He was about to say a few words of consolation when Frédéric appeared to announce that lunch was ready. Then everyone went to the dining room, with its large bay window overlooking the plain through which the Seine snaked. Beyond the slopes of the hills, where the villas looked like doll’s houses among the woods and the meanders of the river, the gray mass of Paris was visible, over which floated an almost opaque halo formed of dust and smoke, which the midday sun caused to sparkle.
As he sat down, Marc Vanel remarked: “I like that view, that unique spectacle. We’re in the azure blue, in the pure silence, and we’re savoring the refinement of contemplating the monster, Paris, drowned in an immense dirtiness that makes the light dusty.”
The afternoon concluded in the wild park, into which Vanel-Satan, at the whim of the powers of his charm, drew in Simone d’Armez and Jeanne Fortin. In the bosom of that free nature, unkempt but vivacious and odorous, those young and handsome individuals felt generous saps rising within them. Perhaps for the first time, Jeanne, because she was unconsciously subject to the contagion of an ambience supersaturated with amour, could not entirely defend herself against a vague, uneasy disturbance that sometimes sent frissons over her skin. She seemed thoughtful, anguished and discontented, without being able to identify the cause of her irritation. Furthermore, it was with herself that she was annoyed, because she could not see with the indifference she desired the eagerness with which Marc took advantage of the slightest opportunities to press himself against the lovely Comtesse.
When they went back to the house and Vanel-Satan took his leave, she held out her hand to him abruptly and went to her laboratory without responding to the emotional adieu that he addressed to her in a low voice.
Saddened by that attitude, Homo-Deus left, his heart anguishing, accompanied as far as the road by Garnier—who never ceased, poor fellow, talking about Jeanne and her insensibility. His unsuspected rival listened distractedly, because he was thinking about Jeanne Fortin and Simone d’Armez. Within the god, the hog that slumbers within every one of us was rising up.
III. Stark Naked Surprise
When he got back to Paris Marc, Vanel was still under the impression of that delightful day.
Jeanne’s attitude had touched him. Might it be by means of jealousy that he could awaken love in that scientific heart, so far above human passions? Could it be tamed by such a banal sentiment? Perhaps. The human soul has its mysteries; had he not lost control of himself when he had felt a hateful anger against Julien de Vandeuvre when he interested the young doctor so powerfully, albeit scientifically? If Jeanne was jealous, it was because, unconsciously, she was beginning to love him.
After a beautiful day, already too warm for the season, it was as if the atmosphere were impregnated with electricity, and that state of nature acted upon the nerves of Homo-Deus. That evening, he felt entirely a man, and his passions were further exacerbated.
He risked his grand amour on an all-or-nothing gamble. Going down into the basement, he rendered himself invisible, and then, climbing into the automobile, he gave Mardruk the order to take him to the Red Nest. To enter the Fortins’ home was not difficult; the gate was never locked; it was sufficient to turn the handle and push. He opened it just wide enough to slip inside, because he knew that it creaked frightfully. He was in the park, and was soon in front of the house. Light was filtering through barred windows, although it was eleven o’clock at night.
She’s still working, he thought. Over what arduous problem is her beautiful face pondering at this moment? Before what enigma are the eyes that I love so much open?
It was better for the success of his plans, however, that she was in the laboratory. That circumstance permitted him to go tranquilly up to her bedroom and install himself there. He therefore climbed the stone steps of the perron and, having listened, certain that no one had any suspicion of his visit, he opened the door that those simple and confident folk did not even take the trouble to bolt.
When he was on the point of going into Jeanne’s bedroom, a violent emotion stopped him. For a moment, he hesitated. He, who had braved so many dangers in the course of his adventurous life, found himself intimidated and anxious, his heart tormented, on the brink of an action whose consequences he could not envisage.
What was he going to do tonight? Was it an unhealthy curiosity that was driving him, a base sentiment of sensual covetousness, or the simple desire to contemplate Jeanne’s image and then to go away, his eyes full of the adorable vision? He did not know. A singular force was guiding him, and he was obedient to its impulsions without being able to make out their exact implications. Crazy ideas, however, were haunting him.
