merveilleuses. Dans les deux contes, donc, l'éclat séducteur de l'image joue un rôle. Non pas celui d'une simple apparence destinée à être dépassée et disqualifiée par la réalité vraie (le paganisme des contes les éloignent de la morale ascétique). Mais celui d'un bien visible dont il est légitime de jouir dès lors qu'il respecte les liens invisibles qui définissent les places et les identités. Ainsi, dans l'écart entre ces deux versants, visible et invisible (imaginaire et symbolique) se déploie un processus de reconnaissance, une médiation dans laquelle opère le discernement.

Chaussures et médiation 

Nous avons vu que dans sa longue marche, l'héroïne à la recherche de son époux disparu doit - c'est un motif très fréquent - user plusieurs paires de chaussures de fer. Ici, les chaussures ne servent plus à relier, comme dans Cendrillon, apparences et réalité, mais deux lieux séparés par une distance immense.
Je me souviens d'avoir lu, étant enfant, une version du conte comportant ce motif (dans un recueil de contes roumains édité pour la jeunesse). Je pouvais, bien sûr, imaginer des parcours plus longs que ceux que j'avais moi-même effectués, mais une marche tellement prolongée qu'elle vienne à bout de plusieurs paires de chaussures et, qui plus est, en fer ! Voilà qui invitait à imaginer l'inimaginable ; plaisant vertige auquel les contes (ou d'autres formes de récits) nous engagent volontiers. Nouvel exemple de la nécessité de distinguer entre deux formes de désirabilité: d'une part, désir de l'héroïne de rejoindre son époux; ce désir se communique aux auditeurs ou aux lecteurs du conte qui, eux aussi, souhaitent que "ça s'arrange". D'autre part, une désirabilité qui est assumée directement par le lecteur : une si longue marche est une grande souffrance pour le personnage qui l'accomplit, mais pour le lecteur, l'immensité de la distance à parcourir est comme une image de l'immensité de son propre espace psychique, de sorte qu'elle se traduit par une dilatation de son être et un plaisir d'imagination.
La distance même qui sépare deux lieux ou deux états, fût-elle déchirante, ou plutôt parce qu'elle est déchirante, vaut comme figure de complétude, comme figuration d'un point d'excès. Elle fait plaisir pour autant qu'elle donne place, dans cet espace partagé qu'est l'énonciation du récit, à une part de nous-même qui, autrement, ne trouve guère à s'exprimer que par la voie du symptôme.
Cet étrange plaisir témoigne sans doute de ceci: les rapports entre ce que j'ai appelé court-circuit et médiation ne se réduisent pas à une simple opposition; il semble en effet que celle-ci implique celui-là, comme si l'énergie engagée dans la médiation (la médiation figurée à l'intérieur du conte mais aussi celle que constitue l'énonciation même du conte) avait pour source celle qui résulte du court-circuit. L'idée d'une équivalence énergétique entre les deux processus s'impose également lorsque l'on compare La Recherche de l'époux aux Souliers usés à la danse. On y voit en effet la médiation (la tâche impossible) et le court-circuit (la précipitation compulsive) échanger leurs places d'un conte à l'autre comme si celles-ci étaient équivalentes:

A LA RECHERCHE DE L'ÉPOUX
L'héroïne ne peut s'empêcher de
percer et/ou transmettre le secret de
son époux.
Elle le perdra si elle enfreint
cette condition.
Elle doit, tâche impossible,
user ses chaussures.
Pour entendre sa femme, 
il doit suivre le conseil d'un tiers et ne pas absorber de soporifique. 

Si, dans La Recherche de l'époux, la reconnaissance ne s'opère pas au moyen d'une tessère mais, comme nous le verrons plus loin, par ce qu'on pourrait appeler une communication indirecte, l'image de la tessère est cependant évoquée dans un motif par lequel, fréquemment, se clôt le récit. Ce ne sont pas la chaussure ou l'anneau qui, alors, fonctionnent comme tessère, mais la clé. Après la nuit où l'épouse est enfin parvenue à se faire entendre de son mari, celui-ci adresse ces paroles aux parents de sa seconde femme:

 “ Si vous aviez fait faire une clé pour en remplacer une perdue, et si vous retrouviez ensuite la première, de laquelle vous serviriez-vous, de l'ancienne ou de la nouvelle ?
 — De l'ancienne.
 — Eh bien, moi, j'avais une femme et je la perdis; j'en pris une autre et, à cette heure, j'ai retrouvé la première : c'est celle-là que je garde.” (Je cite le texte d'une version de Gascogne, in C.P.F., II, 81. Dans une version bretonne déjà citée, Le Loup-lévrier, le héros oppose "une chaussure en bon état à laquelle le pied est habitué" à "une chaussure neuve que l'on ne connaît pas" (D. Laurent, ouvrage cité, p. 98).)

La "vraie" clé est donc supposée mieux correspondre à la serrure que la nouvelle. La parabole employée est fondée sur une analogie explicite entre la relation clé/serrure et femme/mari (et non pas, comme un symbolisme sommaire nous y aurait préparés, sur une analogie entre clé et homme, femme et serrure). La métaphore placée dans la bouche de l'époux fait songer à certaines de celles qu'emploie un personnage du Banquet de Platon pour parler des relations entre les deux moitiés de l'homme primitif, coupé en deux par Zeus : "Chacun de nous, dit Aristophane, est fraction complémentaire, tessère (en grec, sumbolon), et coupé comme il l'a été, une manière de carrelet, le dédoublement d'une chose unique: il s'ensuit que chacun est constamment en quête de la fraction complémentaire, de la tessère de lui-même." (Banquet, 192 d.)
C'est donc par l'image d'une sorte de sumbolon que le mari évoque le lien qui l'unit à sa "moitié". Mais ce n'est nullement par la seule vertu de la correspondance qui existerait entre eux comme entre clé et serrure que les époux se sont retrouvés : c'est grâce à une série de médiations. En ce sens, les contes où intervient la question de la reconnaissance diffèrent radicalement de ce que donne à penser le discours d'Aristophane. Celuici, en effet, ne conçoit pas l'intervention d'un tiers médiateur comme étant une condition sine qua non des retrouvailles. Si, à la suite de J.-P. Vernant, on écrit ainsi le compte de la totalisation selon Aristophane: 1/2 + 1/2 = 1, on constatera que pour les contes la formation du couple exige, en plus des deux "moitiés", l'addition d'une unité tierce. Pour Platon lui-même, la formule d'Aristophane est inexacte, car union sexuelle implique procréation, ce que Vernant résume par la formule: 1 + 1 = 3. Quant à la forme d'accomplissement que préconise le philosophe à la place de celui auquel aspire l'Aristophane du Banquet, on pourrait le formuler ainsi : 1 + 1 = 1.

La communication indirecte (parole qui sépare, parole qui réunit) 
Venons-en aux motifs par lesquels, dans les contes du type À la recherche de l'époux disparu, s'accomplit la reconnaissance. Ces motifs, je l'ai dit, ne s'appuient pas sur la figure du sumbolon, mais sur d'autres, plus complexes. Complétons d'abord le dossier en présentant un autre type de contes, L'Épouse substituée, dont l'un des deux sous-types fait intervenir la séquence où la femme cherche à se faire entendre de son époux endormi. Je résume le motif dans ce sous-type d'après une version recueillie à Plouaret en 1869.
Bientôt, Lévénès se marie à un gentilhomme et donne naissance à un fils. Le mari, trompé par l'obscurité, désire dormir auprès de celle qu'il croit être son épouse. La nuit venue, la cane vient voltiger autour du berceau et adresse ses plaintes au nourrisson. L'homme a absorbé à son insu un soporifique: il n'entend rien, ... La troisième nuit, la cane revient voleter au-dessus de son enfant: "C'est la dernière fois que je viens te voir, et ton père dort encore..." Mais celui-ci n'a pas bu le soporifique que lui destinait la marâtre, il se lève, ... Margot et sa mère sont punies.

