"It is bronze," I said. "That is not a human forehead: it is bronze."
M. Le Mesge shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a human forehead," he affirmed curtly, "and not bronze. Bronze
is darker, sir. This is the great unknown metal of which Plato speaks
in the Critias, and which is something between gold and silver: it is
the special metal of the mountains of the Atlantides. It is
orichalch."
Bending again, I satisfied myself that this metal was the same as that
with which the walls of the library were overcast.
"It is orichalch," continued M. Le Mesge. "You look as if you had no
idea how a human body can look like a statue of orichalch. Come,
Captain Morhange, you whom I gave credit for a certain amount of
knowledge, have you never heard of the method of Dr. Variot, by which
a human body can be preserved without embalming? Have you never read
the book of that practitioner?[11] He explains a method called
electro-plating. The skin is coated with a very thin layer of silver
salts, to make it a conductor. The body then is placed in a solution,
of copper sulphate, and the polar currents do their work. The body of
this estimable English major has been metalized in the same manner,
except that a solution of orichalch sulphate, a very rare substance,
has been substituted for that of copper sulphate. Thus, instead of the
statue of a poor slave, a copper statue, you have before you a statue
of metal more precious than silver or gold, in a word, a statue worthy
of the granddaughter of Neptune."
[Footnote 11: Variot: L'anthropologie galvanique. Paris, 1890. (Note
by M. Leroux.)]
M. Le Mesge waved his arm. The black slaves seized the body. In a few
seconds, they slid the orichalch ghost into its painted wooden sheath.
That was set on end and slid into its niche, beside the niche where an
exactly similar sheath was labelled "Number 52."
Upon finishing their task, they retired without a word. A draught of
cold air from the door again made the flames of the copper torches
flicker and threw great shadows about us.
Morhange and I remained as motionless as the pale metal specters which
surrounded us. Suddenly I pulled myself together and staggered forward
to the niche beside that in which they just had laid the remains of
the English major. I looked for the label.
Supporting myself against the red marble wall, I read: "Number 52. Captain Laurent Deligne. Born at Paris, July 22, 1861.
Died at Ahaggar, October 30, 1896."
"Captain Deligne!" murmured Morhange. "He left Colomb-Béchar in 1895
for Timmimoun and no more has been heard of him since then."