“What do you mean?”
“That molecular life is independent of our will; that all the parts of our organism are eliminated and renewed incessantly. Not one remains immobile, in the current of the arterial and venous torrent; all the debris and new elements are removed and replaced relentlessly; and it’s that life, independent of our sensible life, in which I shall confide in order to complete our experiment successfully.”
“Go on!” said Marc. “We’re following you.”
“That molecular life,” Jeanne went on, “has never ceased to exist in our friend George Garnier. It’s sufficient for us to reconnect it to the…let us say, spiritual life, to distinguish the normal state of a living body…and that’s what I hope to obtain by using the fluid agents: magnetism and electricity.”
“Go on! Go on, then”
“In removing from Georges’ brain what was necessary for my study, we chose the part relative to movement. Thus, all the rest of the cerebral matter has remained as it was—which is to say, imprinted with all the knowledge acquired by Georges before the operation. I assume that you think, as I do, that the cerebral mass is nothing but a kind of receptacle, in which all the recordings—auditory, visual and so on—are maintained indefinitely, ever ready to file before the objective lens of Thought. Let us therefore animate the encephalic mass, by means of the Voltaic pile, and intellectual life will gradually be reborn.
“But what about the motor?” asked Georges-Julien. “The soul of the receptacle?”
“The soul is nothing other than the sum of the notions acquired. If I observe the soul of a new-born child, it is only slowly—very slowly—that an ordered mechanism of movement, sight and natural needs becomes manifest; then comes work and study; and later still, the individual property, judgment, comparison, invention...”
“Ah! You’ve arrived!” said Homo-Deus. “It’s the triumph of materialism.”
“It’s the triumph of the spirit over matter,” Jeanne replied, “or rather, the alliance of the two. Is not anything, in nature, tightly bound? Why demand, scientifically, a division that logic shows us to be impossible? In sum, there’s neither materiality nor spirituality: there are only natural laws to which everything is submissive.”
She turned to Georges-Julien. “Now leave us, Georges, and don’t worry. Your clothing of flesh and bone will be returned to you soon.”
“But what about me? Me…? Anyway, it’s not important. Haven’t I given myself to you, body and soul? Dispose as you wish of the man who loves you.”
Jeanne Fortin held out her hand to him. “Thank you—but think over what I’ve said.”
“Yes. Until this evening, then.”
The elegant man went out, with his two souls, and Jeanne Fortin said: “I have a means of utilizing Julien de Vandeuvre. I’m going to marry him to his former victim, Julie Berton.”
“What’s this story?”
“An amorous adventure of de Vandeuvre’s, which we discovered while sorting through his papers. Madame Berton, our schoolmistress, had a daughter, Julie, who obtained a position as reader and lady companion to Madame de Vandeuvre, Julien’s mother. The latter was smitten by the young woman and succeeded in making her his mistress by a dishonest means: he got her drunk and profited from her drunkenness to abuse her. It’s necessary to add that Madame de Vandeuvre was her son’s accomplice. In brief, Julie, having become pregnant, disappeared, and no one knows what has become of her. I want to find her and make Julien de Vandeuvre marry her.”
“You have a taste for punishment. Me, too.”
“It’s a means of making use of that socialite. Afterwards, we’ll make use of him for the success of our projects.”
“It amuses you to make these puppets move?” asked Marc Vanel.
“Yes, it amuses me, and relaxes me—as it does you,” she added, looking fixedly at Marc, who shivered. She went on: “Let’s get back to our study. We’ll activate a powerful battery; we’ll try to animate our automaton. I didn’t want to do an experiment front of Georges that might have been too painful for him.”
“The battery’s ready,” said Dr. Fortin, resuming his place.
“First, we’re going to electrify the part of the encephalum that we’ve reconstituted, in order to assure us of its general functioning. Afterwards, we’ll submit the ensemble to a regular and continuous excitation, to which we’ll abandon the subject... There! Pay attention!”
Georges’ body sat up, and recovered its equilibrium.
