The Second Life of Doctor Albin

by Raoul Gineste

  If he had deposited the results of his labor at the Académie des Sciences, under seal, he would be able to claim the priority, but he did not even think of doing that; his pride prevented him from believing that another was capable of equaling him, and his disdain for officialdom caused him to neglect that elementary precaution.

  Someone knocks loudly. Perhaps he has not hard? The door is opened with the aid of a duplicate key. Several people, the manager of the hotel at their head, invade his room.

  “What is the significance of these madman’s roars,” complains the hotelier, “and why that violent fire? You’ve frightened all the guests.”

  He looks at him with haggard eyes, and then stammers apologies. The visitors withdraw, not without making unkind remarks.

  He reflects for a few minutes; the tone in which the manager has just spoken to him causes him to suppose that he is not looked upon kindly. He goes down to the office, says that he does not want to inconvenience anyone, pays for his room and asks that they keep his suitcase; he will have it collected by the bellboy of another hotel.

  Night is beginning to fall. He wanders mechanically hither and yon. The sight of a newspaper kiosk makes him think of his friend X***. He recalls that he owes him a hundred francs, goes into a café, puts his remaining banknotes into an envelope and posts them to him. An adieu, almost illegible, to which he does not attach any determined meaning, escapes his pen.

  He resumes his aimless wandering. His head is empty; incoherent words emerge from his mouth. Passers-by into whom he bumps turn around, calling him drunkard or madman. Uniformed policemen speak sharply to him. He changes direction, goes into a square, and suddenly finds himself face to face with the monument erected to the memory of Professor Albin.

  The moonlight, filtered by the mist, envelops it with a vague light; the man of bronze is still examining his retort with an inspired expression, and Renown is still inflating her cheeks immeasurably.

  He stops, as if petrified, and passes his hand over his brow.

  A flash of light traverses his intelligence. Nothing will remain of all that glory, to which, as an obscure pioneer, he administered the first blow of the pick-ax, and that work of destruction, which he was only able to consent to do on condition of at least reaping the glory of it, another has just accomplished. Past glory and future glory: everything has just collapsed. The efforts and sufferings of his second life have only served to annihilate his original personality.

  Would it not have been better, then, tranquilly to enjoy his wealth and his honors? If love of truth alone had possessed him, there would have been no need of a mask to overturn his doctrine. It was, therefore, a folly of pride that was the principle motive for his action, and that action, without the sanction of glory, is no more now than a criminal imposture.

  A warden taps him on the shoulder.

  “We’re closing, Monsieur. It’s a little late for visiting monuments; come back tomorrow. Come on, didn’t you hear me—move along!”

  That phrase reminds him of the injection of the policemen when he had collapsed, dying, on a bench on the boulevards. All his hatred revives; it is poverty that has sterilized his genius and society that has refused him bread, which has placed him in debasing conditions, broken his pen and gagged his mouth!

  He resumes walking, wandering for entire hours. From time to time, an ardent thirst dries out his throat. Then he goes into the first wine merchant’s shop he encounters, orders a drink, downs it in a single draught, throws a coin on the counter and flees without waiting for the change.

  The streets are empty, the boulevards deserted. The despairing individual walks on, suppressing his exclamations of anger, hastening his march for brief intervals, and then suddenly stopping.

  It is two o’clock in the morning. He finds himself, by chance, on a bridge. The river, swollen by rain, is flowing with a muffled roar. The flames of the gas-lamps, refracted by the fog, extend obliquely in luminous lances that seem to be held upraised by a line of invisible cavaliers, menacingly. He imagines, in his hallucination, that they are forbidding him to pass on.

  Then the memory of Mariette suddenly returns to his mind and makes his intentions, latent until then, precise. That is where she is; he knows it; he feels it; that is where he must go to rejoin her.

  What remains for him to do on earth? Why should he live? Has he not suffered enough? Will he have less courage than poor Mariette? Will he remain deaf to her appeal?

