“Georges! Stay behind the door, and at the slightest alert, come to warn us. The two of us, Vauclin, onwards!”
They made a conscience search of the furniture, but found no trace of the millions. In fact, the deposit receipts from the various banks in which Vanel had placed the millions were on Homo Deus’ desk before their eyes, under a crystal paperweight, but the modern sorcerer had rendered them invisible.
“The money must be at the Fortins’ place,” said Vauclin. “We’re wasting time here. It’s probable that Vanel is there now.”
“It’s more than probable, in fact.”
“Well, it’s only one o’clock. Shall we go to Saint-Cloud?”
“Yes. If Vanel isn’t there, the others will be, and when he sees that we’ve been here, he’ll come running.”
“Let’s go, then. By the way, we’d better equip ourselves with less noisy weapons.”
“You’re right. The Hindu daggers there, in that panoply, will suit our purpose very well.”
After having chosen three of them, they went out and made Baruyer, who was guarding the door, party to their new plan.
A few minutes later, they found a taxi, one of those on the lookout for a windfall, whose drivers make a specialty of working by night. In return for a hundred francs he took them to Saint-Cloud.
On the stroke of two o’clock, they were outside the Red Nest. Walesport turned the handle of the gate automatically. It opened.
“These people are splendid—they have no fear.”
“They’re wrong,” sniggered Vauclin. “And so much the better for us.”
Walesport pushed the gate gently, but in spite of his precaution, it emitted a long creak, which made the hearts of the three villains lurch.
In the laboratory, Jane, her father and George Garnier had been working for a long time. They were in the process of completing a major work, which would comprise a synthesis of all their endeavors, a scientific history of the earth.
The various adventures in which the Fortins and Marc Vanel had been involved had slowed them down, and now they were trying to make up for lost time. Georges Garnier was consulting an enormous parcel of notes and calculations; he was passing them to Fortin, who was dictating to Jeanne. While writing, they were discussing obscure points.
Suddenly, outside, two gunshots rang out.
All three bounded to their feet, turned in the direction of the park, and listened. There was a third detonation, closer this time.
“Oh, the swine!” cried the voice of Frédéric, from the park.
“What’s that?” said Jeanne, seizing a long pair of compasses from the table.
Already, Georges Garnier had armed himself with a poker, and Fortin with a heavy steel ruler.
Another gunshot shattered a windowpane, and a bullet whistled over Fortin’s head.
“We’ll be shot down here,” Georges exclaimed. “Let’s retreat into the cellars.” He shoved Jeanne in front of him
Outside, on the steps of the perron, there was the sound of a fierce struggle. Frédéric, wounded, was still shouting.
“Look out! Save yourselves!”
“We can’t leave Frédéric to die! Go downstairs, Jeanne—as for us, forwards!”
A further cry of agony resounded outside, and then Frédéric’s gasping voice: “Ah! Brigands! I’ll have you all!”
Jeanne had already set foot on the cellar steps, and Fortin and Georges were running toward the door when it opened violently.
Walesport, distraught and bloody, appeared on the threshold. He was holding a blood-stained dagger in one hand and a smoking Browning in the other. He was wounded, and had to support himself on the door frame. He assessed the situation at a glance and took aim at Jeanne, who, amazed and fascinated, had remounted the step.
“I’m done for,” croaked Walesport, “but at least I’ll die avenged.”
And he fired at Jeanne, who lost her balance, hit in the shoulder.
Georges Garnier had leapt forward, brandishing his weapon. Walesport fired again. Hit full in the chest this time, Jeanne collapsed on the floor. At the same time, Walesport fell, his skull fractured.
Fortin and Garnier had raced to Jeanne, lifted her up and laid her on the divan. The wound in her shoulder was not serious, but the one in her chest was mortal; already the blood was spreading out internally, choking her.
Fortin stuck his lips to the wound and sucked forcefully. That caused the blood to flow outwards. They positioned the victim so that the flow would be maintained in that fashion. Eventually, Jeanne opened her eyes. She collected herself momentarily, and judged her own condition.
