The Clock of the Centuries

by Albert Robida

  One by one, the refugees had left. The only one who remained with Laforcade in the house whose owners had disappeared was a stout fellow named Houquetot, formerly a petty clerk in the Auxerre registry office, who had run aground there like all the rest, and who had broken a leg in one of the last quakes. Robert Laforcade had been delirious for a long time and then had remained somnolent, oblivious to everything, his head empty and almost devoid of thought. Houquetot had taken a long time to recover the use of his leg, limping from room to room, doing the housekeeping and cooking with the help of a woman from the neighborhood, still bewildered by the prodigious events. He tried to make the convalescent Laforcade rest while he got better, becoming impatient and anxious in the meantime.

  “Go? Go?” cried Houquetot. “My dear Monsieur, you were wandering in the head three days ago; you have to be patient, damn it! You and I—but especially you, who were more than three-quarters dead last week—have come too far for a few more days in this house, which is pleasant enough, to be too much of a burden.”

  “What’s the date?” said Laforcade, walking over to the window even though he was still dizzy.

  “The 25 or 26… Or perhaps the 30, for…”

  “Of what month?”

  “December—I’m sure of that.”

  “Go on!” said Laforcade, dazedly. “I can see greenery, fruits even, and flowers…and yet…”

  “As to that, my dear Monsieur, I’d risk breaking my leg again by falling down if I hadn’t already got somewhat used to these strange fantasies of the season. It may seem to you to be a literally supernatural excess, but that’s the way it is. No, you’re not dreaming—and I spend my time mopping my brow, in December!”

  “Let’s see—it was in early May that the first disturbances…”

  “That the Great Upheaval began, just as I was about to draw my salary and be replaced at my desk in the registry office, because…”

  “And I remember marking off the days in my pocket-book when I could, while it was still possible to distinguish day from night…”

  “Me too!”

  “But I had to skip several days.”

  “So had I!”

  “That lasted several months. When it was all finished, we must have been in October.”

  “As you say—between the 15 and the 22, by my count. Good. Your little accident happened, you fell ill, you spent… hang on… you spent 64 days in bed, so we are now, according to the calculation of Jean Houquetot, ex-clerk at the registry, I have the honor of telling you, between December 25 and 30. Noël, Noël! Merry Christmas! You aren’t finished with astonishments…

  “While you were lying there at full stretch, dreaming, and I was sprawled in an armchair by the window with my poor injured foot, I looked out and listened to the tales that the others, who had the use of their legs, brought me from outside. For a week, after the end of the Upheaval, we had winter, snow and ice, fallen leaves, streams covered with ice—then, no less abruptly, warm breezes returned. We thought that it was autumn, from which we had emerged prematurely, coming back on the scene, but not at all—it was spring!”

  “What?”

  “Yes, at least a fortnight of a delightful spring after the terrible tumult—of which, despite everything, my head was still full. The frozen fruits on the trees have fallen, have been replaced by flowers which very quickly became buds, then fruits, as you can see, while the summer and autumn succeeded one another with a haste that neither I nor anyone else can understand… along with many other little things, besides.”

  “What other things?”

  “Almost everything—for instance, the Sun no longer rises on the same side!”

  “What?”

  “Yes. And the Moon is playing funny games with us. I won’t try to explain it, because my knowledge of astronomy is limited to being able to tell the Sun and Moon apart without too much risk of error, except on foggy days… and at night, the stars aren’t the same as they were…”

  “You’re dreaming!”

  “I’ve thought I was dreaming, and told myself that the emotions of recent times must be making me see things, but everyone else saw it too… The thing is verified now, the scientists have taken it up, the newspapers are talking about it…”

  “The newspapers have reappeared?”

  “Life has begun again in the ruins of the world while we were both here being looked after. Hold on—here’s a few that I got in the village. They aren’t the latest issues, but they’re new to us, anyway. Look.”

  Houquetot handed Laforcade a few small sheets of printed paper, akin to posters, with large headlines and brief articles, like broadsheets published in times of political crisis. Laforcade unfolded them hastily and scanned them, jumping from article to article, his eyes attracted by the headlines.

  OUT OF THE DEPTHS:

  It is with tremulous hearts that, as survivors of the terrible cataclysms that have ravaged the globe and threatened its conclusive destruction, we take up the pen again…

  The human race has not perished—at least, not entirely. We have emerged from the Great Terror, and have resumed our march along the furrow traced by our ancestors…

  Let us not deceive ourselves; it is a new era that is beginning. The old times have gone forever. The Sun has risen on a new world…

  IN THE RUINS:

  Communications are beginning to be re-established with out nearest neighbors in Central Europe. Under the direction of worthy citizens who have taken the business of government in hand, regiments of workers have taken on the most urgent tasks and are trying to get the principle railways and telegraph lines back in working order. There is no news yet of America, all the cables being broken; the few dispatches sent by wireless telegraphy remain unanswered, but one of the few remaining ships that did not suffer too much damage in the devastated ports is preparing to depart with an elite crew on a voyage of discovery. What news will the new Christopher Columbus bring back?