... la femme métamorphosée en cane, Luzel, t. III

I

...

... LA FEMME MÉTAMORPHOSÉE EN CANE

_____

Selaouit holl, mar hoc’h eus c’hoant,
Setu aman eur gaozic koant,
Ha na eus en-hi netra gaou,
Mès, marteze, eur gir pe daou.

Écoutez, si vous voulez,
Voici un joli petit conte,
Dans lequel il n’y a pas de mensonge,
Si ce n’est, peut-être, un mot ou deux.

Heureusement, qu’elle se maria, peu après, à un jeune gentilhomme du pays, qui l’emmena avec lui à son château, et la marâtre et sa fille faillirent en mourir de dépit et de jalousie.

Voilà donc la jeune mère devenue cane, sur l’étang, pendant que la belle Margot occupait sa place, dans son lit, et faisait fermer toutes les fenêtres de la chambre. 

Lorsque le mari vint au lit de sa femme, demander de ses nouvelles, il trouva toutes les fenêtres closes.

— Comment êtes-vous, mon petit cœur ? lui demanda-t-il.

— Merde ! lui répondit une voix grossière, avec une puanteur insupportable.

— Hélas ! s’écria-t-il, ma pauvre femme est bien malade ; elle délire. Ouvrez les fenêtres, belle-mère, pour que je puisse la voir, car on ne voit goutte ici.

— La lumière lui ferait mal, dit la sage-femme, gagnée par la marâtre. et direz au mari qu’elle est malade et ne peut supporter la lumière.

Voilà le mari désolé. Il ne veut quitter sa femme, ni le jour ni la nuit ; il couche dans la même chambre qu’elle, mais, on lui donne un soporifique, et il dort comme un rocher.

Pendant que tout le monde dormait au château, à l’exception de la nourrice, qui veillait près du berceau, la dame-mère arriva par la fenêtre, qu’on avait ouverte pour renouveler l’air. Elle était sous la forme d’une cane, et se mit à voltiger autour du berceau, en disant :

—... Et ton père, hélas ! qui est là couché, à côté de celle qui a pris ma place, l’ignore et ne m’entend pas. Hélas ! hélas !...

Quand le mari s’éveilla, le lendemain matin, il demanda à celle qu’il croyait toujours être sa femme comment elle se trouvait. Mais, elle lui répondit encore par une grossièreté, et sa douleur n’en fit que s’accroître.

Avant de se mettre au lit, le mari but encore un soporifique, sans le savoir, et il dormit aussi profondément que la veille.

A l’heure où tout dormait, dans le château, la cane arriva encore dans la chambre ... et fit entendre les mêmes plaintes :

— Hélas ! ... ton père dort encore et ne m’entend pas ! Je viendrai encore, demain soir, pour la dernière fois, et si l’on ne me retire pas ..., il me faudra te quitter, toi et ton père, et pour toujours !

Et elle s’en alla encore, après avoir longtemps voltigé autour du berceau.

La nourrice vit et entendit tout, comme la veille, et se dit en elle-même :

— Arrive que pourra, il faut que je prévienne le maître de ce qui se passe ici ; mon cœur ne peut rester insensible aux plaintes de cette cane ; il y a là-dessous quelque mystère.

Le lendemain matin, quand le père vint voir son enfant, elle lui dit donc :

— J’ai quelque chose sur le cœur, que je veux vous déclarer. Vous ne savez pas ce qui se passe ici, la nuit.

— Quoi donc, nourrice ? Parlez, je vous prie.

— On vous fait boire un soporifique, au moment de vous coucher, et vous n’entendez rien de ce qui se dit et se passe autour de vous ; on vous trompe, et celle que vous croyez être votre femme est Margot, la fille de la marâtre ...

— Je me doutais bien, dit le mari, qu’il se passait quelque chose de mystérieux, au château ; mais, cette nuit, je ne boirai pas le soporifique et je serai sur mes gardes, et nous verrons bien.

Le soir, quand l’heure fut venue de se coucher, la marâtre versa encore le soporifique au mari. Il feignit de le boire, comme précédemment, et le jeta sous la table, sans qu’on s’en aperçût.

Vers minuit, quand tout le monde dormait, au château, excepté lui et la nourrice, la cane arriva encore, par la fenêtre, dans la chambre ... et parla ainsi :

— C'est pour la dernière fois, ... que je viens te voir, sous cette forme, et ton père dort encore, sans doute...

A ces mots, celui-ci sauta hors du lit, où il feignait de dormir, et s’écria :

— Non, je ne dors pas, cette fois !

Et il prit la cane, qui voltigeait au-dessus du berceau ..., et aussitôt elle revint à sa forme première et se jeta sur le berceau, pour embrasser son enfant.

— Allumez de la lumière, nourrice, et appelez la marâtre ! cria le mari.

La méchante vint ; mais, quand elle vit la tournure que prenaient les choses, elle voulut s’enfuir avec sa fille.

— Holà ! s’écria le jeune seigneur, en voyant cela, attendez un peu, car chacun doit être payé selon ses œuvres.

Et il fit chauffer un four à blanc et l’on y jeta la marâtre et sa fille.

Quant à l'épouse vraie, elle vécut heureuse, le reste de ses jours, avec son mari et ses enfants.

Recueilli à Plouaret, janvier 1869.

Dans le conte de L'Épouse substituée aussi bien que dans La Recherche de l'époux, l'essentiel est de se faire entendre de celui qui dort, ce qui n'est possible que par la médiation d'un tiers qui l'avertit. Ce motif revient avec insistance dans ces deux contes, mais aussi dans quelques autres: L'Oiseau bleu de Mme d'Aulnoy ; ...

Maintenant que nous avons une vue d'ensemble des variations sur le thème de ce que j'ai appelé la communication indirecte, dégageons-en les traits essentiels. On peut en distinguer trois : 
1 - C'est grâce à la médiatioin d'un tiers que l'héroïne est tirée de l'état douloureux où elle est retranchée de l'humanité et coupée des liens vitaux qui l'attachent à une autre personne. 
2 - L'héroïne ne se sait pas entendue par celui dont l'intervention sera décisive. 
3 - Au moyen de ses robes merveilleuses ou d'autres objets précieux, l'héroïne achète ce qui ne se vend pas.

3. Acheter ce qui ne se vend pas 
On se souvient que si l'héroïne de La Recherche de l'époux disparu parvient à passer trois nuits auprès de son ancien mari, c'est parce qu'elle a acquis ce droit auprès de la nouvelle épouse en lui cédant ses trois robes merveilleuses. On se souvient également que dans le sous-type A de L'Épouse substituée, l'héroïne envoie quelqu'un vendre à la marâtre un objet précieux, le prix demandé étant précisément les yeux qui lui avaient été arrachés et qu'elle recouvre ainsi. 
C'est là un trait nouveau ; il ne se ramène pas au sumbolon. Ce curieux marché où de l'aliénable est échangé contre de l'inaliénable - un motif que l'on retrouve dans bien d'autres contes - est l'opérateur d'un renversement dans le cadre d'un rapport de forces entre deux personnages. Je me borne donc ici à en indiquer la logique générale.
Dans toute transaction marchande, chacune des parties prenantes risque de n'être qu'un moyen pour l'autre. Celui qui espère "posséder" l'autre peut bien devenir, en fin de compte, celui qui "s'est fait avoir". Dans le motif qui nous intéresse, le perdant est celui qui ne comprend pas que, de cette transaction apparemment marchande, son partenaire escompte un profit d'une tout autre nature : il ne s'agit pas pour lui de ce qu'il a, mais de ce qu'il est. C'est l'intégrité de sa personne ou de son corps qui est en jeu. La future perdante accepte le marché parce qu'elle croit y gagner : ce qu'elle acquiert est un bien précieux, alors que ce qu'elle donne ne lui coûte guère (d'autant plus qu'elle triche, faisant absorber un somnifère à son mari pour qu'il ne se passe rien entre lui et la femme qui viendra à son chevet). De même dans le cas où la marâtre acquiert des objets en or contre des yeux qui ne lui servent à rien.
En revanche, lorsque la femme à la recherche de son mari sacrifie elle aussi ses trois robes merveilleuses, elle y gagne puisque, grâce à ce marché, elle finit par se faire entendre de son époux.



