“I beg your pardon, Madame,” he said, with the most exquisite courtesy, “but the Law is sometimes obliged, in order to fulfill its role, to penetrate the intimate lives of those with whom it is occupied, and I have proof of a liaison that existed between you and Monsieur de Vandeuvre. Don’t hold it against me; I’m fulfilling a painful duty, and since it involves no other inconvenience for you that making the confession of it, be assured that I shall be discreet.”
“Indeed Monsieur, the unfortunate man was in love with me. As my resistance drove him to despair, he went away—I don’t know where—in order to forget, he said. One evening, he suddenly came back, in the course of a social occasion that I was hosting at my home. I did not see much of him, for there was no possibility for him to talk to me in private that evening; I belonged to my guests.”
“At what time did he leave?”
“Between midnight and two o’clock; I don’t know exactly. At any rate, he was one of the first.”
The magistrate had just picked up a piece of paper from his desk. Suddenly interested, he read: They’re making a fool of you, and I don’t have time for you to find the key to the enigma on your own. Use the work of your molder.
Monsieur Sauliet got to his feet, troubled by that intervention of the Invisible. Smiling, however, he said: “I beg you, Madame, to lend yourself to one last formality—to put you in the presence of an important witness.”
So saying, he marched to a curtain extended over a corner, and drew it abruptly. Standing there, with his arms folded over his chest, was Julien de Vandeuvre. With an indisputable artistry, the molder had painted the plaster and given his work an appearance that was frightening for the young woman, with the cadaverous tint of the face and the glassy eyes.
The accused had become livid, all her blood flowing back to her heart; nervously and mechanically, she rubbed her hands, as if to efface something. Her teeth chattered. She felt lost, but made a superhuman effort to overcome her terror.
“Well, what do you have to say?”
The magistrate’s voice had the effect of an electric shock. She put her hands over her face and collapsed, with a terrifying scream. The député, who was waiting in the antechamber, bounded forward reflexively, opened the door and ran in. Bonichon tried to stop him, but in vain. Thrusting the clerk aside he was already in the magistrate’s study.
The first thing he saw was his wife’s body, next to which Sauliet was crouched, frightened himself by the effect produced by this funeral depiction.
“What’s the matter Sophie? And you, what have you done?”
“Bonichon, fetch a doctor!” shouted the magistrate.
“She’s dead!” howled the député. “Wretch, what have you done? What have you said to her?”
With a gesture, the magistrate showed him the accusing statue. The député fell to his knees, hiding his face.
“You confess, then?” said Sauliet, intent on his case.
“Resurgam!” said Vauclin. “He said it!”
“You confess?” Sauliet repeated, making a sign to Bonichon, who had come back in. The latter ran to his desk and seized his pen. At that moment, the Prefecture physician arrived precipitately. At a glance he understood, and, kneeling down beside the recumbent woman he examined her rapidly.
“Nothing to be done,” he said, on rising to his feet. “The lady has suffered a shock so intense that the vessels of the heart have ruptured—a fatal aneurism.” Noticing the statue, he added: “Why, what’s that? I doubt that people will approve of that mode of investigation. You can see the effect.”
“Bah!” said Sauliet. “I’ve caught an important murderer.”
XI. The Hunted Beasts
Vauclin looked around, with the gaze of a wild beast. The three men had the intuition of a desperate effort; they threw themselves between him and the door. But Vauclin launched himself forward with Herculean force, battled momentarily, knocked Bonichon down, and stopped Sauliet, who was about to call for help, with a mighty blow of his fist. The physician moved aside in order not to be similarly struck down, and Vauclin ran out, pursued by the clamors of Bonichon and the physician, who ran after him.
Fortunately for him, the député was perfectly familiar with the Palais de Justice. By means of a few skilful detours, he was therefore able to evade his pursuers and escape from the maze. A taxi was passing by; he leapt into it.
“Twenty francs,” he shouted to the driver, “if we’re at the Gare du Nord in ten minutes.”
The driver accelerated his vehicle and departed in a swirl of dust.