“Doomed! She said. “Nothing to be done. Call Marc.”
Let us go back. That night, Frédéric, who had gone to bed early, had woken up at about one-thirty. The worthy fellow could not stay in bed once he was awake. He remembered that he had set a few snares in the thickets, and had an impulse to go see whether any rabbits had been caught. After having dressed summarily, he had picked up a big canvas bag and gone out.
The sky was clear, and it was bight enough for him, habituated as he was to all the meanders of the park, to be able to steer without hesitation to the place where the snares had been set.
“Damn!” he said. “There’s one, a beauty. It must weight at least five pounds.”
He stuffed the rabbit in his bag and continued his exploration. At the end of a path he saw that the house was still illuminated.
“Not in bed yet,” he muttered.
At that moment, he heard the creak of the gate behind him. Astonished, he threw himself into the shadow of a bush in order to listen, without moving.
There were muffled footsteps in the grass; then, three shadows slid along the path, heading toward the house—and, in consequence, toward him. Frédéric had no other weapon than a fairly sturdy knife, which he always kept in his pocket, and which served various purposes. He opened it, at hazard. The steel made a dry click as the blade was fixed by the spring, and the three shadows stopped.
“Did you hear that?” whispered a voice.
“Yes—look out!”
On either side, there was immobility.
Softly, one step at a time, Frédéric began to retreat toward the Red Nest. A branch cracked underfoot.
“There’s someone there,” said the former cowboy, Walesport. “Forward—before he raises the alarm!”
Seeing that he had been discovered, the good servant turned round, and the three men fell upon him, daggers in hand.
Frédéric had the darkness in his favor; he avoided in impact, and hurled his bag at the head of Baruyer, who happened to be nearest. While the villainous advocate36 rid himself of the bag, the other two fired at their adversary. Frédéric felt the wind of a bullet on his face.
“Ah! Pig! He exclaimed, and, diving at Baruyer, he plunged his knife into his breast all the way to the hilt. He had struck so forcefully that the député, as he fell, dragged him down with him—which saved him, for two more bullets whistled over his head.
“To the house!” said Walesport. “The alarm’s been given now. There’ll be obstacles.”
He and Vauclin ran toward the Red Nest, guided by its lights. They had reached the perron when a gunshot rang out behind them. Vauclin, hit in the back of the neck, collapsed, uttering a lugubrious cry.
Walesport turned round. Frédéric ran forward, armed with Baruyer’s Browning, and shouted at the same time to warn his masters. Walesport fired at him.
Hit in the thigh, the valiant servant continued to advance nevertheless, returning fire. Walesport, hit in the right side, uttered a cry of rage.
Ah! I’ll have you all!” cried Frédéric.
Another bullet hit him. He made a superhuman effort to get up, but had been hit in the skull, and the blood running down his face blinded him. The admirable guard-dog fell again, unconscious this time.
Mad with rage and pain, Walesport ran to the door of the Red Nest and opened it, furiously...
We know the
rest.
The humble Frédéric, the arm and heart of the people, had finally brought down and punished, without even knowing that he was making a symbolic gesture, the financier Walesport: a raptor of international wingspan, maneuvering puppets, petty matamores and scaramouches, just as the vulturissimo Zaharoff, the frightful Basile, employs the Barthous in his designs, and the députés Vauclin and Baruyer, two wild beasts disguises as shepherds, representatives of the packs of wolves and jackals of the jungle of politics, who govern while nibbling, gasping and devouring, each in accordance with his claws and fangs, at the immense French flock, driving them toward the abyss.
X. The Transmitted Soul
The sun rose in a sky radiant with pink clouds. At the zenith, it was a blue of infinite delicacy. Jeanne had asked to be taken to the belvedere, and the two men had transported her there with infinite precaution. Fortin was under no illusion; his daughter was doomed; her death as only a question of hours, perhaps minutes. Lying on the divan, her torso supported by a pile of cushions, Jeanne watched the sunrise.