  “Companion Bilan,” murmurs a voice behind him. He turns round; men throw themselves upon him brutally, tie him up rapidly, He is dragged under a gas-lamp.

  “It’s definitely the man in question,” affirms the hotel manager, who examines him.

  “We recognize him,” say the two policemen called to assist the man who fainted. The joy of agents of the Sûreté bursts forth noisily.

  “We’ve got him,” exclaims one of them. “It’s not too soon.”

  “Don’t give us any trouble,” adds another, addressing the prisoner. “Dead or alive, we’re taking you in.”

  Jacques Bilan has not made any movement of self-defense or pronounced a single word. He is taken to the prefecture. He is harassed by fatigue, inert, annihilated; a heavy slumber nails him to his iron-framed bunk. He does not even take the trouble to undress. It is the sleep of a man who has resigned himself to death.

  “Is your name Jacques Bilan?” the examining magistrate asks him, in haste to open the investigation in honor of an important prisoner.

  “If you wish,” says the accused, determined not to defend himself. “It’s all the same to me.”

  “It’s not what I wish; all the papers seized with your suitcase and on your person prove it. I must admit that it’s rare to find so much evidence of identity on a man who has every interest in hiding it. So you really are Jacques Bilan?”

  The accused shrugs his shoulders.

  “The police reports tell us that you were in London last week. With what purpose have you returned to Paris?”

  “To occupy myself with chemistry.”

  “If that’s an allusion to your criminal projects, I find the joke sinister.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You burned a large quantity of papers in the fireplace of your room. You were doubtless afraid of compromising accomplices.”

  “Tell me straight out, then, of what I’m accused; that will be simpler, and I can reply to you if I think it appropriate. Know, first of all, that I’m not an idiot; if I had known that I had an interest in hiding, I wouldn’t have furnished myself with those proofs of identity whose multiplicity astonishes you, and if I had feared compromising accomplices, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself with compromising papers. It would have been easy to leave them in London or throw them in the sea. But once again, of what am I accused?”

  “You know full well! You’ve already been subjected to two condemnations, one under the name of Jacques Liban and the other under that of Charles Balin.”

  “Yes, involuntary fraud and the illicit practice of medicine.”

  “Ah! You admit that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re right, all the more so as it would be futile to claim the contrary.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “One can’t have too much evidence. You had a registered prostitute for a mistress, Mariette Gantron. What became of her?”

  “I’d be most obliged if you could tell me.”

  “You’re wrong to be insolent. Let’s get to the facts: on the eighteenth of December last, almost a year ago, accompanied by your friend Blandon, you went into the Café Mansard and you placed a bomb there.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I admit, though, that if I had had a bomb to deposit in a café, I would have chosen that one rather than another.”

  “So it’s that one that you chose. Futile to deny it; Blandon has admitted everything.”

  “That’s quite possible. I don’t know Blandon, of course.”

 
; “You’re affecting a strange cynicism. In any case, the act of which you’ve rendered yourself culpable doesn’t surprise us. We knew that you were an anarchist of the most dangerous kind, that you profess propaganda by action, and Blandon’s revelations have only confirmed our suspicions. Your crime has had terrible consequences; the manager was unhurt, but a customer was killed and three others more or less seriously wounded.”

  “I regret it.”

  “Finally, you admit it!”

  “No, I limit myself to regretting that poor devils who went into a café to have a glass of beer have been victims of an anarchist crime committed, quite possibly, by Jacques Bilan and his friend Blandon.”

  “But Jacques Bilan is you! You admitted that at the beginning of my interrogation.”