Once reassured on the matter of his immediate arrest, the député thought about what to do next. To go home was impossible; the police would get there at the same time as him. Take the first available train and flee? He had ten thousand francs on him; that would last for a few days—but afterwards? His description would be sent everywhere by telegraph, and his arrest would only be a matter of hours.
The taxi stopped. He paid the driver and noticed that the other was looking at him in astonishment. He was bare-headed. From a nearby hatter’s shop, Vauclin bought an English cap; then, taking another cab, he had himself taken to the Gare de Lyon. There he took the Metro and got out at the Place de l’Opéra. From there he went on foot to Walesport’s private apartment in the Rue du Quatre-Septembre.
Walesport was not at home, but Vauclin was known to the valet, who let him into his master’s study. There, Vauclin had time to reflect on his situation, for Walesport did not return until six o’clock in the evening.
Rapidly, the député brought him up to date.
“Damn!” said Walesport. “You’re not brilliant. Nor am I, though. I succeeded in seeing Georges today; he’s still half mad, and swears that the receipts were stolen from him—which is to say that we’re all in trouble. Oh, if I could get hold of the scoundrel who’s rolled us over so comprehensively…Claude Barsac or George Baruyer...”
“The blow didn’t come from them,” said Vauclin, furiously. “It came from someone stronger than them—the Fortins and their friend Marc Vanel, the one that society now calls Homo-Deus. They all made fun of my poor wife a few days ago. When she told me that, I ought to have gone to Saint-Cloud, to the Red Nest, and massacred the whole gang.”
“There’s still time,” said Walesport. “The more I think about the maneuvers of that pretended sorcerer, the firmer my conviction becomes. It was the Fortins who brought Julien de Vandeuvre to your house, and Vanel was there. Do you remember Fortin’s communication to the Académie des Sciences, and Marc Vanel’s experiments at your home? Those people can play with the soul, with the spirit, as they wish. Who can tell whether they might have hypnotized Albert into killing his mother? As for the certificates, they must have taken advantage of the confusion to steal them.”
“But in that case,” Vauclin put in, “our millions are at the Fortins’ place, or Homo-Deus’ home.”
The two men exchanged a rapid glance. They had reached an understanding.
“You stay in hiding here,” said Walesport. “My valet is a reliable man. Tomorrow, I’ll obtain information about our adversaries’ habits, and we’ll act.”
“What about me?” said Vauclin. “After the authorization of the Chambre, I’ll still be under the threat of an arrest warrant.”
“You’ll have to change your identity. I’ll get you a passport, and we’ll go to America. Personally, I’ve had enough of the old continent of Europe, in war as in peace.”
BOOK FIVE: THE INVISIBLE SATYR
I. A Virgin’s Confession
Alone in his study, Homo-Deus was mulling over the events that had occurred since his return to Paris, and the sequence of occurrences by virtue of which he had arrived in the midst of intrigues that had put him in contact with individuals whose morality had only served to augment his natural misanthropy. In that entire society, there were few sympathetic individuals. Only the dancer Alexane had left him with a favorable impression, but on reflection, that woman, who was nearing
forty in spite of her beauty and the miraculous youthfulness of her face, was merely an egotist fighting for amour and her illusions—for Hans de Rodock’s twenty years could not be united for very long with the dancer’s age, and her love for Hans was all the more ardent, because she could sense its last flames.
Suddenly, however, the radiant visages of Jeanne Fortin and Simon d’Armez appeared in his mind. Jeanne was certainly the woman predestined for him, as beautiful as an antique statue, with an intelligence equal to his own. What a mixed couple they would have made! But Jeanne did not love him and never would. Could his own sensual nature ever be in harmony with that mentality, which saw even amour as nothing more than another subject of study? As for Simone d’Armez, in the nights he had spent with her, he had encountered a nature according to his tastes, an amorous harp immediately ready to vibrate beneath his savant desires—but with Simone, he was invisible, and the lovely Comtesse believed that she was under the influenced of a voluptuous dream.