*********************************************************


POST SCRIPTUM - WOLFGANG SCHIVELBUSCH ON DRUGLORE - THE PHYSIOLOGICAL GROUNDS FOR THE MOTIF OF THE POISONED CUP


To visit a pub is to step into another world. For there the abstract law of exchange is suspended, at least in part. It's not that customers don't have to pay for drinks. The barkeeper is in business, after all. But somehow the rules of the outside world don't govern here. 

Mass Observation, a sociological study undertaken in England in the 1930s, documents the drinking behavior of twentieth-century pubs and describes a typical scene. On a Sunday afternoon three men sit at a bar, each nursing a drink that he has paid for himself. A fourth man enters, and after ordering a drink and half-emptying his glass, he calls to the bartender to order drinks for all four. They begin a conversation, and after a while one of the other men orders another round. Two of the men who have not yet paid for a round are unemployed, but one of them orders the third round. When the drinks are placed before the group, the second of the two unemployed men leaves the pub, signaling his intent to return by leaving his glass half-empty. When he returns five minutes later, he finishes his drink and orders another four drinks. Now the round is complete. Later he confesses that he really did not want to be part of the round because he was short of money. He had to go home to get money because he felt he couldn't excuse himself from the round. From personal experience everyone recognizes this unspoken obligation to participate in rounds of drinks regardless of whether he's in the mood or not, and even when he can't really afford it. Not to go along with it would be to lose face. Yet this sort of obligation holds true only in bars, pubs, and such locales, and only in connection with alcoholic drinks. The idea of such a thing happening in a restaurant would be absurd. What is natural in a bar or public house is meaningless on the outside. 

Drinking, then, is apparently a special human activity, or, to quote from the Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens [Dictionary of German Superstition], article "Trinken", "the superstitious ideas and customs that center around the activity of drinking are to be understood as remnants of older magical, cultic actions and manifestations of belief." 

But why should it be drinking to which these primordial notions have remained so strongly attached rather than eating solids, which is certainly as essential to life? 

In the first place, archaic magical interpretations saw drinking and eating as equally conflicting processes. On the one hand, a person who consumes and incorporates things becomes their master. But on the other hand, the consumer thereby delivers themself up to them, in a sense succumbs to them. For things have lives of their own. The plants and animals a person eats (aside from cannibalism) continue to have an effect within the consumer, indeed work either with or against them, depending on whether they are well or ill disposed toward the consumer. 

What makes drinking more important than eating solids is the fact that here the individual life or soul of a thing is being directly assimilated. In magical thinking every fluid symbolizes blood, and the blood or sap -vital fluid- of an animal or a plant is its soul. This accounts for the taboo against the presence of blood in food of most cultures, our own included. The Christian Eucharist still contains an echo of this identification of blood with the soul.

Because of this direct connection drinking had something menacing about it for primitive humans. As one drinks, one assimilates the soul of something else and one loses their own soul in proportion to their drinking. Wine is the classical instance of this. The person intoxicated by wine no longer possesses their own soul, but is filled by that of the wine, that is, the wine god.

Like most magical conceptions, this one too has a grain of physiological truth to it. Liquid imbibed enters the bloodstream faster than solid foods. The effect for any given drink is more rapid, more immediately observable. And the custom of adding poison to drink has an actual physiological basis as well as the magical one. The poisoned drink is as old as humankind's drinking culture and drinking magic itself. In magical lore every drink is potentially poisoned or, to put it in more general terms, a threat, in that it might embody a soul hostile to the drinker.

Through history drinking rituals have evolved, aimed at neutralizing this menacing aspect. Drinking rituals are communal so that all will feel safe and be able to keep a watchful eye on one another. The king's taster, whose duty it was to test every drink set before his lord for poison, was a variant on this communal drinking, revealing its purpose explicitly.

The oldest and most important drinking ritual is the toast. In making their toasts the drinkers vow reciprocal friendship, goodwill, and good intentions, using traditional stock formulas. One such eleventh-century drinking oath goes: "Let the cups be brought and let us drink to health, drink after me and drink to me, drink to the full, drink half the cup and I shall drink to you." Another toast from the thirteenth century ran: "I drink to you, now drink as much as I do." In a sense, the drink itself was consecrated by these formulas, thus ceasing to be a threat. On the contrary, it became a guarantee and symbol of communality, friendship, and fraternity for those who were drinking. Toasting in archaic societies assumed proportions scarcely imaginable today. Even in the sixteenth century all drinking binges necessarily ended in the total inebriation of all participants, since it would have been an unheard-of breach of drinking etiquette for any member to quit sooner. In drinking etiquette it is taboo not to accept a proffered drink or, for that matter, not to reciprocate. 

Communal drinking is, as has already been suggested here, characterized by a remarkable ambivalence. On the one hand, it creates fraternity among drinkers, on the other this relationship is marked by mutual caution, obligation, and competitiveness, which make it seem far less than friendly. In an instant the bond can be broken and turned into its opposite, should the basic rule be violated. Anyone who refuses a drink offered him in a workers' bar may well find themself in the middle of a brawl; if one does not in turn offer a round, one makes a fool of oneself. Once one is a participant in a round of drinks, one cannot suddenly of their own accord back out. As the scene cited at the start of this chapter shows, one must observe certain rules, even if one is not in the mood. Behavioural sociologists determined from actual observation how ironclad these rules are, unwritten though they may be: "Once the proclamation is made that rounds have begun, it is incumbent upon the members of a group to participate regardless of individual preferences. One cannot demand that they pay for one's own drink and one's own drink only. If one of the members of the group must leave immediately after their first drink, they will usually state that they will stand the first round, being unavailable to stand any subsequent round. Although paying for more drinks than he will be consuming during the course of his stay may be economically unfair to him, it is required that either the other participants in the group accept his offer or that some other member volunteer to take the first round and allow the soon-to-be-departing member's drink to be defined as a gift drink. For example, if one member requests the first round because he must leave and his offer is declined, it is typically declined by someone saying, 'No, let me get the first round, and I'll treat you to a drink.' Once rounds have begun, each member of the group in turn is obligated to stand at least one round. Thus, if a group is composed of four members, rounds must continue for at least four drinks, after which another set of rounds may begin or the participants may begin purchasing their drinks on an individual basis. When rounds have started, the original
group members typically remain together, at least until they have purchased their round, since each member of the group is obligated to purchase one round. Sometimes a member of the original group who has stood their round will move to some other part of the bar, but members of the original group who are yet to stand a round must still include that member even though he or she is no longer physically part of the group. And the defector, in turn, must at least by gesture acknowledge each subsequent drink received from the group, thus maintaining social contact at least until the termination of the rounds." 

