Soon, the door split, shattering into splinters. People rushed into the room. They all threw themselves on Albert, because he was covered in blood, and because his brother, with his finger, was pointing him out to the crowd.
In a matter of seconds, Albert was knocked down, trampled and stunned, while Georges, exhausted, fainted and fell to the floor.
Then, there was an oppressive calm.
Albert laid in the middle of the room, tied up, an inert, lamentable mass. The domestics gathered around the député, while in the background, on the other door, there was a vision of horror. The old woman, retained by the dagger that traversed her throat, was hanging there, black and bloody, sinister and horrible, like a witch tortured by a mob.
Finally, someone approached the cadaver. He saw then that the door was open, and that there was blood on the key.
And on the denunciation of his brother, Albert Baruyer was arrested.
VIII. Storm Warnings
Claude Barsac was pacing back and forth in his study, very agitated. A press campaign had been launched against him, led by a newspaper, the Malin, which had previously been in his pay and under his orders, but was taking on an air of independence and turning against its benefactor. He had some suspicion as to why: he had, because of a liking for the man’s wife, installed a certain Grandjean as editor-in-chief, who had announced himself in the press as a first-rate polemicist. Barsac had given into the temptation of pocketing fifty million, and, by virtue of that imprudence, compromised his political situation.
Le Malin, moreover, appeared to be very well-informed, for its allusions were sufficiently clear, and he knew that he would be questioned on the subject today. His political adversaries had been raising their heads for some time; he had entered into the Ministry as a man of action capable of resolving the question of indemnities and the German debt, but since he had been in power, things had remained at the same point. It was not that he had not tried to react against the administrative apathy, but he had had to contend with such a force of inertia that he had ended up renouncing the struggle, like everyone else.
And that was the cause of his imprudence. The instability of power—which might, from one day to the next, hurl him back into the crowd—had incited him to fill his pockets first, like everyone else. After him, the Deluge.
Claude Barsac was not a dreamer but a realizer of the gross desires of youth, and a positivist. He sensed that the financial situation of Europe was hanging by a thread. England, with the pound, and America, with the dollar, governed the world market, but that false prosperity was only a lure; unemployment reigned everywhere. Intensive production surpassed consumption, and the formidable egotism of nations, preventing an economic entente, was preparing worldwide bankruptcy.
He strode back and forth in the vast room for a while longer, and then threw himself into his armchair.
This isn’t a moment for philosophizing. The future isn’t anyone’s, but the present is mine. If I recall the exact tenor of that accursed letter, I could try to subvert the meaning—I am, after all, an advocate before anything else; chicanery doesn’t frighten me. Obviously, it’s that bitch, Anotinette, who’s smearing me on account of her Grandjean. Imbecile of a Samson—there’s always a Delilah! I let the whore wait for me, alone, in my study. All the same, one can’t play the Trappist. Oh, the cunning spider! Well, Claude, she’s only done what you’ve done, and she hasn’t killed anybody.
He passed his hand over his brow. You’re definitely getting old, Barsac, getting old. How to stand up to it? If it’s the German letters, I’ll fall into universal scorn. Deny it? Deny it anyway, against the evidence, against the proof, and retire with dignity.
He burst into nervous laughter. That’s a good one! Yes, to go with dignity, shrugging the shoulders, without recriminations, leaving doubt in the minds of the faithful, and even the adversaries. A misunderstood, disillusioned, disabused brilliant man, going away...
He sank more deeply into the vast armchair and let himself slip into a kind of somnolence while ruminating his projects. Suddenly, a creaking floorboard caused him to shiver. He opened his eyes and seemed to see something moving over his desk. But he was alone—quite alone!
He stood up mechanically, and shivered.
Someone had written strange words on his blotting pad while he was drowsy: Look under the blotter.
“So! People come in here as into a mill?”
