“No—a thousand times no. Vibration can’t release a five-centimeter bolt, especially when the gate fits tightly, as this one does.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“That’s exactly what bothers me. I can’t think of anything.”
They parted—but Lafon, as he walked back to his home, repeatedly turned over all the possible hypotheses with regard to the fatal gate. None of them satisfied him. His thoughts returned to Etienne. There was no reason to suspect that he might be culpable, and his thoughts did not dwell on that possibility. But now, Etienne was the master of the factory. Previously an adversary of his father in the matter of the social reforms, would he continue the work begun in favor of the workers, or would he reverse it?
The accident, the stupid accident, troubled Lafon. That gate opened? To oblivion? And which profited the son…?
BOOK TWO: THE SPICES OF INCEST AND DANGER
I. Evil Well Done Never Goes to Waste
If one throws a bomb into a tranquil stream in a lovely rural area, or even into a foaming mountain torrent, when it explodes, it will kill a few fish, but it will not prevent the water from flowing into the river and toward the sea. Life follows its course, like the wave.
After the departure of the Commissaire and the official verdict of an accident, Etienne went to obtain news of the young widow—a widow for the second time—and sent for a medical authority.
A famous physician declared that Madame Aubert’s condition was serious, as was Ulette’s. The mother’s brain had received excessive commotion, and though her body had recovered, her mind was floating in a mist. It was only when she had recovered sufficient self-consciousness to remember her daughter and understand the danger that the little girl was in, and that maternal love can work a miracle. In order to care for the flesh of her flesh, she became herself again, and in that upcoming care she would have to give, found a distraction from her own grief.
It was the little girl’s imagination that had been struck and afflicted rather than the material substance of the brain. The child’s well-developed intellect had been subjected to a kind of frantic horror on finding itself brutally face to face with the enigma of death. Until then, for her, it had only been a word. Her father had been killed, had died for the fatherland, for what was right, as all the dithyrambs and tall stories proclaimed, and that incense gave it a sort of grandeur of apotheosis. But Papa? When Ulette had understood death and had confronted the horrible remains of the father that she loved more than the first, whom she scarcely remembered, the child had had the sensation of a tearing apart of her entire being, and the result was a sort of mental paralysis: a complete indifference to material needs and a forgetfulness of the past that went as far as not knowing her mother. There was a patient reeducation to undertake. It was to that task that, in accordance with the indications of the doctor, Madame Aubert applied herself, and which saved her, personally.
Both of them, the mother and the child, having no relatives, were cared for by devoted subalterns: old Madeleine, the maid-of-all-work; the chambermaid Annie; the concierge of the factory, Madame Langlois; and Madame Lafon, who had come to render assistance to the other three, bewildered by the catastrophe. Etienne Aubert, who did not know his overseer’s wife, mistook her at first, and for some time, for a relative of the concierge, and in any case, only occupied himself with all that in order to put at the disposal of the latter, who was more resourceful and wiser in her initiatives to obtain the money needed for the invalids.
In spite of the twenty-year difference in their ages, Madame Aline Aubert had loved her husband sincerely and profoundly. In the old man, during the fortnight of their union, she had discovered, along with an elite intelligence capable of directing hers and elevating it, a vigorous male, expert in lovemaking. Her thirty years, at the apogee of womanhood, which was then in its full sexual plenitude, had obtained the satisfaction of sensation and intelligence, with the consequence of a great cerebral and carnal love for the second spouse, which had revealed her to herself.
A being, still unknown, was already alive in her.
Where was Etienne Aubert in all this? In him, after the magnificent funeral of his father, whose hundreds of workers had followed a hearse laden with wreaths and flowers, the heavy task of the direction of the factory had been his means of forgetfulness. He did not know remorse in the romantic sense of the word. He knew that he had not killed his father. It was only at his instigation that the crime had been committed, but since the evil had been well done, and, in consequence, his keenest desire had been accomplished, it was necessary to accept the new situation and become, in the briefest possible time, a potentate of metallurgy. And his ideas changed. The course adopted by his father was the wisest. By associating the workers, they were not merely interested in the work, which they ameliorated in many ways, but also in the very existence of a factory that had become his thing, his goal, his hope of a continual amelioration of life.
