That might be why, having bitten off more than he could chew in Homo-Deus, le satyre invisible, Champsaur was reluctant to try anything quite as ambitious again, even though he retained his personal predilection for the exotic in less complicated imaginative novels like Nora, la guenon devenue femme (1929) and La Pharaonne, roman occulte (1929; tr. as Pharaoh’s Wife).6 Flawed as it is, however—and partly because of its intriguing flaws—Homo-Deus, le satyre invisible is a unique and fascinating novel, interesting in the context of the general history of speculative fiction as well as the more specialized contexts of biomedical speculative fiction, superhero fiction and the literary treatments of invisibility and speculative sex.
Tuer les vieux, jouir! is far more marginal in the context of speculative fiction, in spite of the extraterrestial visitor who lurks in its wings, but it has its own innate interest, which is perhaps renewed nowadays, as every passing year brings about yet another centenary in the awful development of what we now call (alas) World War I. We are a long way now from 1924, but it is not obvious that the phenomenon identified and bewailed by Champsaur is yet a thing of the past, or likely to be any time soon.
These translations were made from the copies of the Ferenczi editions of the two novels reproduced on the Bibliothèque Nationale’s gallica website. I have corrected some trivial continuity errors but have left most alone and have only added commentary footnotes to the most blatant.
Brian Stableford
THE INVISIBLE SATYR
BOOK ONE: THE MYSTERY OF A SPRING NIGHT
I. A Walking Corpse
Two o’clock in the morning. Over Paris, a splendid moonless night. The overlapping crowns of the leafy chestnut trees in the Avenue Henri-Martin formed a kind of long opaque vault covering the roadway and the bridle path. Thick darkness and an oppressive silence reigned within that tunnel.
At intervals, gas lamps projected their timid gleam, but their wan light did not extend beyond the sidewalk and the railings of the little gardens that border the entire length of the avenue. No nocturnal strollers. At that hour, life has long since gone to sleep in that aristocratic quarter. On evenings of mundane celebration, the windows of small town houses and magnificent edifices are luminous, and an elegant activity surrounds them, but on the night in question, no file of carriages and autos was parked in front of any façade.
A manservant went by, with his arm around the waist of a soubrette, and then a taxi, traveling toward Muette. Then everything fell back into calm and silence.
On the third floor of a large building, a window opened slowly—hesitantly, one might say—and the silhouette of a man leaned out.
Soon, the window closed again.
In gaps in the verdure of the chestnut trees, stars were shining, strangely luminous in a sky like purple ink. Their yellow, green or red scintillation made them resemble thousands of gems hanging from the celestial vault, like precious stones sown into the robe of an enchantress. The nebulous phosphorescence of the Milky Way evoked diaphanous scarves unfurling in the immense expanse, or distant opal islands in a black ocean.
Beneath the splendid enchantment of the moonless sky, the door of the building in which the window had opened a little while before creaked. The same silhouette emerged through the narrow gap, traversed the garden and opened the door to the avenue. The man hesitated, darting anxious, seemingly anguished, glances to the right and the left. After having scrutinized the thick shadows under the spring foliage, he went back into the building. He came out again almost immediately, his shoulders slumped by a large packet, and set off, almost running, beneath the trees of the bridle path, in the direction of the Bois.
His burden must have been very heavy, because the individual had scarcely covered fifty meters when he seemed to totter beneath the load. He stiffened himself nevertheless, leaning against the trunk of a chestnut tree, and when he had recovered his strength, he resumed walking.
Soon, in spite of his physical resistance, it was necessary for him to stop. He breathed out noisily and looked round to see whether anyone had seen him or was following him. After another brief hesitation, he crossed the avenue, walked along the sidewalk of the even-numbered dwellings, and finally collapsed with his singular burden onto a bench placed at the corner of the Rue des Sablons.7 He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief, because he was sweating copiously, and his haggard eyes explored the surroundings again.