“Stand up!”
Georges stood up.
“Sit down!”
Georges sat down.
“He can hear! He can understand!” exclaimed Dr. Fortin, radiant.
“It’s more probable that it’s just an effect of habit. The human body, habituated to obeying certain impulses, acts mechanically; but this proves, at any rate, that the brain has heard…anyway, we shall soon see...”
She called: “Georges! Georges!”
Georges turned round.
“Do you recognize me?”
Georges made no reply.
“You see—his movements are instinctive, but he has no judgment.”
“What do we do now?” Dr. Fortin asked.
“What I said, and nothing more.”
At that moment, someone knocked on the door. It was Frédéric, carrying a letter. Fortin took it and, recognizing the handwriting on the envelope, said: “Damn! From Père Garnier.”
He opened it and read:
My old friend,
I’ve been called to see one of my clients who lives in your neighborhood. I’ll take advantage of it to dine with you. Embrace our daughter.
“An unfortunate inconvenience!”
“Yes,” said Jeanne. “He’s going to ask us for news of his son, Georges, again.”
“Fortunately, I received letters from my correspondent in Istanbul this morning, drafted in the fashion that I indicated to him.”
“Then all’s well,” said Jeanne.
“You’ve understood, Fred,” Fortin went on, addressing the servant. “Not a word that might betray us.”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur. But will Monsieur be good enough to give me news of my nursling?”
“You’ll soon be relieved of your chores.”
“It will only be a matter,” Jeanne said, “of making him drink the contents of flasks that I’ll prepare for you, every four hours. In the intervals, you can leave him alone.”
“Very well, Mam’zelle Jeanne.”
“Are you dining with us, Marc?” Jeanne asked, making a sign to Frédéric to wait. Then, seeing Marc hesitate, she added: “Yes. So, this evening we shall have Papa Garnier and our friend Vanel. Distinguish yourself, Frédéric.”
“Have no fear; one will do what is necessary.”
VII. The Revelatory Jewel
Slightly nervous, feverish and anxious, as she cast one last glance over her drawing room, Madame Vauclin testified to the particular state of agitation of women getting ready to receive guests.
Sophie—Fifi to her intimates—was very pretty, and the refinement of her intelligence earned her a quantity of relationships that she had subjected to a strict triage, in order that her house might be classified among those that it is useful to frequent. Because he was always, and systematically, party of the redoubtable opposition that prides itself on representing in the Chambre the country avid for a new era, Député Vauclin was on the best of terms with the leaders of the government, whoever they were, and the elect of the turbulent group that obtained more favors than the most notorious government supporters. His wife knew how to utilize that influence with tact and discernment, so effectively that a number of people of rather elevated position were obliged to her.
Incessantly on the lookout for novelties, and avid for social renown, Madame Vauclin never let any opportunity escape to put herself or her husband on show. Thus, she had arranged for Dr. Vanel, who was causing a sensation in Parisian society by his legend and his allure, to come to her hom
e, as he had been to the Marquise de Virmile’s.
Madame Vauclin inspected her drawing room nervously, going back and forth, a trifle feverishly, moving a vase of flowers or a trinket and then stepping back to view the ensemble, like a general disposing his batteries on the eve of a battle. Then, satisfied, she examined herself in a mirror, smiling.
She was rather petite, nervous, supple, with an admirable figure, splendid black hair, a warm and milky skin, long-lashed eyes, profound, dark and enigmatic, her blood-red lips always tremulous, as if perpetually bruised by recent kisses.
In spite of her voluptuous beauty, however, she lacked the confident, slightly languid charm that adds a divine aura of likeability to pretty women. She was disturbing, disquieting and seductive, but people resented that seductiveness, for they sensed that she was dangerous and cruel, grim in her determination, and had the instinct of stiffening themselves and slipping away when they were subjected, in spite of themselves, to the attention of those intelligent and caressant eyes. A fluid seemed to emanate from her similar to the one that snakes use to fascinate the prey that they are about to devour.