He had dreamed of seeing the young woman in her nudity of a splendid goddess, of throwing himself at her feet, of gripping the white columns of her legs with his feverish arms and applying his amorous lips to her flesh of cold marble. And it did not seem possible to him that she could resist. The fire of his mouth would burn her, animate her body in spite of herself, in spite of her grim determination, and his caressant hands would electrify her being, and she would shiver—for the first time! Her senses were dormant—yes, dormant, like marvelous plants in the thick darkness of a cave—but they would wake up, quivering with delight; her femininity would blossom in her lover’s arms, as a flower opens when warmed by the first rays of the sun.
Well, yes, he would risk the supreme audacity. In any case, it was his last hope of conquering her. If he did not succeed, she would doubtless be lost to him forever, but if he did not dare to make the irremediable gesture, she would be lost anyway. So, he decided on the adventure, and entered resolutely into the room of the woman he was about to outrage or seduce.
He immediately felt troubled on sensing himself within the atmosphere of her mysterious intimacy. He knew everything about her intelligence, her brain, her soul and her heart, but nothing about her femininity.
He looked around the room, at the smallest objects, the furniture and the lingerie, hoping to find a clue that would reveal a secret corner of her to him. The room was sober and bright, however, without delicate frippery, devoid of lace and ribbons, but nevertheless beautiful, carefully ordered, cheerful and comfortable. It was not the temple of an amorous woman, but nor was it the monastic cell that one might have feared in the redoubt of a young woman devoted to the most arid sciences. The brass-framed bed, with covers in pastel colors, was vast. Marc Vanel divined that Jeanne, after hard work in the laboratory, liked to rest her body completely, and that sleep, for her, must be a comfortable voluptuousness.
The bathroom astonished him. It was almost as large as the bedroom, admirably ornamented, with nickeled pipes running along white walls, adding the bright note of their gleam. The bath and shower were improved models, seductive in their lines, and he liked their precious fitments and the amusing complication of their taps. The pearl porcelain basins of antique design made Marc think of Rome, infatuated with water and hygiene.
And Marc Vanel understood that Jeanne must rest her body and her mind in that vast bathroom, where the caress of cold water calmed the anxieties of her flesh. He guessed that every evening, she must spend long intervals restoring the vigor to her muscles necessary for the hard work she did, and he also understood, on perceiving gymnastic apparatus on the walls, why the lines of her body were so pure, why she resembled a masterpiece of statuary, and why one sensed an astonishing suppleness in her gait.
“What an admirable creature of amour she would be,” he murmured, “if she finally consented to abandon herself…if her grim will-power no longer defended her body!” He sensed the robust, vigorous and handsome athlete that he was himself. He imagined the embrace in which their ardors might be confounded, and thought: What a love-making ours would be!
He only just had time to plaster himself against the wall in a corner; Jeanne Fortin came in.
The Invisible then knew the joy of contemplating an individual who, thinking that she was alone, showed herself in the abandonment of
her natural gestures and her tastes, and the frankness of her instincts. He watched Jeanne come and go, her forehead anxious.
What was she thinking about? What difficult problem was still pursuing her? At whom were her preoccupations directed?
Soon, however, the young woman made a movement of the head that seemed to chase away the efforts of her thought; her eyes shone with a sudden joy, and her face became radiant. She threw her garments recklessly onto a low chair and, in her chemise, turned on the taps of the shower. The steaming water spurted two or three times, at her whim, and then Jeanne undressed completely, appearing in the aristocratic splendor of a troubling, impeccable nudity.
And Marc Vanel shivered with his entire being. He had never seen such a perfect creature, so pure in form, so vigorous, full of muscles, blood and life! And the burning ardors of his passions flooded his skin and his brain so abruptly that he was momentarily dazzled, after which he nearly pounced—but he held himself back, obedient to the anguishing dread of the irreparable.
