I knew perfectly who I was and what I was, and remembered all the events
of the previous day. I was conscious that my real body, undressed and in
bed, now lay fast asleep in a small room on the fourth floor of an
_hotel garni_ in the Rue de la Michodiere. I knew this perfectly; and
yet here was my body, too, just as substantial, with all my clothes on;
my boots rather dusty, my shirt-collar damp with the heat, for it was
hot. With my disengaged hand I felt in my trousers-pocket; there were my
London latch-keys, my purse, my penknife; my handkerchief in the
breastpocket of my coat, and in its tail-pockets my gloves and
pipe-case, and the little water-color box I had bought that morning. I
looked at my watch; it was going, and marked eleven. I pinched myself, I
coughed, I did all one usually does under the pressure of some immense
surprise, to assure myself that I was awake; and I _was_, and yet here I
stood, actually hand in hand with a great lady to whom I had never been
introduced (and who seemed much tickled at my confusion); and staring
now at her, now at my old school.
The prison had tumbled down like a house of cards, and loi! in its place
was M. Saindou's _maison d'education_, just as it had been of old.
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