The above-mentioned study Mass Observation notes how far, indeed how deep into realms of the unconscious, the feeling of fraternity within a group of drinkers extends. Members of rounds will empty their glasses almost at the same time, and often the levels of the liquid in the glasses will vary by no more than half an inch. The variations are most marked when the glasses are less than half full. They begin at the same time and finish at the same, or almost the same, time. The study relates an impressive example of this telepathic sense of community by reporting about a group of four men of whom one is blind. All sit at a table and order their beer. As soon as the glasses are served, they all raise them to their lips and drink for about four seconds, each returning his glass to the table at the same time. Each, including the blind man, has emptied exactly a quarter of the glass. The next few times they drink in shorter gulps, sometimes the blind man first, sometimes the other three, without any noticeable pattern. But, at the end, they all finish their drinks with a variation of between a quarter and a half inch of beer remaining. 

 The rules and rituals that accompany drinking in a bar or pub survive in our modern civilization as relics from a long-forgotten age. The public house or bar, in fact, may be termed a sort of preserve, in which archaic behavior patterns that have all but vanished from other spheres of life are kept alive. To fully understand the meaning of drinking rituals, one must recall these age-old modes of conduct, mechanisms, and rituals, and their social function. This archaic practice which is perpetuated in drinking rituals is known in anthropology as a potlatch. The potlatch is a kind of sacrificial offering, not to the divinity, but to other human beings. In the potlatch valuable objects are either destroyed in the presence of members of another tribe (a destruction potlatch) or given to them (a gift potlatch). From a modern, rationalistic point of view this process seems senseless, but for primitive societies it has, as the French anthropologist and sociologist Marcel Mauss discovered, an absolutely central social importance: "The motive for these excessive gifts and this reckless consumption, the senseless loss and destruction of property is in no way unselfishly motivated. Among chieftains, vassals, and followers a hierarchy is established by means of these gifts. Giving is a way of demonstrating one's superiority, of showing that one is greater, that one stands higher . . .; to accept, without reciprocating or giving more in return, means subordinating oneself, becoming a vassal and follower, sinking deeper."

Even today traces survive of this original sense of gift giving. Anyone who gives a gift, treats, or invites another is the superior and more powerful person. The recipient, of course, has the advantage of receiving something of value without paying for it; but on the other hand the recipient does pay for it, precisely by being left the passive receiver. For this reason it is mostly children and women—those who in our society personify powerlessness and passivity—who are given gifts. The German expression for reciprocating a gift, sich revanchieren, contains a word closely linked to "revenge," a reminder that every gift basically entails an assault on the autonomy of the receiver. This is exactly what Nietzsche, that great unmasker of fair appearances, meant by calling gratitude a form of revenge: expressing thanks when one has received a favor or a present gives an immaterial counterpresent, so to speak, a formula by which the recipient attempts to neutralize or, more accurately, to avenge, the incursion into their existence the gift represents. 

 Yet these are only lingering traces of the older meaning that gift giving, gift receiving, and the exchange of presents once had. With the capitalist principle of exchange, this mechanism has generally lost its power in our daily lives. 

It is only in the context of alcohol drinking that it still survives with any degree of vigour. In a sense, the bar is a thoroughly archaic place, with more than mere vestiges, hints, or sublimations of what once was clinging to it. Here the genuine article lives on: drinkers sharing rounds are participants in a potlatch. With the instinctive sureness of migratory birds they follow the rules and rituals of offering and reciprocating, without an inkling of their ancient origins. Assisting them in this, of course, is the alcohol itself, around which everything revolves. It washes away the newer, "civilized" levels of consciousness, exposing the archaic level where intoxication, fraternity, and competition merge as spontaneously as they might have in a drinking bout five hundred, a thousand, or three thousand years ago. 

(From Chapter 6 of Tastes of Paradise: A Social History of Spices, Stimulants, and Intoxicants)

Eine andere Quelle, dass ich konsultieren will ist:

Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen

Enzyklopädie des Märchens

Narkotika

9.1187-1194

Schwibbe, Gudrun

AGATHA CHRISTIE - THE CRETAN BULL

AGATHA CHRISTIE -

THE LABOURS OF HERCULES 

Chapter 7
THE CRETAN BULL

Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
He saw a pale face with a determined-looking chin, eyes that were more grey than blue, and hair that was of that real blue-black shade so seldom seen - the hyacinthine locks of ancient Greece.
He noted the well-cut, but also well-worn, country tweeds, the shabby handbag, and the unconscious arrogance of manner that lay behind the girl's obvious nervousness. He thought to himself:
"Ah yes, she is 'the County' - but no money! And it must be something quite out of the way that would bring her to me."
Diana Maberly said, and her voice shook a little:
"I - I don't know whether you can help me or not, M. Poirot. It's - it's a very extraordinary position."
Poirot said: "But yes? Tell me?"
Diana Maberly said: "I've come to you because I don't know what to do! I don't even know if there is anything to do!"
"Will you let me be the judge of that?"
The colour surged suddenly into the girl's face. 
She said rapidly and breathlessly: "I've come to you because the man I've been engaged to for over a year has broken off our engagement."
She stopped and eyed him defiantly.
"You must think," she said, "that I'm completely mental."
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
"On the contrary. Mademoiselle, I have no doubt whatever but that you are extremely intelligent. It is certainly not my metier in life to patch up the lovers' quarrels, and I know very well that you are quite aware of that. It is, therefore, that there is something unusual about the breaking of this engagement. That is so, is it not?"
The girl nodded. She said in a clear, precise voice. "Hugh broke off our engagement because he thinks he is going mad. He thinks people who are mad should not marry."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little.
"And do you not agree?"
"I don't know... What is being mad, after all? Everyone is a little mad."
"It has been said so," Poirot agreed cautiously.
"It's only when you begin thinking you're a poached egg or something that they have to shut you up."
"And your fiancé has not reached that stage?"
Diana Maberly said: "I can't see that there's anything wrong with Hugh at all. He's, oh, he's the sanest person I know. Sound - dependable -"
"Then why does he think he is going mad?"
Poirot paused a moment before going on.
"Is there, perhaps, madness in his family?"
Reluctantly Diana jerked her head in assent. 
She said: "His grandfather was mental, I believe - and some great-aunt or other. But what I say is, that every family has got someone queer in it. You know, a bit half-witted or extra clever or something!"
Her eyes were appealing.
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. 
He said: "I am very sorry for you. Mademoiselle."
Her chin shot out. She cried: "I don't want you to be sorry for me! I want you to do something!"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know - but there's something wrong."
"Will you tell me Mademoiselle, all about your fiancé?"
Diana spoke rapidly: "His name's Hugh Chandler. He's twenty-four. His father is Admiral Chandler. They live at Lyde Manor. It's been in the Chandler family since the time of Elizabeth. Hugh's the only son. He went into the Navy - all the Chandlers are sailors - it's a sort of tradition - ever since Sir Gilbert Chandler sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh in fifteen-something-or-other. Hugh went into the Navy as a matter of course. His father wouldn't have heard of anything else. And yet - and yet, it was his father who insisted on getting him out of it!"
"When was that?"
"Nearly a year ago. Quite suddenly."
"Was Hugh Chandler happy in his profession?"
"Absolutely."
"There was no scandal of any kind?"
"About Hugh? Absolutely nothing. He was getting on splendidly. He - he couldn't understand his father."
"What reason did Admiral Chandler himself give?"
Diana said slowly: "He never really gave a reason. Oh! he said it was necessary Hugh should learn to manage the estate - but - but that was only a pretext. Even George Frobisher realised that."
"Who is George Frobisher?"
"Colonel Frobisher. He's Admiral Chandler's oldest friend and Hugh's godfather. He spends most of his time down at the Manor."
"And what did Colonel Frobisher think of Admiral Chandler's determination that his son should leave the Navy?"
"He was dumbfounded. He couldn't understand it at all. Nobody could."
"Not even Hugh Chandler himself?"
Diana did not answer at once. 
Poirot waited a minute, then he went on: "At the time, perhaps, he, too, was astonished. But now? Has he said nothing - nothing at all?"
Diana murmured reluctantly: "He said - about a week ago - that - that his father was right - that it was the only thing to be done."
"Did you ask him why?"
"Of course. But he wouldn't tell me."
Hercule Poirot reflected for a minute or two. Then he said: "Have there been any unusual occurrences in your part of the world? Starting, perhaps, about a year ago? Something that has given rise to a lot of local talk and surmise?"
She flashed out: "I don't know what you mean!"
Poirot said quietly, but with authority in his voice: "You had better tell me."
"There wasn't anything - nothing of the kind you mean."
"Of what kind then?"
"I think you're simply odious! Queer things often happen on farms. It's revenge - or the village idiot or somebody."
"What happened?"
She said reluctantly: "There was a fuss about some sheep... Their throats were cut. Oh! it was horrid! But they all belonged to one farmer and he's a very hard man. The police thought it was some kind of spite against him."
"But they didn't catch the person who had done it?"
"No."
She added fiercely. "But if you think -"
Poirot held up his hand. He said: "You do not know in the least what I think. Tell me this, has your fiancé consulted a doctor?"
"No, I'm sure he hasn't."
"Wouldn't that be the simplest thing for him to do?"
Diana said slowly: "He won't. He - he hates doctors."
"And his father?"
"I don't think the Admiral believes much in doctors either. Says they're a lot of humbug merchants."
"How does the Admiral seem himself? Is he well? Happy?"
Diana said in a low voice: "He's aged terribly in - in -"
"In the last year?"
"Yes. He's a wreck - a sort of shadow of what he used to be."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he said: "Did he approve of his son's engagement?"
"Oh yes. You see, my people's land adjoins his. We've been there for generations. He was frightfully pleased when Hugh and I fixed it up."
"And now? What does he say to your engagement being broken off?"
The girl's voice shook a little. She said: "I met him yesterday morning. He was looking ghastly. He took my hand in both of his. He said: 'It's hard on you, my girl. But the boy's doing the right thing - the only thing he can do.'"
"And so," said Hercule Poirot, "you came to me?"
She nodded. She asked: "Can you do anything?"
Hercule Poirot replied: "I do not know. But I can at least come down and see for myself."