Feverishly, he tried to install the long, heavy parcel—which had a vaguely human form in the gloom—on the bench. After that, he drew away very rapidly, recrossing the avenue. Soon, his silhouette, rather tall and bulky, was lost in the thick darkness of the tunnel of leaves and branches.
In the splendid sky, new luminous dots lit up at intervals: shooting stars passing rapidly through the constellations like rockets.
On the sidewalk of the avenue on the side of the even numbers, two policemen now advanced slowly, chatting. Suddenly, at the corner of the Rue des Sablons, they came to an abrupt halt in front of the bizarre mass lying on the bench.
“Look!” said one. “What can that be?”
“A drunkard,” the other replied, placing a hand on the shoulder.
But the human package, poorly equilibrated, fell to the ground and the two policemen uttered an oath. Having leaned over the individual to seize him and bring him to his feet, they suddenly straightened up, their eyes haggard and their legs unsteady; they had perceived that the unknown man was dead.
The tremulous light of a gas lamp fell directly upon the man’s pale face: it was livid, the features contracted, and they eyes retained, in the depths of vitreous irises, a kind of tragic reflection of fear.
The adventure disturbed the two policemen considerably. New recruits to the service, allocated to the surveillance of a wealthy and tranquil quarter, they had not yet had occasion to encounter a murder. Contemplating that dead face, retaining the imprint of fear, they were under no illusion about their sinister find. Until then they had scarcely accomplished any other tasks that giving directions to strangers, stopping cyclist driving without lights and picking up drunkards incapable of finding their way home, and this first contact with drama had horrified them.
“Jules,” said one of them, timidly, “we need to figure out what to do.”
“Yes, Hector.”
They looked at one another, palely, and agreed that they ought to pick up the corpse and carry it to the commissariat. When they tried to lift it up, however, one by the feet and the other by the arms, they found it to be overwhelmingly heavy, and they were trembling so much, that they were unable to advance. Then, abandoning the dead man on the sidewalk, they conferred. Was it not better to leave the “stiff” where they had found it, in order that all the necessary observations could be made on the spot?
Their final decision was that Jules would go to inform the Commissariat while Hector stayed to guard the murdered man.
“Poor fellow! My God, he was young and handsome! Rich? Yes, for he’s well-dressed. It’s to rob him that he was killed, then!”
He leaned over to look for a wound. No trace of blood. No stains soiling the garments. And the body was still warm! One might have thought that he was only unconscious, if the eyes had not had that poignant expression of terror, betraying a dramatic end.
“Why was he on that bench?” he agent muttered. “It’s an important affair; the newspapers will talk about it.” Immediately, the policeman saw himself involved in a cause célèbre. He would make a sensational deposition; the dailies would doubtless publish photographs of Jules and him.
As he was daydreaming, a luxurious limousine appeared, driven by a chauffeur with a singular face. It was heading toward Passy, smoothly and silently, scarcely revealed by the imperceptible purr of a well-tuned engine. The driver perceived the peace officer watching over the cadaver lying on the sidewalk and, probably interested by the spectacle, stopped his machine. He considered the recumbent human rag. The policeman thought he could hear words exchanged with someone
who must be in the back of the vehicle: strange, curt words in a foreign language—but he did not take long to persuade himself that he had been the victim of an illusion, for when he drew nearer, he observed that the car was empty.
The newcomer, however, did not pull away, seemingly having a strange interest in contemplating the cadaver.
“Are you looking at that poor fellow?” said the policeman. “My colleague and I found him dead on that bench.” He said that because he felt an irresistible desire to speak, to chase away the emotion he was experiencing. In any case, the automobile was luxurious; there was no doubt that the driver was in the service of very well-off people.
To his great amazement, however, the chauffeur did not reply. Then, the worthy Hector saw that he had an odd, suntanned face, almost black, surrounded by a silk turban, with ascetic features and ears ornamented with golden earrings. He only just had time to jump backwards as the door, abruptly opened, had almost hit him in the face.