So, he resolved to attach Louis Lafon, whom he sensed to be his equal, perhaps his superior, more closely to his fortunes. He made him the managing director of the factory, while he continued to search for orders. That move was very popular with the workers. Lafon was well-liked; he was an artisan like them, talented but so simple and so just that everyone applauded the decision. Antoine’s name was eclipsed in all hearts by Etienne’s—or, rather, the two were confounded in a single name that encapsulated all hope for the future: the Aubert factory.
There was one single black spot on that sunlit horizon: Thomas Keysar and Berthe Jafaux. He had taken care, when paying them, to recover the compromising recognition of five hundred thousand francs, written on stamped paper—but Thomas, who had talked beforehand about going to seek his fortune in America, had changed his mind. He had abandoned literary criticism, which had only brought him prestige at the Café de la Rotonde and the Café Napolitain, in order to set himself up, with the aid of amicable publicity, as a thought-reader.
He had installed himself in a new and solitary street, the Rue Huysmans, a little tributary of the Boulevard Raspail. There, he gave psychic consultations with the aid of the seer Souriah. The séances that he held every week in a large music hall, the Empire, had their successes magnified by his comrades in the press. Furthermore, he had published a book, with exemplars on Holland or Japanese paper, which he sold to the lower classes, and which had been plagiarized from a volume entitled Le Satanisme et la Magie, by a writer name Jules Bois, who had since disappeared in the United States, where no one knew what had become of him.57
At any rate, Etienne Aubert, after having paid him the large sum, the five hundred thousand, had broken off all, or almost all, communication with the dubious and compromising couple. Thomas Keysar did not care about that, but the seer, who attributed the success of the two enterprises to herself, harbored a resentment against that abandonment by Etienne, for whom she felt an inclination.
And that was how everything settled down. The old man was dead and buried. Madame Aubert had regained her charm, her beauty and her smiling gentility, and bore within her a living memory of that conjugal fortnight. Ulette was once again causing her laughter to ring in the house of the Quai de Javel, and the factory was working, formidably, all its machines driven by the great wheel that had devoured the boss, but had been cleaned of all that crushed flesh, that bloody clothing and those red clots.
In sum, life, ingenuous, amoral and cynical, continues as a clear or murky stream flows toward the sea, life always being stronger than death.
II. An Eclogue of New Wealth
Among the exquisite landscapes that decorate the Parisian suburbs, Vilennes, on the bank of the Seine, sufficiently elevated to be safe from floods, displays its habitations, more bourgeois than rural, in the sunlight. From the small town, the ground rises in soft undulations toward picturesque sites lavishly garnished with clumps of woodland and charming villas with flowering gardens.
On the road that goes from Vilennes to Médan, of Zolatr
e memory,58 a gate with a massive lock opened to a long corridor, a grassy path a hundred meters long, narrowly confined between the walls of the neighboring properties. At the end of that path was a house, seemingly abandoned, like its garden: a ground floor over cellars and a single upper floor surmounted by a vast grain loft. That property, by reason of its isolation, had remained for sale or rent for more than ten years. The recent buyer had acquired it for forty thousand francs.
A cheerful September sun was shining down. At a first floor window, a woman darted a glance outside. Her hair was untidy and her eyes not yet fully awakened from her siesta; she was as naked as Eve in paradise, triangled with blonde hair. She stretched and yawned deeply; then, putting on a pair of worn slippers, went downstairs. In the dining room the table was still laden with plates and leftovers of all sorts. In the kitchen the sticky saucepans were keeping company with a bowl of soapy water and a washtub overflowing with dirty linen.