II

It was Hugh Chandler's magnificent physique that impressed Hercule Poirot more than anything else. Tall, magnificently proportioned, with a terrific chest and shoulders, and a tawny head of hair. There was a tremendous air of strength and virility about him.
On their arrival at Diana's house, she had at once rung up Admiral Chandler, and they had forthwith gone over to Lyde Manor where they had found tea waiting on the long terrace. And with the tea, three men. There was Admiral Chandler, white haired, looking older than his years, his shoulders bowed as though by an over-heavy burden, and his eyes dark and brooding. A contrast to him was his friend Colonel Frobisher, a dried-up, tough, little man with reddish hair turning grey at the temples. A restless, irascible, snappy, little man, rather like a terrier - but the possessor of a pair of extremely shrewd eyes. He had a habit of drawing down his brows over his eyes and lowering his head, thrusting it forward, whilst those same shrewd little eyes studied you piercingly. The third man was Hugh.
"Fine specimen, eh?" said Colonel Frobisher.
He spoke in a low voice, having noted Poirot's close scrutiny of the young man.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He and Frobisher were sitting close together. The other three had their chairs on the far side of the tea-table and were chatting together in an animated but slightly artificial manner.
Poirot murmured: "Yes, he is magnificent - magnificent. He is the young Bull - yes, one might say the Bull dedicated to Poseidon... A perfect specimen of healthy manhood."
"Looks fit enough, doesn't he?"
Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot.
Presently he said: "I know who you are, you know."
"Ah that, it is no secret!"
Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to say. He was travelling as himself.
After a minute or two Frobisher asked: "Did the girl get you down - over this business?"
"The business -?"
"The business of young Hugh... Yes, I see you know all about it. But I can't quite see why she went to you... Shouldn't have thought this sort of thing was in your line - meantersay it's more a medical show."
"All kinds of things are in my line... You would be surprised."
"I mean I can't see quite what she expected you could do."
"Miss Maberly," said Poirot, "is a fighter."
Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm assent.
"Yes, she's a fighter all right. She's a fine kid. She won't give up. All the same, you know, there are some things that you can't fight..."
His face looked suddenly old and tired.
Poirot dropped his voice still lower. He murmured discreetly: "There is - insanity, I understand, in the family?"
Frobisher nodded.
"Only crops up now and again," he murmured. "Skips a generation or two. Hugh's grandfather was the last."
Poirot threw a quick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana was holding the conversation well, laughing and bantering Hugh. You would have said that the three of them had not a care in the world.
"What form did the madness take?" Poirot asked softly.
"The old boy became pretty violent in the end. He was perfectly all right up to thirty - normal as could be. Then he began to go a bit queer. It was some time before people noticed it. Then a lot of rumours began going around. People started talking properly. Things happened that were hushed up. But - well," he raised his shoulders "ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devil! Homicidal! Had to be certified."
He paused for a moment and then added:
"He lived to be quite an old man, I believe... That's what Hugh is afraid of, of course. That's why he doesn't want to see a doctor. He's afraid of being shut up and living shut up for years. Can't say I blame him. I'd feel the same." 
"And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?"
"It's broken him up completely," Frobisher spoke shortly.
"He is very fond of his son?"
"Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy was only ten years old. Since then he's lived for nothing but the child."
"Was he very devoted to his wife?"
"Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was - she was one of the loveliest women I've ever known." He paused a moment and then said jerkily, "Care to see her portrait?"
"I should like to see it very much."
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose. 
Aloud he said: "Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He's a bit of a connoisseur."
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana's face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonised question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realised that the house was full of old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
"Painted by Orpen," he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound's collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
"Boy's the spitting image of her," said Frobisher. "Don't you think so?"
"In some things, yes."
"He hasn't got her delicacy - her femininity, of course. He's a masculine edition - but in all the essential things -" He broke off. "Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have done without..."
They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them - as though dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the taint that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time, they passed on.
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful woman on the wall above him. 
Poirot said softly: "You knew her well..."
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
"We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen... When I got back - she was married to Charles Chandler."
"You knew him well also?"
"Charles is one of my oldest friends. He's my best friend - always has been."
"Did you see much of them - after the marriage?"
"Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here - ready and waiting..." He squared his shoulders, suddenly thrust his head forward pugnaciously. "That's why I'm here now - to stand by in case I'm wanted. If Charles needs me - I'm here."
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
"And what do you think - about all this?" Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
"What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don't see what you're doing in the business, M. Poirot. I don't see why Diana roped you in and got you down here."
"You are aware that Diana Maberly's engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?"
"Yes, I know that."
"And you know the reason for it?"
Frobisher replied stiffly: "I don't know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my business to butt in."
Poirot said: "Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going out of his mind."
He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher's forehead.
Frobisher said: "Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh's done the right thing, poor devil. It's not his fault, it's heredity - germ plasm - brain cells... But once he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It's one of those things that just has to be done."
"If I could be convinced of that -"
"You can take it from me."
"But you have told me nothing."
"I tell you I don't want to talk about it."
"Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?"
"Because it was the only thing to be done."
"Why?"
Frobisher shook an obstinate head.
Poirot murmured softly: "Was it to do with some sheep being killed?"
The other man said angrily: "So you've heard about that?"
"Diana told me."
"That girl had far better keep her mouth shut."
"She did not think it was conclusive."
"She doesn't know."
"What doesn't she know?"
Unwillingly, jerkily, angrily, Frobisher spoke:
"Oh well, if you must have it... Chandler heard a noise that night. Thought it might be someone got in the house. Went out to investigate. Light in the boy's room. Chandler went in. Hugh asleep on bed - dead asleep - in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full of blood. His father couldn't wake him. Next morning heard about sheep being found with their throats cut. Questioned Hugh. Boy didn't know anything about it. Didn't remember going out - and his shoes found by the side door caked in mud. Couldn't explain the blood in the basin. Couldn't explain anything. Poor devil didn't know, you understand.
"Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be done? Then it happened again - three nights later. After that - well, you can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the service. If he was here, under Charles's eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn't afford to have a scandal in the Navy. Yes, it was the only thing to be done." 
Poirot asked: "And since then?" 
Frobisher said fiercely, "I'm not answering any more questions. Don't you think Hugh knows his own business best?"
Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always loath to admit that anyone could know better than Hercule Poirot.

