Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum Read Online Free

that soon I would see the world anew, not as it should be, but
as it is.
    Near a window in the right-hand corner, I
noticed the sentry box of the periscope. I entered it and found
myself facing a glass plate, as on the bridge of a ship, and
through it I saw shifting images of a film, blurred; a scene of a
city. What I saw was projected from a screen above my head, where
everything was upside down, and this second screen was the
eyepiece, as it were, of a primitive periscope made of two packing
cases arranged in an obtuse angle. The longer case stuck out like a
pipe from the cubicle above and behind me, reaching a higher
window, from which a set of wide-angle lenses gathered the light
from outside. Calculating the route I had followed, coming up here,
I realized that the periscope gave me a view of the outside as if I
were looking through a window in the upper part of the apse of
Saint-Martin¡Xas if I were swaying there with the Pendulum, like a
hanged man, taking his last look. After my eyes adjusted to the
pale scene, I could make out rue Vaucanson, which the choir
overlooked, and rue Conte, on a line with the nave. Rue Conte split
into rue Montgolfier to the left and rue de 1 rbigo to the right. There were a couple of bars at the
corners, Le Weekend and La Rotonde, and opposite them a fa?ade with
a sign that I could just barely discern: LES CREATIONS
JACSAM.
    The periscope. There was
no real reason it should be in the hall of glass rather than in the
hall of optical instruments, but obviously it was important for
this particular view of the outside to be in this particular place.
But important how? Why should this cubicle, so
positivist-scientific, a thing out of Verne, stand beside the
emblematic lion and serpent?
    In any case, if I had
the strength and the courage to stay here for another half hour or
so, the night watchman might not see me.
    And so I remained
underwater for what seemed a very long time. I heard the footsteps
of the last of the visitors, then the footsteps of the last guards.
I was tempted to crouch under the bridge to elude a possible random
glance inside, but decided against it. If they discovered me
standing, I could pretend I was an enthusiast who had lingered to
enjoy the marvel.
    Later, the lights went
out, and the hall was shrouded in semi-darkness. But the cubicle
seemed less dark now, illuminated as it was by the screen. I stared
steadily at it, my last contact with the world.
    The best course was to
stay on my feet¡Xif my feet ached too much, then in a crouch, for
at least two hours. Closing time for visitors was not the same as
quitting time for the employees. I was seized by sudden fear:
Suppose the cleaning staff started going through all the rooms,
inch by inch. But then I remembered: the museum opened late in the
morning, so the cleaners probably worked by daylight and not in the
evening. And that must have been the case, at least in the upper
rooms, because I heard no one else pass by, only distant voices and
an occasional louder sound, perhaps of doors closing. I stood
still. There would be plenty of time for me to get back to the
church between ten and eleven, or even later. The Masters would not
come until close to midnight.
    A group of young people
emerged from La Rotonde. A girl walked along rue Conte and turned
into rue Montgolfier. Not a very busy neighborhood. Would I be able
to hold out, watching the humdrum world behind my back for hours on
end? Shouldn't I try to guess the secret of the periscope's
location here? I felt the need to urinate. Ignore it: a nervous
reaction.
    So many things run
through your mind when you're hiding alone inside a periscope. This
must be how a stowaway feels, concealed in a ship's hold,
emigrating to some far-off land. To the Statue of Liberty, in fact,
with the diorama of New York. I might grow drowsy, doze; maybe that
would be good. No, then I might wake up too late...
    The worst would be an
anxiety attack. You are certain then that in a moment you