That afternoon, she had put on a dress that was rather simple in its lines, but tailored in a supple golden fabric that molded her, revealing her contours with all the immodesty that can be permitted to a woman known for her beauty and originality. A thick black stripe ran along the edge of the discreetly low neckline, emphasizing the whiteness of her neck; it then descended along one hip, to lose itself in the skirt in a pretty movement. Similar stripes terminated the ends of the sleeves, tapered like those of a kimono, composing an artistic ensemble in which the warm white flesh seemed framed in gold, like a valuable gem.
Four o’clock. Sophie Vauclin chose a monstrous carnation from an array, crimson in color, so dark that it tended toward black. Having contrasted it to her hair and to the snowy skin of her neck, she admired the harmony of tones, and fastened the flower to the gold of her corsage by means of a diamond clasp whose heart was a ruby. That precious jewel having taken the beautiful carnation prisoner, she murmured: “Let’s go—I’m in form today.
The Vauclins lived, as we know, in the Avenue Henri-Martin, in a splendid building. But the socialist député did not receive his electors there. He had hired a modest floor in the Rue des Saints-Pères, where a lithe secretary was permanently stationed. The stairway leading to that obscure office was dirty and malodorous, as was fitting, in order that the political allies of the grim revolutionary would not be offended by an out-and-out luxury. That address was recorded in Bottin, under the name “Arsène Vauclin, député,” while the other, in the Avenue Henri-Martin, was attributed to “Vauclin, man of letters”—for the political man edited an artistic periodical.
An automobile stopped outside the gate of the small garden.
“Albert! I’m certain of it,” she murmured. She darted a final glance at her dress, at the mirror, patted her hair, and waited.
A few minutes went by; then a domestic opened the drawing room door and announced: “Monsieur Albert Baruyer.”
He bowed respectfully and kissed Madame Vauclin’s hand. While the advocate placed his lips on her slender wrist, she looked at the door, which the domestic closed again. Then Baruyer stood up, put his arms around her, and gave her a long kiss on the lips.
When they were disentangled, he said: “Your husband isn’t here?”
“He won’t be long.”
“Since we’re alone then, another kiss.” He drew her against him, seeking her mouth.
“Albert, Albert!” she stammered. “Why must you dominate me thus?” She pulled free. “Let me be—I thought I heard someone ring.”
She was not mistaken. The door opened, giving passage to the Marquise de Virmile, Comtesse Simone d’Armez and Jacques de Simiane. The curious were arriving with every passing minute, excited by the presence of Homo-Deus at the pretty woman’s tea. In addition to the Baruyer brothers, there was the financier Walesport, Louis Barthou, and Mademoiselle Alexane, the principal dancer at the Opéra. There were socialites, sportsmen and deputes, Maurice Donnay26 and several other Academicians, a Russian dancer, a professor of the Faculté de Médecine, the great surgeon Jean Bouchon and other personalities, the least of which had some title to being a notable figure in Paris.
“You know, my dear friend,” simpered an American, Madame Gourard, whose house was the most original palace of Buddhism, “I was due to leave this morning for Venice—well, I won’t go until tomorrow, because of this sorcerer. I’m sure that in a little while Homo-Deus will make us tremble with his demonic eyes.”
“Please be quiet,” said Madame Vauclin, smiling with her long-lashed eyes and carmined lips. “You’ll sow fear in my salon—quite unjustly besides, for I suspect that Dr. Vanel is, in sum, a great scientist.”
At that moment, the person who had provoked the sensation in question was announced. He advanced casually, with a supple, feline gait, an enigmatic smile on his disillusioned lips, and kissed the hand that Madame Vauclin held out to him.
“Welcome, Master Satan.”
