Homo-Deus

by Félicien Champsaur

  The woman that he had brought back that morning was, like him, in quest of adventure. Not very pretty, but enticing, she lived with Thomas Keysar from time to time, when he had money. Well dressed and styled, she sometimes rendered him a service when he added magnetism to the hundred ways that he had, like Panurge, of earning a living. Berthe Jafaux played the role of somnambulist so well that Thomas allowed himself to be taken in by it, doubting Thomas as he was, and almost lent credence to it.

  When Etienne Aubert came to knock on Keysar’s door, the latter was still sleeping profoundly in the company of Berthe. When no one answered, Aubert shouted: “Thomas! Thomas! It’s me, Etienne. I’ve come to take you to lunch.”

  Keysar put on a dressing gown, an old market gardener’s overcoat stolen from Les Halles, which Berthe had decorated with all sorts of braid and embroidery. It was part of his magical apparatus, along with an old felt hat whose rim he had cut up in such a way as to form a bonnet with earflaps. The magician’s robe and bonnet harmonized with the furniture.

  “It’s the guy I told you about, Etienne Aubert,” he whispered to Berthe. “Hurry up and get dressed.”

  He jumped out of the closet and went to open the door, smiling.

  “What good wind brings you here?”

  “There’s news, my dear.”

  Etienne sat down on a stool. He was familiar with Thomas’ abode, having been in the Magician’s home several times before. “Oh—you’re not alone?” he said, on hearing the planks creak in the closet.

  “It’s nothing. Berthe. I met her after leaving the Coutans and you. You can talk in front of her. I only have to put her to sleep. She won’t hear anything.” And Keysar, darting his fluid toward the cupboard commanded: “Sleep! I wish it.”

  A moment later, Berthe came down, stiffly, her eyes closed.

  Keysar went to take her by the hand, and sat her down. “There,” he said. “Say whatever you like. It’s as if she weren’t here.”

  “Are the two of you making fun of me?”

  “What, you still doubt my power? You don’t believe in the occult sciences? I believe in them because I know, because I’m an initiate. Look, would you like Souriah to tell you what’s going through your mind? Afterwards, perhaps you’ll believe.”

  “Souriah? Who’s that?”

  “It’s Berthe’s occult name, as mine is Assaouah.”

  “You’re annoying me—all that’s a joke.”

  Thomas Keysar turned round imperiously and raised his hand over the young woman’s head.

  “Speak, Souriah! What are the two sentences that Monsieur Albert is ruminating? Speak, I wish it.”

  “Macbeth, you shall be king. To be king, it’s necessary to want it.”

  Etienne started. “You amaze me. But I don’t believe—I can’t believe.”

  “As you wish. The evidence is there, though.”

  “And yet, I have no need to want it. My father’s giving my Sixte’s place; so I’m already king.”

  “Hmm! As Coutan was. Boss—but at the first sign of resistance, your father got rid of him. He’ll do the same with you. Although he’s sharing the profits with you, he wants to remain the master of the factory. Nothing to say, though. It’s a nice gesture he’s making. You’re content?”

  “On that side, yes. But now my father wants to get married again.”

  “To whom?”

  “Don’t know. A widow, Madame Jousselin. Thirty years old.”

  “Your father’s only twenty more. That’s the standard rule for a woman: half the age of the man plus five. And your father must be a sturdy fellow.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care about that. But no children. Share with them—no.”

  “It’s probable, though…”

  “I want the factory all to myself.”

  “You want! You want! You’re getting there! But it’s not only necessary to desire. It’s necessary to want. To want is to be able to.”

  The Tempter looked at Berthe. Souriah, her eyelids closed, was as motionless as a boundary-stone. Nevertheless, he stood up and drew nearer, and whispered to him: “There might be an accident. It’s necessary to want it, and the accident happens.”

  The son could not suppress a frisson. “No! I could never do that.”

  “You, perhaps. But someone else? Don’t worry about it—but when you want it, the accident will happen. You have only to say to me: ‘I want.’”