“There it is,” she said, in a low and halting voice, “the Immortal: it is unconcerned with our agitation, our dreams, of sages or madmen. Where is the wisdom? One believes oneself to be above humanity, and a fragment of metal reduces us to nothing. No, not nothing! I want to live, to survive! Marc’s taking a long time. He’ll arrive too late.” Her eyes fell upon Georges Garnier, who was sobbing helplessly, prostrate in a corner. “No, not him—he’s not strong enough. I need a Master!”
At that moment, Homo-Deus’ limousine came into the garden in a whirlwind. Marc leapt out, and Frédéric, his head swathed in bandages, greeted him.
“Jeanne?” cried the savant.
“Go up quickly—she’s asking for you! You’re her only hope!” With a gesture, he indicated the belvedere.
In a matter of seconds, Marc scaled the staircases. In two bounds he was beside the moribund, and collapsed at her feet.
“Finally,” said the dying woman. “There you are. Don’t waste any time.”
“I’ll save you!” Vanel cried.
“If it were possible,” said Fortin, “I’d have done it. My daughter, my colleague, my master! Oh, what a loss for science!”
“Silence! Listen to me. I won’t die. I don’t want to die. Father, you’ve carried out transmissions of the soul in public, at the Académie des Sciences. You’re going to help me; it’s necessary to transfer my soul into Marc’s. You, Homo-Deus, wanted to possess my body—see what a fragile thing you would have had. The gesture of a wretch sufficed to make this beauty you desired so much into tomorrow’s pinch of ashes. But I, more proud, want to give you something better than this perishable flesh—to give you my soul, Marc, my mind, the intelligence that you loved as well as my body. Is that not love, Marc? Are you content?”
“Jeanne, I want to die with you.”
“But what, then, is this love, which you prefer to immortality? Wretch—you tell me that you love me and you want to let me die, entirely!”
She stopped, exhausted, a trickle of bloody foam running from her mouth; she was having difficulty breathing.
Georges Garnier leapt up from where he was crouched.
“What kind of man are you, then?” he cried. “And you say that you love her! But whatever she asked of me, I would obey without reflection, without regret…as I have done already, without hope.”
Fortin had made the dying woman take a few drops of an elixir; she reanimated gradually,
“So be it,” she said. “Since he doesn’t want it, I’ll go. Anyway, I shall know. If Marc had wanted it, I would have remained on your Earth a little longer. The mystery’s there, in the afterlife. Have we sensed the truth? Or is it only a lure of our pride? I shall know. Oh, Father, I’m afraid. What if we were mistaken? What if the soul can’t survive the body? What if the fluid that animates us and directs us is only a combination of matter, and I’m truly about to die? What good is life, then, if it has no other objective than to ferry us to death?”
“Death doesn’t exist,” said Fortin. “It’s a mere modification.”
“If I have to be reborn in an inferior form, what would be the point? And it’s death anyway, since the memory of the anterior life doesn’t remain.”
Gradually, Vanel, brutalized by grief, came to his senses. The sound of words that had initially struck his ears as mere noise, without leaving any intellectual impression, and which cradled his grief, ended up allowing him his true sensibility, and his grief died down to give way to admiration. What kind of beings were these two to debate, at such a moment, the greater or lesser chances of immortality?
Jeanne went on: “Don’t forget, Father; as soon as I’ve ceased to live, to put yourself at the receiver of the apparatus we’ve constructed. It’s so sensitive that if the soul can dispose of an atom of fluidic force, the machine will register it. You’ll thus have the assurance that I’m not entirely dead, and I’ll thus be able to help you, still, in your future work.”
“I’ll try,” said Fortin. “But without you, I’ll be very little. Why not make me the gift that you wanted to offer Marc Vanel?”
“Because I love him!”
The Invisible straightened up, while Fortin and Georges took a step backwards.
“You love me? You’re mine, then! Now, I accept your superb offer. I couldn’t double my spirit with an indifferent soul, but you love me! What is the union of two sexes in comparison with that of two pure minds? Come, my bride, my wife, give me your lips for our first and last carnal kiss.”