  AMAZING MODIFICATIONS:

  It is definitely and routinely in the west that the Sun now rises, as all the world can see. Science is obliged to recognize the extraordinary change that has overtaken the movement of the earth, and the absolutely regular speed at which our globe now turns from east to west, contrariwise to its behavior in past ages. What is the cause of this enormous modification? Is it an effect or a cause? What will its consequences be? Far be it from us to dare audaciously to lean over the vertiginous abyss. Human beings have been punished for their pride, and have perceived that they are but wretched insects, or even less, in the order of nature, which is as incomprehensible as ever and vastly out of range of their intelligence.

  THE SILENCE OF THE POLITICIANS:

  Hi ho! In the ruins of the flattened world, when efforts to reconstitute society and nations are being made everywhere, here are the debris of our ancient assemblies, the leaders of baneful politics, the supporters and profiteers of the cruel divisions of yesteryear, trying to swim up to the surface of the great shipwreck and seize power again, in order to put things back they way they were before the cataclysm—which many people elect to see as the merited chastisement of the social follies of a civilization gone astray. Stop there! The apocalyptic lightning-bolts of the Great Terror have shown us the abyss…

  THE APPEAL TO SCIENCE:

  A congress of prominent figures in all the branches of science is being organized as quickly as possible, which will collect and collate all observations of the present situation of the globe: all the new facts, the paradoxical anomalies overturning ancient givens, reversing the certainties of yesteryear.

  What happened during the month of the Great Terror? What is the extent of the terrestrial or cosmic perturbations that we have undergone? Has the active period of these perturbations really come to an end? What modifications have they brought? Are they transitory or permanent?

  Absurd rumors reach us from every direction, exaggerations or follies caused by the universal disruption; we shall not reproduce them—it is for
science to study and to verify…

  Robert Laforcade passed over these articles rapidly, hastening over information on the general disasters, the universal devastations of five terrible months of convulsions. Thus, in times of ancient terrestrial revolutions, the first men must have seen their cities or their poor huts smashed up, their first attempts at civilization stifled and destroyed.

  According to all these news items, however, it seemed that the destruction was less than might have been supposed, that the human race had weathered the storm. The number of victims within the population of each nation was certainly immense, but the masses huddling in their shelters had survived.

  Robert’s companion in suffering, the brave Houquetot—who was evidently cheerful by nature, and had already got recovered is aplomb, forgetful of the catastrophes—drew him from his reading.

  “Do you want to know the funniest thing that happened to me, in the universal upheaval? Well, my dear Monsieur, I’ve got two teeth back that I lost at least 25 years ago! Is it the effect of these springtimes that are coming back to us? And it seems to me that certain stabbing pains that I had begun to get over…”

  Robert Laforcade looked at the rags in which he was dressed and rummaged in his torn pockets. He found a few items there: a sturdy knife he had picked up somewhere along the way, which had rendered him sterling service; a box that had once contained matches, a precious treasure that he had been obliged to eke out but which had finally been exhausted; and a damaged wallet, torn and partly burnt, containing the fragments of paper reproduced in a previous chapter. That was all; he, who had formerly dealt in millions, no longer possessed a sou.

  “How am I to get back to Paris—or what remains of Paris?” he murmured. “No money, and clothes in rags.”

  “Bah!” said Houquetot. “Money hasn’t yet recovered all of its former value. Besides, I’ve got about 50 francs in my pocket, and I’ll go with you. As for clothes, mine have almost as many holes and frayed edges as yours, but do you think anyone pays any attention to such things in the present state of affairs? Listen—get some rest, have a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll be off! You’ve got a head that aches, and I’ve got a leg that shakes, so we’ll make our way in small stages.”

  CHAPTER III

  Impressions of Return

  Robert Laforcade and Houquetot, limping along and supporting one another, made their way to Paris, assisted and transported from time to time by one of the convoys of carts and carriages carrying provisions, which were occupied in the immense and general task of clearing the ruins and repairing the disasters. Already, with entire populations at work, the greater part of the work was done. Almost everywhere, towns and villages were recovering their former appearance and resuming the normal course of affairs that had been so rudely interrupted.

  Everywhere they went, masses of debris or the trees of some fallen forest were being raised up again, broken bridges and land-slipped railway embankments were being re-built, and the ruins of towns burned out or destroyed by earthquakes were disappearing. Everywhere, the entire human ant-hive was at work.

  Laforcade, with the practiced eye of a businessman, noticed all these unexpected changes and all the tasks undertaken, marveling at the sight of masses of men working without strife, all with evident good will, their collective efforts perfectly orderly. “How well it’s all going!” he cried. “Must men fall victim to great catastrophes for their qualities to gain the upper hand over their faults? One would think that misfortune has brought back calm, reason, wisdom. Has the cataclysm brought back natural man—the good human dough relieved of all evil leavening, the healthy and generous creature?

  “The good times are back—provided that it lasts!” Houquetot rejoiced. “For more than a few days, at least—that being the usual maximum span of good things.”