  Etienne looked at him fearfully. “You’re trying your magic tricks on me. Let’s go to lunch. It’s time.”

  “Are we taking Souriah? That magnetic sleep is very tiring for the subject.”

  He made a few passes over Berthe’s head; she uttered a profound sigh. She got up, and seemed astonished to find herself in the presence of Etienne, but bowed graciously.

  “Say, Aubert, what if, instead of going to a restaurant, we eat lunch here. Berthe will go to get what we need, and we’ll be more comfortable here.”

  Etienne took a hundred-franc bill from his wallet and held it out to the woman. “Is that enough?”

  “Certainly,” said Thomas. “You’ll see that nothing is lacking. Go on, Berthe—I’ll set the table while you’re gone.”

  He escorted his mistress to the threshold and gave her a sign of intelligence. Ever practical, he thought that there ought to be, for him and the improvised housekeeper, an adequate surplus for the following day.

  Meanwhile, Etienne was reflecting, his wallet still in his hand. What Thomas had said to him on the subject of his father established a kind of complicity between them.

  “Listen, Toto. Since I’m going to share in the profits of the factory, I want you to retain a good memory of the event, too. Look, take this thousand-franc bill. It will give me pleasure—and you, too, I think.”

  “Thanks, old man. You’re a true comrade. I hope that everything succeeds as you desire.”

  “When I’m the master of the factory, there’ll be good days for you, you know.”

  Without saying any more, they had understood one another. It was a pact, on which the life of Antoine Aubert now depended.

  VII. The Chagrin of Love Doesn’t Last a Lifetime

  Madame Jousselin lived in a simple apartment in the Rue d’Hauteville near the church of St. Vincent de Paul: two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom with a tub, a dining room and a drawing room. Her first marriage, a union arranged by the two families and accepted by the young people without great enthusiasm, as without regret, had not exactly been a love match, but it had become one. Pierre Jousselin, a modest manufacturer of automobiles, had had some success—hence his relationship with Aubert. Then the war had come. Jousselin, having departed as an officer in the engineers, was killed at Bois La Prêtre, where he was installing the emplacement of a 420 battery. Aline’s chagrin was real, for tenderness had been born in the young household with Ulette, who was now ten years old. The little girl adored her father, and it was the resemblance—not physical but moral—between her Papa and the factory owner of the Quasi de Javel that had led the child to trust the two relicts.

  Seven o’clock in the evening had just sounded on the wall clock in the dining rom. Madame Jousselin, aided by Ulette, was completing setting the table in order that the maid could give all her attention to the dinner. Wednesday was Aubert’s day, for, since the engagement, Aline had decided that Antoine should come to dinner once a week. The marriage was to take place soon, at the end of July. That was generally the slow season at the factory; Aubert would leave the direction to his son and Lafon, and the newlyweds would go to spend their honeymoon at Plounevez in the Côtes-du-Nord, where Madame Jousselin had a property.

  Aubert arrived with a superb bouquet of roses and a picture book for Ulette. He kissed Madame Jousselin frankly on both cheeks, and then kissed the little girl, and they sat down at table. As they dined, Aubert told her about the position at the factory given to his son Etienne. Aline, naturally happy, simple, honest and cheerful, with not spirit of vanity or domination, approved, but
she added: “How is it that you haven’t introduced me to him yet?”

  “My son has a slightly abrasive temperament. When I told him about our marriage, his initial reaction was one of evident discontentment. It was only on reflection that he understood, but when he saw that I was giving him a large share in the factory, he softened.”

  “I would have preferred it if he’d understood his father’s desires with his heart.”

  “What do you expect? That accursed war had spoiled many minds, falsified many characters. ME—in capital letters—is the sentiment that dominates everyone, and one of those frank egotists, Jean Sarment, has titled a play that’s still on at the Théâtre Français Je suis trop grand pour moi.51 It’s the motto of a generation that thinks itself greater than it is. Me first is everyone’s watchword. Many relationships—as many as possible—but few friends. One has friends, but not a true friend among them. There’s no longer anything but people running after money and personal pleasure.