  “Wrong! To your question ‘Is your name Jacques Bilan,’ I replied: ‘If you wish; it’s all the same to me.’ That doesn’t mean that I’m Jacques Bilan; it signifies, in good French, that it’s profoundly indifferent to me whether you take me for Jacques Bilan and that I have no fear of the consequences of that misapprehension. To cut your questions short, this is the part of the truth that it’s permissible for me to tell you: I’m neither Jacques Bilan, nor Charles Balin, nor Jacques Liban. They’re borrowed names that conceal my true identity, and although it’s true that I’ve been condemned twice under false names, I’m innocent of the crime of which I’m accused, since it was committed a year ago and I only took the name Jacques Bilan a week ago. Now, for reasons that it’s needless to explain to you, having decided to die, and even envisaging the scaffold with a certain pride, I repeat to you that being the victim of a judiciary error is a matter of indifference to me.”

  “If death on the scaffold appears to you so desirable, you could simply admit that you were Blandon’s companion, the author of the odious crime committed on the eighteenth of December.”

  “I refuse to do so, firstly out of respect for the truth, and secondly because of the imbecility of the anarchist act; if I had had the intention of committing such an act I would have chosen a better place. My defense will be limited to affirmations and I shall not offer any proof because, although I have nothing with which to reproach myself in regard to the crime of which I’m accused, I nevertheless deserve to die, and the scaffold appears to me to be the logical, necessary and inevitable result of my actions.”

  “So you claim that you are not Jacques Bilan. It’s evident that you’ve been informed of Blandon’s death; you don’t fear that he will contradict you. In any case, assuming that you’re not the author of the crime, who are you?”

  “I don’t judge it appropriate to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Say rather that it’s impossible for you to do so. If you weren’t Jacques Bilan, you’d be eager to tell us who you are; you cannot tell us, therefore you are Jacques Bilan, and everything proves it: the documents seized, the papers burned, the antisocial vociferations, including the work of chemistry that you’ve just purchased. Once again, if you’re not the anarchist Bilan, knowing that your head is at stake, you’d tell us immediately who you are and how Jacques Bilan’s papers come to be in your possession.”

  “I bought them in London.”

  “Prove it.”

  “There’s no need. I shan’t make any effort to save my head. I’ll tell the truth when it pleases me to tell it, that’s all.”

  The examining magistrate changes tack then. He becomes tender, sympathetic, unctuous, full of forbearance. He adopts an innocent expression, retracts his claws and purrs.

  “Come on, my friend,” he insinuates.

  “Am I your friend, then?”

  “It’s a manner of speaking,” the magistrate replies, swiftly. “I beg you, if you’re not the criminal of the Café Mansard, if you can prove that to us, speak. Look, I’m assuming that you’re not the incriminated anarchist, I’m even respecting your incognito, you can see that I’m a good prince and I’m not trying to set ambushes for you. Tell me frankly...”

  The accused interrupts him with an ironic smile. “You’re going to ask me where I was on the day of the crime, aren’t you? Having not committed the crime and not having had, in consequence, any interest in creating an alibi, I don’t know, any more than you probably know where you were and what you were doing on that day. Look, let’s leave it there, and believe me, Monsieur, I’m sorry to have to give the lie to your reputation as an impeccable interrogator. I swear to you that if reasons above all other considerations didn’t oblige me to keep quiet, I’d have a veritable pleasure in making the revelations that would be earn you, be sure of it, the congratulations of all your colleagues. Now, I warn you, I shall no longer reply to any of your questions.”

  The accused keeps his promise and the investigation is necessarily closed after a relatively short time.

  Such a trial being a trampoline for establishing or confirming a reputation, several advocates solicit the favor of defending the enigmatic individual; he refuses them all; he is given a young official advocate.

  The enthusiasm of the defender is quickly cooled by the indifference and silence of his client.

  “I’m going to plead insanity,” he exclaims, discouraged, “since you don’t want to furnish me with any other means of defense.”

  “Refrain from doing that, Monsieur,” he instructs him. “It’s a means that is veritably worn out and unworthy of your talent. Moreover, I shall be obliged to give you the lie on that terrain; believe me, you won’t be able to compete with me.”