Furious to discover that someone had been able to contemplate him in the torpid attitude of a defeated man, he delivered a terrible blow of his fist to a pile of dossiers, and reached out to ring—but he changed his mind, sat down at his desk and opened the blotting pad. There was a large piece of paper underneath the absorbent sheet, covered in bold, thick handwriting, in blue pencil:
Your political adversaries and, above all, financiers are aware of our relationship with Germany and have the proof. Député Vauclin will lead the attack. A scheme built by you will serve your enemies’ plans, in bringing you down, and you will be ruined, sunk and shamed. Don’t worry about anything. Deny everything, with all your might; have no fear of the letter that Vauclin will read in the Chambre. Proclaim loudly that it is a fake. I will answer for everything. Remember that, if you get out of this, you owe your salvation to me.
THE INVISIBLE
“Who is the trickster who’s making fun of me?” muttered Barsac, suddenly feeling a prickling sensation.
He stood up, but, perhaps by virtue of some ludicrous association of ideas, recalled a sentence from Victor Hugo, the reminiscence of a drama in which Angelo, tyrant of Padua, says to Tisbe: “Often, at night, I sit up in bed, and listen—and I can hear footsteps in the wall!”30 He scanned his vast President of the Council’s study in all directions, darting suspicious glances to the right and the left, but nothing—neither an item of furniture nor a drape—could possibly be hiding a man, and he wondered, with anguish, how this singular piece of advice had reached him, for he was sure that the door had not opened.
He reflected. What if it were true that an anonymous friend was sustaining him? But for what motive? And who could that person be? Some madman, no doubt; it would be very naïve, quite infantile, to clutch at some a chimerical hope. And yet, whoever had written those words was correct: he knew the truth. And he understood the whole affair. For Vauclin and his friends, his accomplices, the Ministry would be brought down tomorrow, and there was not the slightest doubt about it. Then the Bourse would panic, and the index would go down substantially. If he triumphed, on the other hand, it would go up, because an impending danger would have passed.
He divined the entire scheme, working out its details with astonishing lucidity. Of course! Crémiot would replace him, Vauclin would have a portfolio. He wondered whether the best course to adopt, with such scoundrels, might be to send for them and offer them more than Crémiot’s party had promised them—but he was quickly convinced that it was too late, and that he had to let destiny take its course.
Suddenly, he sniggered. If, by some extraordinary twist, a miraculous hazard saved him, what a catastrophe it would be for the Baruyer gang! He could already see the collapse of Walesport & Co., the ruination of its associates, their rout—and he rubbed his hands. But what credence could he place in the simple declaration of a mysterious being whose name and face he did not know?
He dared not take advantage of the information himself. Oh, if he had been certain...! He would have given orders immediately to buy the shares that would rise again the following day. In twenty-four hours, he could make a fortune! He collapsed in an armchair placed in front of his desk, put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and meditated for a long time.
When he opened his eyes again, he started. There was another sheet of paper in front of him, covered in the same handwriting, in blue pencil.
You’re wondering who I am, and why I’m helping you. Know, then, that I’m playing the role of a supernatural administer of justice, and that it’s necessary that those who are leadin
g the Walesport, Baryer and Vauclin affair must be punished. On the other hand, I need money. My reserves are exhausted. I shall have a great deal tomorrow, if you do as I order.
THE INVISIBLE
Barsac stood up, haggard. He thought: The person who can come in here without me seeing him can accomplish extraordinary exploits. What he says in therefore true, and I’ll be saved. But why isn’t this so-called administer of justice punishing me, who nearly sacrificed the prestige and interest of France to my own interest? Undoubtedly, it’s to succeed in his own coup, since he’ll get rich in saving me.
Barsac trembled. He told himself that later, he would have the walls of the room sounded, which must be tricked out like a theater—but for the moment, it was necessary to be bold and play a straight game.
Raising himself up to his full height, he said, aloud: “Whoever you are, angel or demon, thank you.”