But that door had opened of its own accord, since there was no one in the back of the vehicle, and the Hindu chauffeur still had his hands on the steeringwheel!
The policeman, vaguely anxious, returned to the cadaver.
Then something extraordinary, miraculous and tragically frightening occurred, which was to remain forever incomprehensible for the unfortunate peace officer.
One might have thought, at that moment, that the darkness beneath the vault of chestnut trees had suddenly become denser. The flickering light of the gas lamp was depressed by a gust of cold air, causing all the surrounding shadows to vacillate. And before the fearful eyes of the policeman, the dead man moved.
First, the upper body rose up; the man appeared to be sitting on the ground with his arms dangling, and his head slumped over his breast, slightly tilted to one side, as if asleep. Almost immediately, though, the body stood up with a supreme effort and with the head still hanging down, swinging to the right and left, like that of a marionette.
For a moment, the macabre vision remained upright, prostrate, like a lamentable rag. It took a step; the policeman heard a sigh, and the sinister remains collapsed onto the bench.
Not possible, thought the cop. I’m dreaming.
Having rubbed his eyes, however, and ascertained that he was not dreaming, that his sensibility was real and his hearing still keen—for he could hear the purr of the engine, which the driver was allowing to tick over—he had to accept the fearful certainty: the cadaver, doubtless uncomfortable lying on the sidewalk, had thought it as well to go back to sit on the bench.
So, the corpse was alive?
A formidable emotion caused the policeman’s heart to hammer. Immediately, however, he had a generous thought: to help the unknown man.
Horror! The dead eyes retained their astonishing fixity, in which the reflection of an atrocious terror remained petrified!
So, the dead man really was dead! And since the policeman was not asleep and was not insane, there was some frightful magic at the bottom of this. The cop’s hair bristled on his head.
Triumphing over his fear, and exasperated by the ironic smile of the Hindu, who was still at the steeringwheel of the automobile, the sentiment of duty exalting his courage to the most dolorous sacrifice, he resolved to have the last word. And since that cadaver had been resuscitated in a macabre farce, he decided at the first move he made to put the handcuffs on him. He took them out of the pocket of his tunic.
The dead man had stood up again. Like a lamentable puppet, limp and devoid of sinews, he was upright on the sidewalk, even more horrible, with his head hanging down and shaking, his long arms flapping against his highs, his chest hollow, his knees sticking out, his legs wobbling and his feet at an angle, like those of a miserable cripple. He resembled those effigies of cloth stuffed with bran that are paraded on the end of poles on carnival day, and which, the day having ended, having been roughly handled, trampled and half emptied of their stuffing, collapse like sad, limp rags or deflated balloons.
But he walked, or, rather, dragged himself along, nodding his head and swinging him arms, as if he were sketching out a danse macabre, and, zigzagging all the while, folding up and straightening again. Like a monstrous scarecrow, he headed toward the limousine, plunged inside it—not without bumping his head on the rim of the door—and finally lay down on the cushions.
Then, his faculties suddenly returning to him, the policeman realized that the dead man was about to escape him. The characteristic noise of the engine changing gear left him under no illusion. He leapt toward the automobile and stepped onto the footplate, but just as he was about to stick his head through the window, he saw the horrible, frightened face of the cadaver loom up in front of him. The white and glassy eyes rolled back and stared at him. Then abruptly, the dead man’s limp arm was raised, and the policeman received a punch in the face that sent him sprawling in the gutter.
He got up immediately, only to see the mysterious limousine pull away and disappear into the darkness. The head of the dead man was hanging out of the window, and sinister laughter chilled Hector with fear.
For a long time he rubbed his eyes, terribly tortured and anguished. He sat down on the bench where the ambulant corpse had been resting a little while before, because his legs could no longer support him. His head felt weak, and, wondering whether he might not have been living a nightmare, he turned his desperate eyes to the sky, a patch of which he could perceive through the mauve mass of the vault of foliage formed by the trees of the avenue.