  It had to be admitted that the benevolence of everyone towards everyone else was plainly visible: no shouting, no vulgarity, no more quarreling, no more harsh and arrogant superiority, no more envious expressions or angry and hateful glances at others. On the contrary, there was a sort of confused fraternity born of universal ruination and perils shared.

  They finally arrived at Neuilly. In a fever that made his heart beat as if it were about to burst, Robert Laforcade no longer saw anything, paying no more attention to the immense upheaval. He no longer felt weary, and hastened towards his house, dragging Houquetot—who could not hold him back—along with him.

  Did the quarter still exist? Was his house still standing? He dared not hope any longer; he had not been able to learn anything certain while he was en route. Information, details and stories about what had occurred during the five months of the great catastrophe in the countries of Old Europe, devastated throughout, had arrived by the minute—hurried telegrams, complicated, confused and contradictory news items, including news of the other continents with which communication was being restored—but there had not been the slightest revelation of the fate of Neuilly.

  Neuilly, however, still existed in large measure. Finally! A few more steps, a few more avenues to cross, and there was the Laforcade town house, still almost intact. Laforcade abandoned Houquetot and hurled himself forward. The gate was open. A rapid glance in the direction of the concierge’s lodge—no one there. Blocks of stone and builders’ tools on either side of the façade: the house was being repaired, but the masons were not there; it was lunch-time.

  Robert ran up the front steps. As he opened the door to the silent vestibule and stopped, intimidated by the silence, Houquetot caught up with him. At the same instant, a door opened at the far end of the hallway, and a woman appeared in the frame of the doorway.

  “Berthe!”

  “Alive!”

  Robert Laforcade and his wife are in one another’s arms. They have both obeyed their immediate impulse. Their second movement is to draw back to look at one another briefly.

  Neither of them seems very sure of the reality of the event; they look at one another, the wife still elegant in her simple black garments, the husband, of course, in a bad way in his ragged clothing, with his beard and hair unkempt. But the third movement is a reversion to the first; the wife weeps on her husband’s shoulder, and it seems that the husband is spilling as many tears as she is.

  “Oh well, not too bad for spouses in the middle of a divorce,” said Houquetot. “This might call for a reconciliation!”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Extraordinary, Unexpected And Stupefying Truth Begins To Reveal Itself

  The most obvious traces of the great perturbation disappeared some time ago, thanks to the hard work of the multitude. Seasons have succeeded seasons, years have passed. Society is reconstituted. The world can breathe. There seems to be no reason to fear a new offensive of the cosmic phenomena in which the world nearly perished.

  The march of the seasons has become regular, and no longer accelerated, as in the interval immediately following the crisis. Since the commencement of the new era, however, unprecedented and extraordinary events have continued to emerge in abundance, with every passing minute of daily life, and it is, so to speak, the accumulated details of the extraordinary—one little fact after another—that emphasizes the difference between the New Era and the time before with every day that passes.

  Monsieur and Madame Laforcade, who were suing for divorce before the great event, are not divorced. The solicitors have not seen either spouse again. That does not mean, alas, that everything is settled! After the initial effusiveness, the emotional shock of Monsieur’s return, he and Madame have both recalled memories of painful years of sulking and quarreling; a certain coldness has come back, and the household has begun to exist in a local atmosphere somewhere around zero degrees.

  Madame, although much less preoccupied than before by social relationships, is still fretful. Robert is very busy; like everyone else in the wake of the great upheaval he has thrown himself wholeheartedly into work, in order to reconstitute his life and recover the means of subsistence. Th
e general catastrophe has saved him from imminent personal catastrophe, but for him, as for everyone else, incessant effort is necessary to the gradual reformulation of the state of affairs. Even while thus embroiled in work and all sorts of personal and general preoccupations, however, he cannot avoid noticing certain things. There is a sort of continuous amelioration in the conjugal relationship; the glacial atmosphere of the early days seems to be warming. He and his wife speak to one another more easily and in less formal tones of voice. Admittedly, they have a great many new impressions to communicate to one another, and so many more-or-less amazing observations to make to one another.

  “Berthe has a charming appearance nowadays,” Robert thinks, as he looks at his wife. “She was nearing 36 when it all happened. It’s three years since then, and 36 plus three is 39, even if the ultra-rapid seasons of the first phase don’t count as years, as people claim. I would never have thought she was as old as that; she’s rosier and younger-looking than before!”

  “Robert astonishes me,” Madame Laforcade said to herself, in the meantime. “The years haven’t touched him; on the contrary, he looks better every day!”

  And it also seemed to both of them that the same excellent appearances were manifest in the faces and bearing of many of the people surrounding them; doubtless there were exceptions, but, in general, public health was good. There must have been a sort of renewal since the terrible events—to the extent that one might have thought that the earth had purged itself in that bath of lightning and sulfur, as in an immense Turkish bath, of all its ancient impurities and evil ferments.

  A few days into this interval, however, Madame Laforcade fell seriously ill. She felt ill one morning; her head became dizzy and she felt weak. The following day, a violent fever kept her in bed.