  “How do you expect me to defend you? The evidence and testimony are overwhelming.”

  “I don’t want to be defended.”

  “But my duty as an official advocate is to defend you. My professional honor and my reputation are at stake. Can I limit myself to pleasing extenuating circumstances? It’s very little.”

  “If I didn’t pity your embarrassment, I’d reply that your reputation and your professional honor are of no importance to me. But since you insist—for which I understand and forgive you—permit me to give you an idea.”

  The young man opens his eyes wide.

  “Plead for the scaffold,” the man envelope by mystery goes on, gravely. “Tell them that you have a duty, after all, to satisfy your client and that a condemnation to death would be the solution most satisfactory to him. It’s the first time that argument has been presented—tomorrow, you’ll be famous!”

  The advocate tries to laugh, but is in reality impressed by the sincerity with which those unexpected words have been spoken.

  “How can you expect me to plead for the death penalty,” he objected, “since you claim, and in my capacity as your defender, I’m obliged to believe you, that you’re not Jacques Bilan and that you haven’t committed the crime of which you’re accused?”

  “I’ve committed, against Society and perhaps against myself, a crime a thousand times greater than the one of which I’m accused. Hundreds of human beings have paid with their lives for a whim of my pride. Although it is a sin, that act is outside the scope of the law; it has never been foreseen by it and perhaps could not be; it has no weapon with which to strike it; it is doubtless for that reason that Destiny, having condemned me to die with a sinister renown, caused me to assume the identity and the crime of an anarchist.

  “I was about to throw myself in the river when the pitiless but logical fatality of the chain of events to which I have given birth came to inform me that the punishment in question would neither be worthy of me nor sufficient for it. It’s the scaffold or the pedestal that people of my species require. My pride, which could not be content with the one, must inexorably expiate its error on the other. It’s even fortunate that the crime of which I’m accused, although stupid, is only an anarchist atrocity. I might have taken on the identity of a murderer soiled by theft! There is, therefore, in the supreme Will that is punishing me, something akin to a pity for my genius, a species of regard for what I once was!

  “That is why, if you consider my interests and not yours
, you ought not to defend me. If you snatched me from death—which is, in any case, fatefully impossible for you—that absurd crime of which I am accused and which I did not commit, I would now be capable of committing. Furthermore, mortally wounded in my pride, embittered by inconceivable misfortunes, if shame and debauchery did not drown me in the mud, I would put all the intelligence and life that remained to me in the implacable service of the revolutionary cause, and on the day when I did throw a bomb, believe me, it would be in other conditions and in another milieu.”

  The advocate looks at him, terrified.

  “Jacques Bilan,” he murmurs, as if talking to himself. “Jacques Bilan, the imbecile of the Café Mansard. Let’s go, then! Let them only set me free for a week, and they’ll see whether I won’t blow up one of their Bastilles!”

  The ferocity that he senses gives birth within him to furious sniggers, floods of hatred that that rise to his lips. He has turned to the young defender.

  “If, by chance, you saved my head,” he cries, “you’d be committing a crime against Society!”

  Chapter XXXVII

  It is a gala day at the assize court. Although the drama is not a crime of passion and the accused is neither young nor handsome, numerous ladies in elegant dresses are fighting over the entrance tickets. Advocates in robes grouped in all the corners of the courtroom, political men and ambassadors occupy the best seats and the journalists bench is fully packed.

  The pale winter sunlight that passes through the white curtain comes to die on the dark green back wall of the room, where the Christ, in whom indifferent eyes indifferent eyes no longer see the tragic symbolism, is dying in vain on his cross.

  Animated conversations fill the sanctuary of the law; the composition of the jury is examined, predictions are made on the verdict, bets are laid.

  On a table, among the pieces of evidence, the debris of a bomb, bloody garment, etc., are the identity papers of Jacques Bilan and Ludwig Keller’s Principles of Thermodynamic Chemistry.