III

As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He stood for a moment, a dark figure silhouetted against the bright light outside.
He said in a low, gruff voice: "Oh there you both are. M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study."
Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the Admiral. He had rather the feeling of having been summoned to the quarter-deck to give an account of himself.
The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and himself sat down in the other. Poirot, whilst with Frobisher, had been impressed by the other's restlessness, nervousness and irritability - all the signs of intense mental strain. With Admiral Chandler he felt a sense of hopelessness, of quiet, deep despair...
With a deep sigh. Chandler said: "I can't help being sorry Diana has brought you into this... Poor child, I know how hard it is for her. But - well - it is our own private tragedy, and I think you will understand, M. Poirot, that we don't want outsiders."
"I can understand your feeling, certainly."
"Diana, poor child, can't believe it... I couldn't at first. Probably wouldn't believe it now if I didn't know -"
He paused.
"Know what?"
"That it's in the blood. The taint, I mean."
"And yet you agreed to the engagement?"
Admiral Chandler flushed.
"You mean, I should have put my foot down then? But at the time I'd no idea. Hugh takes after his mother - nothing about him to remind you of the Chandlers. I hoped he'd taken after her in every way. From his childhood upwards, there's never been a trace of abnormality about him until now. I couldn't know that - dash it all, there's a trace of insanity in nearly every old family!"
Poirot said softly: "You have not consulted a doctor?"
Chandler roared: "No, and I'm not going to! The boy's safe enough here with me to look after him. They shan't shut him up between four walls like a wild beast..."
"He is safe here, you say. But are others safe?"
"What do you mean by that?"
Poirot did not reply. He looked steadily into Admiral Chandler's sad, dark eyes.
The Admiral said bitterly: "Each man to his trade. You're looking for a criminal! My boy's not a criminal, M. Poirot."
"Not yet."
"What do you mean by 'not yet'?"
"These things increase... Those sheep -"
"Who told you about the sheep?"
"Diana Maberly. And also your friend, Colonel Frobisher."
"George would have done better to keep his mouth shut."
"He is a very old friend of yours, is he not?"
"My best friend," the Admiral said gruffly.
"And he was a friend of - your wife's, too?"
Chandler smiled.
"Yes. George was in love with Caroline, I believe. When she was very young. He's never married. I believe that's the reason. Ah well, I was the lucky one - or so I thought. I carried her off - only to lose her."
He sighed and his shoulders sagged.
Poirot said: "Colonel Frobisher was with you when your wife was - drowned?"
Chandler nodded.
"Yes, he was with us down in Cornwall when it happened. She and I were out in the boat together - he happened to stay at home that day. I've never understood how that boat came to capsize... Must have sprung a sudden leak. We were right out in the bay - strong tide running. I held her up as long as I could..." His voice broke. "Her body was washed up two days later. Thank the Lord we hadn't taken little Hugh out with us! At least, that's what I thought at the time. Now - well - better for Hugh, poor devil, perhaps, if he had been with us. If it had all been finished and done for then..."
Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.
"We're the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more Chandlers at Lyde after we're gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I hoped - well, it's no good talking of that. Thank God, they didn't marry. That's all I can say!"

IV

Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh Chandler. Diana Maberly had just left them.
The young man turned a handsome, tortured face towards his companion.
He said: "You've got to make her understand, M. Poirot."
He paused for a minute and then went on: "You see, Di's a fighter. She won't give in. She won't accept what she's darned well got to accept. She - she will go on believing that I'm - sane."
"While you yourself are quite certain that you are - pardon me - insane?"
The young man winced. He said: "I'm not actually hopelessly off my head yet - but it's getting worse. Diana doesn't know, bless her. She's only seen me when I am - all right."
"And when you are - all wrong, what happens?"
Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said: "For one thing - I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance - I wasn't a man any longer. I was first of all a bull - a mad bull - racing about in blazing sunlight - tasting dust and blood in my mouth - dust and blood... And then I was a dog - a great slavering dog. I had hydrophobia - rabies - children scattered and fled as I came - men and women tried to shoot me - someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn't drink. I couldn't drink..."
He paused. "I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the wash-stand. My mouth was parched - horribly parched - and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn't drink, M. Poirot... I couldn't swallow... Oh, my God, I wasn't able to drink..."
Hercule Poirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were clenched on his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something coming towards him.
"And there are things that aren't dreams. Things that I see when I'm wide awake. Spectres, frightful shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I'm able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through the air, to ride the winds - and fiends bear me company!" 
"Tcha, tcha," said Hercule Poirot.
It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.
Hugh Chandler turned to him.
"Oh, there isn't any doubt. It's in my blood. It's my family heritage. I can't escape. Thank God I found it out in time! Before I'd married Diana. Suppose we'd had a child and handed on this frightful thing to him!" 
He laid a hand on Poirot's arm. 
"You must make her understand. You must tell her. She's got to forget. She's got to. There will be someone else someday. There's young Steve Graham - he's crazy about her and he's an awfully good chap. She'd be happy with him - and safe. I want her - to be happy. Graham's hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I'm gone they'll be all right."
Hercule's voice interrupted him.
"Why will they be 'all right' when you are gone?"
Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile.
He said: "There's my mother's money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I've left it all to Diana."
Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: "Ah!"
Then he said: "But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr Chandler."
Hugh Chandler shook his head. 
He said sharply: "No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man."
Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.
"My God! Look!" He stared over Poirot's shoulder. "There - standing by you... it's a skeleton - its bones are shaking. It's calling to me - beckoning-"
His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.
Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice: "You didn't see - anything?" 
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Hugh Chandler said hoarsely: "I don't mind this so much - seeing things. It's the blood I'm frightened of. The blood in my room - on my clothes... We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut - and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!"
He leant closer to Poirot.
"Even just lately things have been killed," he whispered. "All around - in the village - out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs - a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes - sometimes - the door's open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don't know where I've hidden it. I don't know. It isn't I who do these things - it's someone else who comes into me - who takes possession of me - who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can't drink water..."
Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.
After a minute or two, Poirot asked: "I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?"
Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said: "Don't you really understand? Physically I'm strong. I'm as strong as a bull. I might live for years - years - shut up between four walls! That I can't face! It would be better to go out altogether... There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun... that sort of thing. Diana will understand... I'd rather take my own way out!"
He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly:
"What do you eat and drink?"
Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.
"Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?"
Poirot merely repeated gently: "What do you eat and drink?"
"Just what everybody else eats and drinks."
"No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?"
"Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?" He quoted derisively: "'Canst though then minister to a mind diseased?'"
Hercule Poirot said dryly: "I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?"
Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said: "Father's eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly often."
"Ah!" Poirot meditated for a moment or two. Then he said: "Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in the Raj?"
"Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He's very keen on India - talks about it a lot - native traditions - and all that."
Poirot murmured "Ah!" again.
Then he remarked: "I see that you have cut your chin."
Hugh put his hand up.
"Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I'm a bit nervy these days, you know. And I've had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving difficult."
Poirot said: "You should use a soothing cream."
"Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one."
He gave a sudden laugh.
"We're talking like a woman's beauty parlour. Lotions, soothing creams, patent pills, eye trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?"
Poirot said quietly: "I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly."
Hugh's mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.
"Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she's got to forget. Tell her that it's no good hoping... Tell her some of the things I've told you... Tell her - oh, tell her for God's sake to keep away from me! That's the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away - and try to forget!"