Above that mystery, the indifferent heavens, beautifully somber, splendid and velvety, extended their infinite vellum, in which thousands of yellow, red, blue and green dots were scintillating like exceedingly pure gems. Amid their splendor, the Milky Way unfurled its immense sash of suns.
II. A Communication to the A.D.S.
The afternoon that preceded the mysterious spring night on which a cadaver of a murdered young man stood up and took a few tottering steps at about two o’clock in the morning under the foliage of the Avenue Henri-Martin, in front of a frightened peace officer, and then got into an empty automobile whose door opened by itself, which pulled away at speed, driven by a turbaned chauffeur wearing golden earrings, had been as lovely and bright as an April page preceding a tenebrous sultana Scheherazade in a starry robe in a tale from the Thousand-and-One Nights.
At four o’clock, in spite of the delightful temptation of the exceedingly mild and sunlit afternoon, inviting strolls, the most select audience was covering the steps of the amphitheater of the Académie des Sciences. To hear Dr. Jean Fortin, the vast hemicycle was filled with curious listeners, in spite of the beautiful sunshine and blue sky that made the spring magical, taking on the appearance of an elegant social gathering. There were many bright costumes, and feathered or flowery hats on women’s heads set winged bouquets, rare plumes and miniature gardens, joyfully, among the morose patches of the somber dress of the men.
At four o’clock, after other communications of lesser interest and the hors-d’oeuvre service, Dr. Jean Fortin got up to take the floor. His was a face that caught the attention at the first glance, tanned and clean-shaven, with eyes that were malicious or cruel, according to the thought of the moment: the intelligent and refined face of a pope, evocative of a superior Innocent III, arrogant and authoritarian, which seemed, in the Académie des Sciences, to be presiding over a synod. The scientist’s eyes had a hint of mockery in them as they scanned the assembly, and he smiled as he perceived familiar silhouettes here and there on the benches reserved for the public.
Dr. Fortin was the enfant terrible of the Académie des Sciences. His reputation, made by extraordinary discoveries, endeavors of a disconcerting audacity, calumnies and jealousies, was primarily popular. Colleagues inclined before his genius, but they were afraid of the man with the ardent temperament, the overabundant heart and the malicious verve. Fortin had a horror of everything official and practical; he admired the illuminati who spent their lives in pursuit of an elevated, ungras
pable ideal. He did not hide his love of revolutionaries in art, science and even politics—and that attitude obtained him unusual relationships, by which his friends were alarmed.
Original in his brusque but good manners, disdainful of honors, recompenses—he preferred a rose in his lapel to a rosette—and publicity, but haunted by admirable chimeras, the great public loved him. That sincere admiration of the crowd made a distinguished scientist—which all the members of the Institut are, in a banal way—into a veritably glorious one.
With a remarkable suppleness, Dr. Fortin climbed the steps of the stage and began speaking in a clear voice.
“Messieurs, the subject on which I have to make you a speech today is too vast for me to hope to exhaust the anguishing question once and for all. I want to talk to you about the existence of the soul, a problem so grandiose that it seems at first sight to surpass human thought and intelligence. Thus, the endeavor about which I am going to talk to you is merely a commencement of studies, a set of observations from which we can extract information, but which you must be careful not to envisage yet as a definitive work.
“In any case, what do we know? As soon as we begin to study the manifestations of a healthy spirit—a soul, to put it better—we have the impression of finding ourselves confronted by a fluidic phenomenon, of a force of the magnetic or electrical order.
“Well, in the same way that, for a long time, we have been utilizing magnetism and electricity without knowing their true causes, we have been utilizing the fluidic forces of the soul without knowing anything precise about their origins. They are all, however, formidable forces. They have no weight, no aspect, no color, but, while some, stored in the air and the ground, seem to govern the world, others, more intimate, inhabit our brains and command our actions, our endeavors and our passions.
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