  “People no longer come together, like us, out of love and mutual esteem, but out of common interest, to seek pleasure and sensations together. Then, they go their own way, where their whims or vices lead them. Etienne, like many others, has seen death at such close range that he feels, even today, that indifference to all humanity. On seeing, in addition, so much injustice and boorishness between nations as between individuals, one wonders at present if one isn’t stupid to remain honest and good.

  “Then again, there’s no point in hiding the fact that this generation of old combatants considers itself as having every entitlement henceforth. In their eyes, they’re the saviors of France…what am I saying?...of the entire world. They’re the heroes; everyone who isn’t one of them has no value. Past forty, one’s no longer human, one’s old, and the old ought to have the good manners to disappear. Etienne, unwittingly, is subject to the influence of the milieu, an ambience that certain writers are trying to exploit. But signs are abundant of that boorishness of youth, that savage amorality devoid of pity for the weak, which mocks all honesty with barbaric laughter.”

  “In that case, my friend, the sight of our household will be the best education for our son. Bring him here. I’ll try to make the house agreeable for him, and one day, we’ll find him a wife. Family life will do the rest.”

  “I hope so. The sight of our happiness will make him desire something similar, and he’ll become again what he was before: a mild and worthy fellow.”

  “And then,” said Ulette, “I’ll tell him myself that he has to love all three of us—and he won’t be wicked enough to make me cry.”

  VIII. Etienne’s Introduction

  The annulment of the Aubert-Coutan partnership was complete; Etienne had taken Sixte’s place. Entirely given over to his new role, deploying a feverish activity, he had begun by obtaining, easily, a large order for components for military aircraft. That success had put him in a good mood. He was obliged to make the acquaintance of his future mother-in-law, albeit unwillingly, and he accepted Madame Jousselin’s invitation without too much annoyance.

  At eight o’clock on the dot, the doorbell ran, announcing the father and the son, both bearing flowers. Etienne started slightly on recognizing, in Madame Jousselin, the adorably lovely woman who had not sacrificed herself to the fashion for the pageboy hairstyle, whose long black tresses gave her the air of Raphael’s most exquisite Madonnas: the lady who had struck him like a thunderbolt with a formidable desire for her possession. He repressed his surprise, and when the momentary emotion was past, he complimented the young woman in a banal fashion, without telling her that he had admired her before, and kissed her hand. Then his father kissed her without ceremony.

  Madame Jousselin smiled when they at down at table. “Now, I beg you to be indulgent to my old Madeleine, who has done her best.”

  “It will be excellent, then,” said Antoine, “for she’s a true cordon bleu, and as I’m sure that you’ve added your touch, we’ll be eating a meal fit for the finest gourmets.”

  Everything was perfect, in truth: the food, the organization and the wines. Aubert, glad to see that the ambience pleased his son—along with everything else, beginning with the mistress of the house—did not miss any opportunity to praise his future wife and little Ulette. The young man, however, while following the general conversation, could not help occasionally letting his thoughts follow their natural inclination, which was the desire, the need—stronger than ever—for possession and authority. Mentally, he drew a comparison between one of his mistresses, Josette Coutan, and Madame Jousselin, the former frivolous and peppery, artificial and vicious, a flower of evil, and the latter as seductive as possible with her old-fashioned tresses, whom that exception made original—yes, delightful, intelligent and refined, while remaining natural.

  My father has all the luck, he grumbled, internally. All the luck. But she’s much younger than him—too young. It’s not right. It would be more logical if it were me she loved. The desire that he had felt as soon as he saw the woman, so tempting, clawed at him.

  During dessert, with all malaise having dissipated in the triumph of the dishes and the wine, Etienne said, a trifle maliciously: “Would I be at fault, Madame, in telling you that, if I’m conquered by your grace, your charm and your beauty, it isn’t the first time. You impressed me recently one evening, around midnight, at the Café de la Rotonde, where you were accompanied by three old men.”