Now, he gazed avidly at Jeanne’s resplendent beauty. Her hair was gathered into a kind of red bonnet, the bright color of which cut across the white skin of her neck, as she prepared to immerse herself. Her allure had an astonishing suppleness as she disposed the various objects necessary to her toilette, moving back and forth across the white room.
She stopped in front of a Sandow33 attached to the wall, took the handles of the apparatus in her slender but sinewy hands, pulled the rubber extensors taut and, for five minutes, maddened Marc Vanel with insensate attitudes, difficult exercises and dizzying gymnastics to which her supple body lent itself. In doing so, she was, without suspending it, terribly immodest, and the gestures and attitudes adopted for the employment of the apparatus, executed standing up, with audacious flexes, or lying on her back, displayed everything to Vanel, so completely that the most intimate beauties of her body, including the most secret jewel, were offered to him in luxurious display.
Weary now, a delicate sweat pearling her skin, she stood up straight, breathing deeply, and Marc saw her firm upper body, like a statue, with round, hard-tipped breasts, the charming nipples of which still seemed like two rose-buds posed on snowballs.
She placed herself under the shower, pulled a nickeled chain, and a hot rain immediately descended upon her, almost scalding, which steamed over her skin, enveloping her with a gray mist in which her imprecise, fluid image appeared to melt like a desert mirage. And Marc, heartbroken to see her disappear into the fog, made a movement as if to approach the fugitive vision. But she had extended her hand and seized another chain, and now the water ran colder, devoid of vapor.
Jeanne was still pulling the chain; now the water was falling upon her in an icy rain, and she contracted herself, stiffening herself, offering her hips to the stinging caress, and over her arched body, stretching under the violent sensation, little cascades spurted, descending from the pretty abdomen over the curved thighs, along the slender and muscular legs.
There was an abrupt click, and the rain suddenly ceased. Then the admirable creature wrapped herself in a thick bathrobe, which absorbed all the water. Nude again, having taken it off, she rubbed her self with towels that were warming on an electric radiator. She sat down in order to rub her legs more forcefully. In that position she was directly facing Marc, who was maddened by exasperated desires as he contemplated the roguish spectacle that she offered him so freely.
Suddenly, she stopped, seemingly nonplussed. Her gaze, which had suddenly become very hard, was fixed on the corner of the room, which was less brightly lit since she had turned a commutator that was close to hand.
Into that corner, an item of furniture projected a shadow—and in that shadow, there were two luminous points of emerald phosphorescence: the irises of the Invisible.
Alas, the phenomenon had partly betrayed Vanel several times. He had studied the reasons for it, which he knew, but he had not yet found a means of remedying it. It was provoked when a violent desire took possession of him, or when he was possessed by veritable anger. During the few minutes that his paroxysm of passion or rage lasted, one might have thought that all his vital fluid was concentrated in his eyes. Then, the other fluid, the one that impregnated his body to render it invisible, no longer had sufficient power, and that is why the irises charged with gleams lost the acquired property, at least during the few seconds when the passion culminated.
Very calmly, uncomprehending, Jeanne Fortin remained in a fixed attitude, with her hard eyes staring at the eyes that were gazing at her. Then Marc was afraid, terribly, that she would guess, for he sensed the effort that her brain was making, and understood that she must not. Catching him in his dubious role, not knowing the motives that were animating him, Jeanne would banish him insolently and scornfully, never to see him again.
Coldly, not afraid but very intrigued, she was still staring at the green irises, and reflecting. Marc could see the moment coming when he would no longer be able to speak. He was still hesitant—but he sensed the necessity of making the all-or-nothing gamble. He therefore advanced from his corner and murmured: “Jeanne…”
She started. And stiffened, but her gaze said that she was not afraid.
Again, Marc Vanel said: “Jeanne...”
Then she suddenly understood, and burst out laughing. “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed. “Well, my dear Marc, you have some nerve. Did you think you could take me while I was asleep?”
