I was left breathless and trembling. I rubbed my eyes and my throat and straightened my collar. From my mouth and nose I felt a trickle of blood. The nurse sat me down and went to fetch some gauze and alcohol. Monsieur Julien the registrar rushed in and asked what had happened. As the nurse daubed my wounds, I assured him that no great damage had been done, that no disciplinary action was necessary, that the patient’s outburst was merely the act of a troubled mind, that such things were a professional hazard, that if anything it was a good sign, an indication he would, sooner or later, make a full and complete recovery, only it would not be me treating him, needless to say, no, it would certainly not be me.

When, the following morning, I next saw Madeleine, I was still shaken by the events of the previous day. I’d barely eaten or slept and my mind was racing. That incantation, You are evil, was still ringing in my ears. Was it meant as an insult or a condemnation? I didn’t know then and to this day I still don’t know. It is a profoundly disturbing experience to be judged evil by someone upon whom one has delivered the same judgment.

My entire therapeutic method consisted in making a blind crossing with a patient—that is, a crossing of which the patient would afterward have no recollection, other than a faint, residual impression of psychic relief or alleviation. I had performed it hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times, and never had a patient ever expressed the slightest hint of awareness of what had just happened. But on this occasion, something went wrong. Perhaps it was inevitable that, sooner or later, I’d make a mistake. Perhaps I was run down, or distracted by my reunion with Artopoulos. Perhaps it was subconsciously intended, or provoked by something about Madeleine herself. Whatever the case, it was my intention, as always, that after the return crossing she should have no recollection of what had occurred. But as soon as the initial crossing was complete, I felt something was amiss. I must have overlooked something, or been careless somehow in my method. All the same, I proceeded in my exploration of the patient’s body and mind when she, in my own body sitting in the chair opposite me, spoke.

“Please,” she said, in my own voice, “I don’t want to go back.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to go back,” she repeated with more emphasis.

“Go back where?”

“To my body. To Madeleine. Don’t make me. Please.”

“You want to stay in that old man’s body?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

I watched in horror as Madeleine-in-Balthazar rose from the chair and leaned over me, whispering the following words very slowly: “You cannot make me go back to that body.”

“I would remind you that you are under hypnosis, which you entered into voluntarily. When I command it, you will look again into my eyes and you will return to the body that is rightfully yours.”