V

"Have you courage. Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it."
Diana cried sharply: "Then it's true. It's true? He is mad?"
Hercule Poirot said: "I am not an alienist. Mademoiselle. It is not I who can say, 'This man is mad. This man is sane.'"
She came closer to him.
"Admiral Chandler thinks Hugh is mad. George Frobisher thinks he is mad. Hugh himself thinks he is mad -"
Poirot was watching her.
"And you, Mademoiselle?"
"I? I say he isn't mad! That's why -" She stopped.
"That is why you came to me?"
"Yes. I couldn't have had any other reason for coming to you, could I?"
"That," said Hercule Poirot, "is exactly what I have been asking myself, Mademoiselle!"
"I don't understand you."
"Who is Stephen Graham?"
She stared. "Stephen Graham? Oh, he's - he's just someone."
She caught him by the arm.
"What's in your mind? What are you thinking about? You just stand there - behind that great moustache of yours - blinking your eyes in the sunlight, and you don't tell me anything. You're making me afraid - horribly afraid. Why are you making me afraid?"
"Perhaps," said Poirot, "because I am afraid myself."
The deep grey eyes opened wide, stared up at him. She said in a whisper:
"What are you afraid of?"
Hercule Poirot sighed - a deep sigh.
He said: "It is much easier to catch a murderer than it is to prevent a murder."
She cried out: "Murder? Don't use that word."
"Nevertheless," said Hercule Poirot, "I do use it."
He altered his tone, speaking quickly and authoritatively.
"Mademoiselle, it is necessary that both you and I should pass the night at Lyde Manor. I look to you to arrange the matter. You can do that?"
"I - yes - I suppose so. But why -?"
"Because there is no time to lose. You have told me that you have courage. Prove that courage now. Do what I ask and make no questions about it."
She nodded without a word and turned away.
Poirot followed her into the house after the lapse of a moment or two. He heard her voice in the library and the voices of three men. He passed up the broad staircase. There was no one on the upper floor.
He found Hugh Chandler's room easily enough. In the corner of the room was a fitted washbasin with hot and cold water. Over it, on a glass shelf, were various tubes and pots and bottles.
Hercule Poirot went quickly and dexterously to work...
What he had to do did not take him long. He was downstairs again in the hall when Diana came out of the library, looking flushed and rebellious.
"It's all right," she said.
Admiral Chandler drew Poirot into the library and closed the door. He said: "Look here, M. Poirot, I don't like this."
"What don't you like, Admiral Chandler?"
"Diana has been insisting that you and she should both spend the night here. I don't want to be inhospitable -"
"It is not a question of hospitality."
"As I say, I don't like being inhospitable - but frankly, I don't like it, M. Poirot. I - I don't want it. And I don't understand the reason for it. What good can it possibly do?"
"Shall we say that it is an experiment I am trying?"
"What kind of an experiment?"
"That, you will pardon me, is my business..."
"Now look here, M. Poirot, I didn't ask you to come here in the first place -"
Poirot interrupted.
"Believe me, Admiral Chandler, I quite understand and appreciate your point of view. I am here simply and solely because of the obstinacy of a girl in love. You have told me certain things. Colonel Frobisher has told me certain things. Hugh himself has told me certain things. Now - I want to see for myself."
"Yes, but see what? I tell you, there's nothing to see! I lock Hugh into his room every night and that's that."
"And yet - sometimes - he tells me that the door is not locked in the morning?"
"What's that?"
"Have you not found the door unlocked yourself?"
Chandler was frowning.
"I always imagined George had unlocked - what do you mean?"
"Where do you leave the key - in the lock?"
"No, I lay it on the chest outside. I, or George, or Withers, the valet, take it from there in the morning. We've told Withers it's because Hugh walks in his sleep... I daresay he knows more - but he's a faithful fellow, been with me for years."
"Is there another key?"
"Not that I know of."
"One could have been made."
"But who -"
"Your son thinks that he himself has one hidden somewhere, although he is unaware of it in his waking state."
Colonel Frobisher, speaking from the far end of the room, said: "I don't like it, Charles... The girl -"
Admiral Chandler said quickly: "Just what I was thinking. The girl mustn't come back with you. Come back yourself, if you like."
Poirot said: "Why don't you want Miss Maberly here tonight?"
Frobisher said in a low voice: "It's too risky. In these cases -"
He stopped.
Poirot said: "Hugh is devoted to her..."
Chandler cried: "That's just why! Damn it all, man, everything's topsy-turvy where a madman's concerned. Hugh knows that himself. Diana mustn't come here."
"As to that," said Poirot, "Diana must decide for herself."
He went out of the library. Diana was waiting outside in the car. She called out, "We'll get what we want for the night and be back in time for dinner."
As they drove down the long drive, Poirot repeated to her the conversation he had just held with the Admiral and Colonel Frobisher. She laughed scornfully.
"Do they think Hugh would hurt me?"
By way of reply, Poirot asked her if she would mind stopping at the chemist's in the village. He had forgotten, he said, to pack a toothbrush.
The chemist's shop was in the middle of the peaceful village street. Diana waited outside in the car. It struck her that Hercule Poirot was a long time choosing a toothbrush...

VI

In the big bedroom with the heavy Elizabethan oak furniture, Hercule Poirot sat and waited. There was nothing to do but wait. All his arrangements were made.
It was towards early morning that the summons came.
At the sound of footsteps outside, Poirot drew back the bolt and opened the door. There were two men in the passage outside - two middle-aged men who looked older than their years. The Admiral was stern-faced and grim. Colonel Frobisher twitched and trembled.
Chandler said simply: "Will you come with us, M. Poirot?"
There was a huddled figure lying outside Diana Maberly's bedroom door. The light fell on a rumpled, tawny head. Hugh Chandler lay there breathing stertorously. He was in his dressing-gown and slippers. In his right hand was a sharply-curved, shining knife. Not all of it was shining - here and there it was obscured by red glistening patches.
Hercule Poirot exclaimed softly: "Mon Dieu!"
Frobisher said sharply: "She's all right. He hasn't touched her." 
He raised his voice and called: "Diana! It's us! Let us in!"
Poirot heard the Admiral groan and mutter under his breath: "My boy. My poor boy."
There was a sound of bolts being drawn. The door opened and Diana stood there. Her face was dead white.
She faltered out: "What's happened? There was someone - trying to get in - I heard them - feeling the door - the handle - scratching on the panels - Oh! it was awful... like an animal..."
Frobisher said sharply: "Thank God your door was locked!"
"M. Poirot told me to lock it."
Poirot said: "Lift him up and bring him inside."
The two men stooped and raised the unconscious man. Diana caught her breath with a little gasp as they passed her.
"Hugh? Is it Hugh? What's that - on his hands?"
Hugh Chandler's hands were sticky and wet with a brownish, red stain.
Diana breathed: "Is that blood?"
Poirot looked inquiringly at the two men. 
The Admiral nodded. He said: "Not human, thank God! A cat! I found it downstairs in the hall. Throat cut. Afterwards he must have come up here -"
"Here?" Diana's voice was low with horror. "To me?"
The man on the chair stirred - muttered. They watched him, fascinated. Hugh Chandler sat up. He blinked.
"Hullo," his voice was dazed - hoarse. "What's happened? Why am I -?"
He stopped. He was staring at the knife which he held still clasped in his hand.
He said in a slow, thick voice: "What have I done?"
His eyes went from one to the other. They rested at last on Diana shrinking back against the wall. 
He said quietly: "Did I attack Diana?"
His father shook his head. 
Hugh said: "Tell me what has happened? I've got to know!"
They told him - told him unwillingly - haltingly. His quiet perseverance drew it out of them.
Outside the window the sun was coming up. Hercule Poirot drew a curtain aside. The radiance of the dawn came into the room.
Hugh Chandler's face was composed, his voice was steady.
He said: "I see."
Then he got up. He smiled and stretched himself. His voice was quite natural as he said:
"Beautiful morning, what? Think I'll go out in the woods and try to get a rabbit."
He went out of the room and left them staring after him.
Then the Admiral started forward. Frobisher caught him by the arm.
"No, Charles, no. It's the best way - for him, poor devil, if for nobody else."
Diana had thrown herself sobbing on the bed.
Admiral Chandler said, his voice coming unevenly: "You're right, George - you're right, I know. The boy's got guts..."
Frobisher said, and his voice, too, was broken: "He's a man..."
There was a moment's silence and then Chandler said:
"Damn it, where's that cursed foreigner?"