“Not yet. Help us, Father! I’ll help you with what remains of my energy.”
At that moment, mental strength dominated physical strength in the dying woman: the last flicker of a flame ready to be extinguished. Her voice had become firmer and, lifting up her upper body, she drew Marc Vanel’s head toward her and plunged into his eyes all the fluid power that remained to her.
Above her, Fortin, his eyes bulging, his hands open, concentrated all his magnetic effort on their two heads. Jeanne paled gradually; her eyes became dull and lost their radiance. By a supreme effort of her will, she drew Vanel’s face toward her own, and their lips met.
Marc shuddered to the utmost depths of his being, and then, suddenly, the young woman’s lips became icy. He had the impression that Jeanne had just expired in that kiss.
He allowed his forehead to fall upon the breast of the dead woman, and did not move again; he sensed the final frigid impression spread through her entire body.
Exhausted, Fortin, sitting down on the divan beside the corpse, contemplated it with avid attention.
For what was he hoping?
Further away, Georges Garnier, on his knees, was giving no other sign of life than the tears trickling down his face, without a muscle moving.
The glacial impression sensed by Homo-Deus dissipated slowly. A reaction set in; his blood gradually warmed up and a warmth rose to his brain, in a kind of fever; it seemed to him that a new force was born there, that a fluid of a previously unknown quality was inundating the cells. Thoughts that had not previously been his own surged forth. His remembrance was doubled, and he had memories that were not his, which were not of his sex.
A power stronger than his own will made him open his mouth and words that he had not thought emerged from his lips: “Victory! Father! Georges! I’m alive!”
Fortin, who was monitoring the movement of the needle of the soul-transmission apparatus, leapt forward. His eyes were ablaze with enthusiasm. He seized Marc in his arms and hugged him to his heart. For the first time in his life, his eyes moistened.
“Oh, Marc—my daughter is resuscitated in you!”
Georges had taken possession of one of Vanel’s hands and kissed it. On the threshold, Frédéric—who had arrived, breathless, in quest of news—rubbed his eyes, wondering if he were seeing things.
“Yes,” Homo-Deus went on. “It really is me, Marc Vanel, it’s us. Oh, there will be fine days yet for terrestrial science..
.” He resumed: “Yes, I’m now a formidable duality, and I sense that two intelligences are fused in my brain. It will doubtless require a few days for complete harmony to reign between us. But what problems the two of us are going to resolve!” He took Fortin’s hand. “Henceforth, my dear Master, let me call you Father. As for you, Georges, what do you want to be to us?”
“What I’ve always been: Jeanne’s servant.”
“As for me,” said Frédéric, “I don’t really understand what I’m seeing and hearing, but I’ll always be part of the household.”
“Don’t try to understand, my dear Fred. Give us all your devotion, as you were devoted to the One who lives again in me.”
And, moving forward, he revealed the body lying on the divan.”
“Dead!” cried the faithful servant—and had to lean on the wall in order not to fall over.
“Dead?” repeated Vanel, in a vibrant voice. “No. One does not die here! What would be the divine value of humanity and love if they did not triumph over death?”
XI. Toward the Summits
Order has been restored to the Red Nest.
After having discussed the course to follow, the three men decided to continue settling their affairs without recourse to the law. The noise of the gunshots had not attracted anyone’s attention; the house is isolated and the park large enough for the sound not to reach the nearest neighbor.
After the catastrophe that has just occurred, Fortin has decided to go traveling for some time. That is also the intention of Marc Vanel, who has political concerns in Russia and Asia. He will go with him, and Georges Garnier, who does not want to quit Jeanne—whose soul Homo-Deus has assimilated—will accompany them.
An entire grandiose plan has germinated in the brain of Homo-Deus-Jeanne-Fortin. They desire the emancipation of the world and an end to fratricidal wars; thanks to the invisibility that Homo-Deus will share with his companions, they will thwart all the conspiracies of diplomatic politicians, the leaders and parasites of society.
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