  “Three old men?” she riposted, swiftly. “One is Fabio Canti, who had taken me there after an evening at the Odéon, where L’Arlésienne was playing: Fabio Canti, whose celebrated paintings are so luminous, evoking Egypt, Palestine and Syria, not to mention the magic of Venice, where he was born; Fabio, always young in attitude, verve and talent, and well brought-up; Fabio Canti, known as the Painter of the Sun. The others were Antoine Guilleret, the famous portrait artist, a member of the Institut, whom I was meeting for the first time, and Monsieur Raynaud, a simple Commissaire de Police, but who wasn’t out of place in that environment of more-or-less failed litterateurs and more-or-less insane artists. I gave my impressions of that evening to your father the following day, and believe me, my dear Etienne, I shall not be returning to that evil place, even in good company. You were there?”

  “Your beauty, however,” Etienne went on, “ought to be more indulgent to art, poets and artists.”

  “I like everything that is good, and everything that is beautiful: the arts, poetry, music above all—but too many artists today have quarreled with grace, morality and beauty. I was only passing by, admittedly, in the place where you saw me, and I’d like to be mistaken in my judgment, but all that I saw there, in an unhealthy steam bath of picturesque individuals devoid of faith or law, sacrificing everything to their fantasy in quest of the bizarre, capable of anything, with no religion other than themselves and their chimeras, was a cosmopolitanism of false, spoiled minds and rotten souls.” She smiled. “I beg your pardon, my dear Etienne, I’m not in the habit of getting carried away like that. But I don’t want you to retain the opinion of me that you might have formed that night.”

  As she stood up, Etienne kissed her hand again.

  “Would you like to take coffee in the drawing room?” she said.

  The old maidservant had brought the odorous beverage, and Madame Jousselin filled the cups with her customary grace, and presented them to her guests.

  “You see, my son,” said Aubert, “that I’m not giving you a stepmother who is too stupid or disagreeable. I hope that you’ll willingly sacrifice one of your evenings to us. If you want to live with us when we’re married as part of the family, you only have to say so.” At a gesture from Etienne, he went on: “Oh, I know that at your age, one prefers more independence. But if, one day, your weary of that life outside, the house will always be open to you.”

  Ulette, the genteel gamine, advanced toward the young man. “You know, my friend Etienne, that it’s me who married Maman to my friend Antoine. You can see that I understand such things.
I’ll marry you off, too.”

  “Agreed, Mademoiselle. In fact, why not marry me yourself?”

  “Oh!” said Ulette, nonplussed. “But you’re already my brother. You can’t be my husband as well.”

  “That’s a pity, because I already like you a great deal.”

  “Me, too. Oh, that’s unfortunate. What can we do, Maman?”

  “It’s necessary to grow up first. Marriage will come, in time.”

  “Yes, if I were engaged to Etienne. Oh, too bad! I’ll definitely call you Etienne, quite simply. Call me Ulette…you can pay court to me, bring me flowers, as to Maman...”

  “Would you care to shut up, little hussy?”

  “It’s Etienne’s fault—he talked to me about marriage.”

  “In any case, Ulette, I’ll kiss you.” He matched words and gesture.

  The little girl allowed herself to be kissed and also kissed Etienne on both cheeks. Aubert and Aline, their eyes moist, squeezed one another’s hands.

  IX. Confidences After Dinner, and After the War

  When they returned to the Quai de Javel in the automobile, Aubert, who normally drove himself, sat in the front beside his son, who had wanted to take the steering wheel himself this time.

  “Well, is your future mother-in-law to your liking?”

  “I believe you’ve found the ideal woman. It’s sufficient to see and hear her to envy your good fortune.”

  “Why use the inappropriate word envy? In any case, she’s a spouse of a kind that’s now rare, not a doll like...” He hesitated.

  “Like Josette, you were about to say. There was a time when you, too”—he adopted the tone and attitude of a comrade—“yes, you, too, according to the gossip, found something attractive in that doll.”