A burst of sardonic laughter replied to him.
Then the Minister was shaken by a frisson, and he pressed the button to summon the usher who was on duty in the antechamber, in order to restore his sense of reality.
IX. From the Chambre des Députés to the Arc de Triomphe
In his office in the Rue de Saints-Pères, his political address, Vauclin, who was due to question the Minister on the matter of the impending German payment, was finishing off his speech. A man mutilated in the war had just come in to announce the visit of Walesport and Crémiot. Astonished, the député had them shown in immediately.
“Well, have you heard?” Walesport demanded, immediately.
“I haven’t heard anything. I’ve been working on my interpellation since four o’clock yesterday afternoon, and didn’t even go out yesterday for dinner. I had a bite here while I was working, and slept here on a camp bed.
“Read this.” Crémiot threw a handful of newspapers in front of his colleague. In the evening and morning papers almost identical texts were displayed in enormous letters, at the top of the front page:
PARRICIDE
Advocate Albert Baruyer murders his blind mother.
Arrest of the murderer.
Député Georges Baruyer at death’s door.
When Vauclin had scanned a few articles, all similar, he let himself fall into his seat, staring at Walesport and Crémiot in utter bewilderment.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, we don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to get in to see Georges Baruyer, but the imbecile is half-mad; entry to his room is forbidden. Fortunately, I was able to see his secretary, Carnaud; he told me that all our money has been divided between the banks, but he doesn’t know whether the receipts have been sent to the brokers or whether they’re still at his house. If the orders are placed, we’re all right, but if the catastrophe happens beforehand, it’s probable that the receipts are still in his safe, and Carnaud couldn’t give me any certainty about that.”
“What are we going to do, then? My interpellation has been announced. I can’t dispense with making it.”
“Bah!” said Crémiot. “Let’s still bring Barsac down. If the financial coup fails, we’ll get it all back when we’re Ministers.”
“But what about me?” asked Walesport.
“We’ll find you something—and then Baruyer will get better, and we’ll still have our money.
“For me, nothing’s changed, then?” asked Vauclin.
“No,” said Walesport, ill-humoredly, “Except that we’re going to be working in the dark. By the way, you haven’t mislaid my little papers?”
“They’re here,” said the député, opening his briefcase and shutting them in with his speech. He passed the padlock strap over it, which he locked with a key.
“Thank God! They haven’t been stolen.”
“It’s time,” said Vauclin. “I have to go.”
He called the one-legged servant, wounded in 1916. “Go fetch me a taxi, Timothée.”
“Before going to the Chambre, we’ll try to see Baruyer again. If we have an assurance in the matter of the receipts, that will take a great weight off our minds.”
The three men went downstairs together. They shook hands, and then Crémiot and Walesport got into the latter’s auto, while Vauclin took the taxi that Timothée had procured for him.
Bizarrely enough, as the mutilated man got out of the vehicle, the other door opened. Vauclin installed himself in a corner. The driver closed the door again, and the other one closed at the same time.
Nestling comfortably in his corner, with his precious briefcase on his knees, Vauclin was thinking about what he had just learned, and thinking anxiously that the brilliant scheme that was about to make him rich was becoming problematic. Then, suddenly, it seemed to him that a veil descended over this thoughts; he was invaded by a kind of torpor, and lost consciousness of himself and his surroundings.
He woke up abruptly.
The vehicle stopped in front of the Chambre de Députés. Still dazed, he made sure that his briefcase was under his arm, got out and paid the driver. Then, hastily, he went into the Parliament.
“Are you free?” the driver was asked by a man of Hindu appearance, elegantly dressed, who already had his hand on the car door.
“Yes, sir—where to?”
“Place d’Étoile, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”
Scarcely had the vehicle surged forward when Mardruk—for it was him—slid his hand under the cushion and pulled out a thin wad of papers. Having made sure that it was what he wanted, he tore them up into little pieces, then, putting his hand out of the window, allowed them to be successively carried away by the wind. When he arrived at his destination, he no longer had more than a pinch in the palm of his hand.