VII

In the gun-room, Hugh Chandler had lifted his gun from the rack and was in the act of loading it when Hercule Poirot's hand fell on his shoulder.
Hercule Poirot's voice said one word and said it with a strange authority. 
He said: "No !"
Hugh Chandler stared at him. 
He said in a thick, angry voice: "Take your hands off me. Don't interfere. There's going to be an accident, I tell you. It's the only way out."
Again Hercule Poirot repeated that one word: "No."
"Don't you realise that if it hadn't been for the accident of her door being locked, I would have cut Diana's throat - Diana's! - with that knife?"
"I realise nothing of the kind. You would not have killed Miss Maberly."
"I killed the cat, didn't I?"
"No, you did not kill the cat. You did not kill the parrot. You did not kill the sheep."
Hugh stared at him. He demanded: "Are you mad, or am I?"
Hercule Poirot replied: "Neither of us is mad."
It was at that moment that Admiral Chandler and Colonel Frobisher came in. Behind them came Diana.
Hugh Chandler said in a weak, dazed voice: "This chap says I'm not mad..."
Hercule Poirot said: "I am happy to tell you that you are entirely and completely sane."
Hugh laughed. It was a laugh such as a lunatic might popularly be supposed to give.
"That's damned funny! It's sane, is it, to cut the throats of sheep and other animals? I was sane, was I, when I killed that parrot? And the cat tonight?"
"I tell you you did not kill the sheep - or the parrot - or the cat."
"Then who did?"
"Someone who has had at heart the sole object of proving you insane. On each occasion you were given a heavy soporific and a blood-stained knife or razor was planted by you. It was someone else whose bloody hands were washed in your basin."
"But why?"
"In order that you should do what you were just about to do when I stopped you."
Hugh stared. Poirot turned to Colonel Frobisher.
"Colonel Frobisher, you lived for many years in the Raj. Did you never come across cases where persons were deliberately driven mad by the administration of drugs?"
Colonel Frobisher's face lit up. 
He said: "Never came across a case myself, but I've heard of them often enough. Datura poisoning. It ends by driving a person insane."
"Exactly. Well, the active principle of the datura is very closely allied to, if it is not actually, the alkaloid atropine - which is also obtained from belladonna or deadly nightshade. Belladonna preparations are fairly common and atropine sulphate itself is prescribed freely for eye treatments. By duplicating a prescription and getting it made up in different places a large quantity of the poison could be obtained without arousing suspicion. The alkaloid could be extracted from it and then introduced into, say - a soothing shaving cream. Applied externally it would cause a rash, this would soon lead to abrasions in shaving and thus the drug would be continually entering the system. It would produce certain symptoms - dryness of the mouth and throat, difficulty in swallowing, hallucinations, double vision - all the symptoms, in fact, which Mr Chandler has experienced."
He turned to the young man.
"And to remove the last doubt from your mind, I will tell you that that is not a supposition but a fact. Your shaving cream was heavily impregnated with atropine sulphate. I took a sample and had it tested."
White, shaking, Hugh asked: "Who did it?"
Hercule Poirot said: "That is what I have been studying ever since I arrived here. I have been looking for a motive for murder. Diana Maberly gained financially by your death, but I did not consider her seriously -"
Hugh Chandler flashed out: "I should hope not!"
"I envisaged another possible motive. The eternal triangle; two men and a woman. Colonel Frobisher had been in love with your mother. Admiral Chandler married her."
Admiral Chandler cried out: "George? George! I won't believe it."
Hugh said in an incredulous voice: "Do you mean that hatred could go on - to a son?"
Hercule Poirot said: "Under certain circumstances, yes."
Frobisher cried out: "It's a damned lie! Don't believe him, Charles."
Chandler shrank away from him. He muttered to himself:
"The datura... India - yes, I see... And we'd never suspect poison - not with madness in the family already..."
"Mais oui!" Hercule Poirot's voice rose high and shrill. "Madness in the family. A madman - bent on revenge - cunning - as madmen are, concealing his madness for years." He whirled round on Frobisher. "Mon Dieu, you must have known, you must have suspected, that Hugh was your son? Why did you never tell him so?"
Frobisher stammered, gulped.
"I didn't know. I couldn't be sure... You see, Caroline came to me once - she was frightened of something - in great trouble. I don't know, I never have known, what it was all about. She - I - we lost our heads. Afterwards I went away at once - it was the only thing to be done, we both knew we'd got to play the game. I - well, I wondered, but I couldn't be sure. Caroline never said anything that led me to think Hugh was my son. And then when this - this streak of madness appeared, it settled things definitely, I thought."
Poirot said: "Yes, it settled things! You could not see the way the boy has of thrusting out his face and bringing down his brows - a trick he inherited from you. But Charles Chandler saw it. Saw it years ago - and learnt the truth from his wife. I think she was afraid of him - he'd begun to show her the mad streak - that was what drove her into your arms - you whom she had always loved. Charles Chandler planned his revenge. His wife died in a boating accident. He and she were out in the boat alone and he knows how that accident came about. Then he settled down to feed his concentrated hatred against the boy who bore his name but who was not his son. Your stories put the idea of datura poisoning into his head. Hugh should be slowly driven mad. Driven to the stage where he would take his own life in despair. The blood lust was Admiral Chandler's, not Hugh's. It was Charles Chandler who was driven to cut the throats of sheep in lonely fields. But it was Hugh who was to pay the penalty!
"Do you know when I suspected? When Admiral Chandler was so averse to his son seeing a doctor. For Hugh to object was natural enough. But the father! There might be treatment which would save his son - there were a hundred reasons why he should seek to have a doctor's opinion. But no, a doctor must not be allowed to see Hugh Chandler - in case a doctor should discover that Hugh was sane!"
Hugh said very quietly: "Sane... I am sane?"
He took a step towards Diana. 
Frobisher said in a gruff voice: "You're sane enough. There's no taint in our family."
Diana said: "Hugh..."
Admiral Chandler picked up Hugh's gun. 
He said: "All a lot of nonsense! Think I'll go and see if I can get a rabbit -"
Frobisher started forward, but the hand of Hercule Poirot restrained him. 
Poirot said: "You said yourself - just now - that it was the best way..."
Hugh and Diana had gone from the room.
The two men, the Englishman and the Belgian, watched the last of the Chandlers cross the Park and go up into the woods.
Presently, they heard a shot...