Weary of reassessing their sensualities, he got up in order to give Mardruk a few orders. At that moment, he came in with a card in his hand.
“What is it?” Vanel asked.
“A visitor. Pretty, I think—but she’s wearing a thick veil.”
“Show her in, old man.”
As she came in, the visitor lifted her veil. Homo-Deus could not suppress an admiring exclamation.
“Huguette de Virmile? I’m proud to have your confidence, Mademoiselle. Please sit down.”
A vivid blush reddened the young woman’s exquisitely pure face. Finally, making a visible effort, she said, “What I have to tell you, Master, is a kind of confession, but it isn’t pious. I’m confiding in someone who, by virtue of his intelligence, might perhaps be a better director of my soul than a priest, if he will deign to play the role.”
The savant nodded. She continued: “You’ve been to the Hôtel de Virmile, and you’ve perceived the distinguished nullity of the head of the household, where an intruder reigns: the Comte de Simiane.”
Marc thought that he ought to make a gesture of astonishment, although it was notorious in Parisian society that Jacques de Simiane was the maintained lover of Madame de Virmile.
Huguette continued: “Since the age of observation, I’ve perceived Simiane’s attentions. He was, moreover, a veritable friend to me. He took an interest in my games and my studies, pampered and caressed me—and was, in sum, more caring and attentive in my regard than my father.
“Things might have gone on like that indefinitely without attracting my attention to relationships that time and social habits had consecrated, but Maman, seeing me grow older, increasingly avoided keeping me near to her, and confided me to the care and direction of Florine, her principal chambermaid. Then she thought that Florine was getting too old—she was forty—to maintain in that employment, and replaced her with someone younger.
“Florine, wounded in her self-esteem, and who was very attached to me, having known me since my birth, did not take long to take me into her confidence. It had been agreed that, in order to give our Simiane a position that would attach him permanently to his benefactress, I would give him my hand. As I said, I had a certain amity for Jacques de Simiane, and the prospect of becoming his wife did not frighten me at first.
“Florine, seeing that she had missed her aim, then told me that Simiane was my father, and furnished me with irrefutable proof by means of letters that she had stolen. An extreme horror and disgust took possession of me; I waited with anguish for my mother to make me party to her project. That happened three days ago; I threw myself at Maman’s feet and begged her to spare me that union, preferring, even though I have a fear of religion, to retire to a cloister.
“The scene was terrible; having run out of arguments, I flung the revelations of her former chambermaid in her face. She burst out laughing, told me that I was old-fashioned, and that such ideas were no longer of our world. ‘You have a bourgeois mentality, my dear child.’
“It was then that I appealed to Simone d’Armez. I asked for her help and protection, in case I fled the house. Then, Simon talked to me about you. She told me that you might be able, by means of suggestion, to bend my mother to your will and force her to renounce her projects. That’s why I’ve come to see you, Master, to beg for your help.”
The young woman stopped talking.
“I am, Mademoiselle, something of a Don Quixote, who has accepted a mission to right wrongs and punish the guilty. You can count on my help. But I’d like to have carte blanche to bring about a denouement according to my whim.”
“Act as you please. I sense, beneath your skeptical and misanthropic attitude, a great love for the weak and the isolated. You called yourself Don Quixote just now; there is, in my eyes, no nobler figure than that seeker of the ideal.”
Homo-Deus stood up; he gazed profoundly at the strange young woman. Since his return to Paris, he had not seen a type of beauty similar to Huguette’s—who was Jeanne Fortin’s first cousin, via her mother. Tall and slim, she had the torso and the figure of Diana the huntress. Her sparkling brown hair, cut short over the nape of her neck, gave her the appearance of a delightful ephebe. The face was perfect, slightly pale, the skin so finely-grained that amber and ivory would have seemed coarse by comparison, the ensemble animated by large dark gray eyes speckled with gold, and a calm and proud expression.
“And afterwards,” said Homo-Deus, “when I’ve liberated you, what will you do then?”
“I’ll come to ask you,” she said, frankly, meeting his gaze.