He got out, and paid the driver handsomely. The latter thanked him effusively. Then Mardruk headed slowly toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which was still abundantly covered in flowers and wreaths.
The driver followed him mechanically with his eyes. He saw him make a circuit of the Tomb, dropping little pieces of paper on it—the letter from the Chancellor of the Reich—which the swirling wind carried away under the Arc de Triomphe, around the flame rising from the sepulcher of the Victory.
X. The Parliamentary Weathervane
There was expectation in the Chambre of a coup-de-théâtre. From the viewpoint of the honorable gentlemen, if the President of the Council were defeated, that would mean a good dozen Ministerial portfolios up for grabs. From the viewpoint of the public, a crisis in a troubled epoch was the prospect of the worst possibilities. Among the audience, there were envoys of big banks and stockbrokers, who were waiting, not without anxiety, for a vote that might have incalculable repercussions on the Bourse.
At two o’clock, the President of the Chambre opened the session.
The Invisible, meanwhile, must have found a favorable corner in the national hemicycle.
Vauclin, invited by the President to make his interpellation, made a grave declaration in which he accused Barsac of being an accomplice of a Foreign Power, and having made, in secret negotiations, an agreement by which the dignity and interests of France were compromised.
Barsac having boldly accepted an immediate debate, affirming that he wanted nothing more than to explain himself, a ripple of excitement ran through the assembly, for everyone foresaw a ferocious, impassioned and also uncertain battle, in respect of which no one was sufficiently well-informed to offer a prognosis. It was rumored that Vauclin was in possession of terrible proofs, but no one had seen them; the feller of the Ministry had carefully refrained from divulging them in order to bring about a formidable coup-de-théâtre, by virtue of which he would carry the vote of no confidence, and even the accusation of treason.
In a thunderous voice, Vauclin let fall terrible precisions in his speech for the prosecution. He explained the bargain concluded between Germany and Barsac, and it was in the midst of a profound stupor that he said: “Now, Messieurs, it only remains for me to read you a document revealing the interest that Monsieur le Préside
nt du Conseil has in postponing, indefinitely, the payment of our former adversaries.”
Barsac was pale and anguished, but he was able to remain upright, arrogant, almost smiling, in the midst of the tempest. In his distress, he still dominated the others and himself. And as he received a broadside of insults without flinching, he suddenly had the sensation of a whisper in his ear: “Deny the secret negotiations, deny the letter, deny everything—have confidence in me.”
He turned round, stupefied, but saw that he was alone. His colleagues had quit the Ministerial bench, drawing way from him, as if he were infectious. Then, as he still did not say anything, the same incorporeal voice, close by, made itself heard again: “Deny, then. I tell you, Monsieur. I don’t want you to fall today, or beware! Deny!”
That enigmatic voice, the echo of his imperturbable confidence in life, of his customary aplomb, his extraordinary nerve, responded to an interior voice that said to him, as to Danton: “Audacity, and more audacity!” He rediscovered all his cerebral strength, then, and gave his portfolio a mighty blow with his fist.
Barsac followed the advice of Danton, and of the man whose breath he felt but whom he could not see.
“You are a liar and a knave, Monsieur Vauclin!” he replied, in his magnificent voice, velvety but terrible and thunderous. “Your accusations are unworthy, and if I have not called you a liar sooner, it is out of respect for this assembly, for I do not suppose that it can add faith to your abominable slanders. Everything about your threats is false, and the pretended revelations that you have brought here are nothing but a heap of manure picked up by you in I don’t know what gutter of gold and filth in which you have had the dismal courage to go fishing.”
Nonplussed by such aplomb, Arsène Vauclin was momentarily shaken. Barsac’s brazen attitude, meanwhile, regained him sympathy.
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