“No, Jeanne, since I’m denouncing myself before you sleep.”
She seemed struck by the argument, reflected for a moment, and said: “That’s true. Why did you come, then?”
He did not reply immediately, astonished by the tranquil calm of the young woman, who, naked before him, knowing that she was being violated by an avid gaze, and experienced neither embarrassment nor shame. He stood there, confused and troubled, but the flame in his eyes had weakened, and the two emerald dots had now disappeared.
“Where are you, Marc?” said Jeanne, in a voice that was slightly less firm.
Now that she could no longer perceive his eyes, she seemed less self-assured. Just now, something of the Invisible had been apparent to her, indicating his location, his movements, and even his intentions. Since the shining eyes had been extinguished, nothing revealed the presence of the mysterious being, and Jeanne, in spite of her composure, could not suppress a slight anxiety.
“Where are you?” she said again.
“Here, Jeanne.”
She shivered, alarmed, because the voice had come from behind her.
“Why aren’t you in front of me? Oh, it’s my triangle that embarrasses you! But what does the sight of the human body signify for the two of us, my poor Marc? Am I not similar to other women? Souls, hearts and minds differentiate individuals; flesh is always flesh, and you don’t possess any of me by contemplating my intimacy.”
“No!” he exclaimed. “You’re lying…you’re embarrassed at this very moment, knowing that my eyes are violating you, possessing you, but you want to be brazen, to impose your scorn for love on me…and you’re not succeeding, even in your own eyes. Look, Jeanne, you’re standing up to me, at this moment, determined to remain nude in order to demonstrate your disdain for the modesty that a true love contains, but I’m sure that in a little while, when I’m gone from here, and I’ve proved to you that I’ve really gone, you’ll immediately dissolve in tears, because you’re suffering in your self-respect, in your pride, from knowing that I’ve contemplated you, for a whole hour, with the eyes of a lover.”
“Marc!”
She grabbed a peignoir swiftly, and covered herself with it.
The Invisible sniggered. “You see. Why are your cheeks pink, why does your throat betray a curious emotion, which is perhaps fear?”
Laughing and affecting indifference, although her voice was trembling, she said: “Oh! I’m not afraid!” As she said it she stood up, straight and proud, facing the direction from which Marc Vanel’s voice had come. Now they both fel
l silent—but they sensed that the situation was untenable.
Jeanne was the first to speak, asking: “What did you want—what did you hope for—in coming here? Marc, I want you to tell me frankly the motive that guided you. I don’t think that we ought to expose ourselves to such scenes again.”
“Well, then, I’ll be sincere. When I decided to see you, I didn’t know—no, Jeanne, I swear, that I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. I came to you, driven by an obscure instinct, in which there was perhaps a fatal attraction, perhaps an irresistible need for your presence, perhaps also a vague hope. No, truly, I didn’t have precise thoughts; there was only an instinct. But when I came in here, I confess Jeanne, my ideas suddenly crystallized into a wild, powerful desire, and I resolved that you would be my mistress.”
“Marc!” she said, recoiling, crossing herself and tightening the peignoir about her upper body.
“Yes,” he continued, forcefully, “I wanted you, ardently and passionately. I was sure of myself, and I had the conceit that experience gives. I would have waited until you were in bed, almost to the point of falling asleep, and then I would have slid toward you, and with subtle caresses, the pressure of knowing lips, slow and profound kisses, sexual insistences that you would have been unable to resist, I would have had you.”
“Marc!”
“I would have had you in spite of yourself, in spite of your resistance, your vigor, your repulsion, and, having made use of a sensuality of whose power you’re ignorant, I would have made you know, regardless, Pleasure…perhaps Love.”
“Shut up, Marc! Shut up! You’re horrifying me!”
“Vehemently, he continued: “Yes, that’s what you would have shouted in my face when, lying on top of you, I would have crushed your lips under mine, and your sex would have yielded to mine. You would have insulted me, hated me, I know, but you would have swooned.”
Homo-Deus Page 30