But député Vauclin, who had just arrived, took possession of him. Homo-Deus had immediately observed the affinities and attractions, secret or avowed, that presided over the formation of groups in that Parisian salon. He had seen, for his magnetic eyes were not unaware of anything around him, the adroit maneuver by means of which the elegant de Simiane had drawn closer to the Marquise de Virmile. He grasped the incredulous gazes of the Messieurs of the Faculté. He had noticed the narrow alliance of five individuals: Walesport, Barthou, the Baruyer brothers and Vauclin. Homo-Deus listened, and replied—in the manner of Rasputin, by means of vague images—to the threadbare fluency of the revolutionary député.
“I know,” the latter said, “about the friendship that links you to a man I hold in high esteem, Tchitcherine, the Soviet commissar delegated to Foreign Affairs. Oh, that one has a brain! Where, among us, is the French genius, sublime and convincing, who will lift the popular masses to launch an assault on a democracy in the process of sinking in the muddy pools of a frightful egotism?”
Well, at least he doesn’t lack cheek, Vanel thought, casting a glance over the supremely elegant gathering, rich, perfumed and useless. He saw the gilded decorations of the three sequential drawing rooms, and evoked the image of his friend, Tchitcherine, so modest, so effacing, with meager needs and an immense soul. A slight disgust came to his lips. Inventing a pretext, he slipped away from the politician. A cry of admiration uttered by Simone d’Armez caused him to turn round.
Addressing Madame Vauclin, the pretty Comtesse said: “Oh! What a charming idea to attach that beautiful carnation by means of such a jewel. The man who offers that gem to his wife is a model husband.”
Homo-Deus shuddered. Moving to one side, into the embrasure of a window, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, which he examined rapidly on the sly. It was a receipt:
To Monsieur Julien de Vandeuvre, a clasp, diamonds mounted in platinum, forming the corolla of a flower, with a ruby in the center. Ten thousand francs. Paid in cash.
Vanel’s magnetic eyes fixed themselves on Madame Vauclin, studying her, seeming to penetrate her. The disquieting magician advanced toward her. After having bowed, he said: “Madame, to thank you for your welcome, I’d like to show you two amusing phenomena. The first is a manifestation of spontaneous generation, the second an example of fluidic emanation at a distance. You shall see how the spirit commands matter and spirit. For the first experiment, would you please send for a few seeds—of beans, maize, peas or wheat, as you please? I assume that your cook will have something suitable.”
Madame Vauclin hastened to give the order. A valet presented a few grains of millet on a tray.
“Perfect!” said Vanel. “Please watch closely.” He put a few grains in the palm of his hand, which he extended, while his eyes closed. The spectator saw the grains begin to stir, gradually, to move, and finally to burst, sending forth white shoots that seemed
to go green.
Applause burst forth, and Vanel reopened his eyes. Homo-Deus, smiling, asked, as he had done before at Marquise de Virmile’s house, for sheets of paper, which he set on an item of furniture beside him. He picked up one, and showed the audience that it contained no inscription. He placed it on the sidetable and then stepped back, seemingly absorbed in a profound spiritual contention.
Abruptly, the steely eyes darted their magnetic gaze at the piece of paper. The sheet rose slowly into the air; it became still, suspended there, and then, with a single surge, as had occurred at the home of the Marquise de Virmile, it flew across the room to fall on to the knees of the Comtesse d’Armez, who could not suppress a slight scream.
“Read it!” commanded Vanel’s curt voice.
Simon d’Armez looked down at the piece of paper. Immediately, her forehead and cheeks reddened.
“What is it? What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” she said, passing the sheet to her neighbor.
The paper circulated. People observed that it was blank. Had the trick gone wrong?
“Madame d’Armez read something, however,” Vanel affirmed. “I don’t know what, of course—perhaps an effect of suggestion, of one free spirit on another.”
Simone darted a desperate glance at the invisible satyr, fearful, imploring and somewhat complicit. For she had read: I shall return this evening.
“And me, Master?” begged Madame Vautrin.
The hypnotist plunged back into his meditation; the sheet of paper took flight again, to land on the knees of the mistress of the house. Madame Vautrin went frightfully pale, and her husband leapt to sustain her, for she seemed about to faint.
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