II. The Slumbering Hog
It was the eve of the Grand Prix and the weather was particularly warm. As he went to Saint-Cloud to see the Fortins, Marc Vanel went through the Bois de Boulogne, gray with the dust raised in swirling clouds by rapid automobiles. When his own car had left the blinding road, it was almost noon. Homo-Deus suddenly found himself in the kind of virgin forest that surrounded his friends’ house, and he experienced a sensation of restful calm and soft freshness, the verdant caress of which was very pleasant.
His arrival was greeted with cries of joy. Vanel thought that he would find his friends alone, as usual, but there, in front of the house, grouped around a garden table were guests chatting while waiting for lunchtime. He recognized, without displeasure, the lovely Comtesse Simone d’Armez and—with more amazement—Georges Garnier, very much in form. Good, he thought, his brain’s recovery of function has been accomplished promptly; Jeanne is a veritable genius. Too bad that it gives me a rival.32
Jeanne seemed more beautiful than ever. Either because the success of her scientific endeavors had rendered her, normally so grave, more cheerful, or because Homo-Deus’ declaration, coming after that of Garnier had disturbed her in spite of her rejection, there was less of a chill in her face, and her astonishing plastic beauty seemed to be animated by a new fever. Her eyes, in fact, had a vivid and warm gleam that made Marc shudder.
Simone d’Armez teased Vanel, however.
“Did you know, Monsieur Sorcerer, that your science has failed?”
“Bah!” he said. “Why do you say that, my dear Madame?”
“You’ve made predictions that haven’t been realized.”
“Would it be indiscreet to ask what they were?” asked Jeanne Fortin.
Embarrassed, Marc attempted to explain. “At Madame Vauclin’s house the other day, Madame d’Armez asked me to carry out an experiment whose secret had been revealed to me by the fakirs. On a sheet of blank paper, an invisible spirit had written something—what, I don’t know, of course—and which, I’ve just learned, was a promise.”
“Oh!” Simone d’Armez protested, blushing. “That depends how one understands it. It could equally have been a threat. In any case, the prediction has not been realized.”
Homo-Deus looked her directly in the eyes, and she blushed again. “Are you afraid of that prediction, Madame, or is it agreeable to you? I have no need to tell you that, if you demand it, I will take measures to ens
ure its failure.”
This time, the Comtesse seemed very embarrassed. Her cheeks, colored a vivid incarnadine, and her eyes, in which a fever of pleasure gleamed, rendered her prey, piquant and flavorsome. Homo-Deus was suddenly invaded by a stupor that exasperated troubling reminiscences.
“Whenever the spirit visited me,” she stammered, “it hardly seemed to care whether I was consenting or not. My God, let it do, once again, as it pleases. I dare not interrogate myself; I simply submit to its caprice—that of a very fickle spirit.”
He moved nearer to the pretty Comtesse and whispered, so that only she would hear: “The spirit will come again tonight.”
Meanwhile, upright and proud, Jeanne Fortin was staring at them. Georges Garnier created a diversion by taking Vanel away. When the two men were alone, not far from the house, waiting for Frédéric to announce lunch, Jeanne’s first suitor said to the other: “You weren’t expecting to find me in such good condition, eh?”
“In truth, no. I last saw you in a state akin to infancy.”
And remembering the scene of the domestic in the process of spooning food into the poor fellow, Marc could not help laughing.
“I was ridiculous, eh?” Garnier remarked, philosophically. “Well, would you believe that I wonder now whether I wasn’t happier when I was in a stupor? At least, then, Jeanne paid attention to me. She watched me every day, interested in my person, and the progress of the experiments she was carrying out on my body. I was necessary to her, precious, and I know that she was glad to have me. Alas, since she’s restored my means, rendering me similar to other men, she no longer pays any heed to me. She’s become completely indifferen.”
Homo-Deus smiled. The young man’s love, naïve and so absolute, touched him. He shook his hands forcefully, because he was conscious of the same misfortune into which both of them were plunged, but he also felt a kind of anger toward the beautiful young woman who scorned the young man’s heroism and his own genius so casually.
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