The Eve of that singular Eden, who was about thirty years old, made a weary gesture and, speaking aloud in order to keep herself company and make a little noise in the silence, said: “Armand has to hire me a maid. It disgusts me to wash dishes. And what are we going to eat this evening?”
She opened a cupboard. There were a dozen cans and jars of preserves on the shelves.
“That’s great. Tripe, lobster and quince jam. Four bottles of rum. It’s a shame there’s no salad in the garden. Baudard could have grown some lettuce. He would have done better to plant some than go fishing.”
She heard the bell on the gate to the road. “Oh, zut! There he is, already!” She stacked up the dirty plates in the dining room. “Eh! Boredom’s driving him to talk to himself, like me…no, he’s bringing someone…zut alors!”
Baudard shouted from the alleyway: “Hey, Sans-Liquette, put your clothes on. We’ve got a visitor.”
Sans-Liquette darted a glance around, saw a camisole that was draped over a stool, slipped it on, tied an apron round her waist and considered herself dressed. Two men came in: Armand Baudard and an old acquaintance from the Bar des Barbeaux et des Tantes in the Rue des Pyrenées, Arthur Fallot, alias Tuemouche.
“Bonjour to the loveliest,” said Arthur gallantly. “You weren’t expecting to see a mate from Ménilmuche, eh?”
“No, for sure. How did you find us?”
“Pure chance, I came to tickle the tiddlers at Vilennes. I’d been told that they were biting hereabouts. While I was fishing, I met Baudard. That’s how it goes. I’m not inconveniencing you, I hope?”
“Oh no, we get bored to death in this hole!”
“Too bad! You’re difficult to please. Me, I’d do the same old stuff.”
“So, housewife,” said Baudard. “What’s for grub this evening?”
“Always the same: tinned stuff.”
“I’ll have to invite you to dine at the restaurant.”
“At the restaurant!” protested Tuemouche. “You’re not serious! You’d need at least fifty bullets.” He groaned. “Filthy war! That’s why everything’s so expensive.”
“So what? When one treats a mate, one doesn’t spare the expense.”
“Damn! You’ve got that much money? You’re a rich man, then?”
Baudard frowned. “Maybe,” he said, dryly.
“Oh, I’m not asking. Everyone to his own business. All the same, you’re lucky. Me, I’m on my uppers. La Rouquine got nabbed. A fortnight in the Lazaro, and sick.59 Rotten luck.”
“How did you get here, then?”
“On foot, old chap, and Shanks’s pony to go back. So, fork out a fry-up quickly. It’ll give me the strength to go back. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”
“You can take the train,” said Baudard, authoritatively. “I’ll pay. Come on, my old mate, give us a hand cleaning up.”
The two men went into action, while Sans-Liquette lit the gas and warmed up the tripe Caen-fashion and a tin of peas. The men wiped the plates with old newspapers, rinsed the glasses in the washtub, and everyone was soon at the table. First, they attacked a tin of lobster, then the tripe and peas; the four bottles were emptied.
As they digested the meal, Baudard tapped Tuemouche’s belly and said: “That’s better, eh? Never let it be said that I didn’t help a mate in trouble. Look, old man, here’s a hundred-bullet bill. Pay me back after your next affair.” He took a dirty but well-stuffed wallet out of his pocket in order to extract a hundred-franc bill, which he handed to Tuemouche.
“Damn!” said the pauper, tearfully. “As mates go, one can say that you’re a mate. So, with all my heart, I hope you get another affair like the one you must have had.”
“No thanks. I prefer something else.”
“So,” said Arthur, understanding that he had committed a gaffe, “you’ve installed yourself in this place for the season, eh? It’s very chic. La Rouquine could do with something like this to get back on her feet.”
“What do you say, Armand?” asked Sans-Liquette, nudging Baudard with her elbow. “Instead of hiring a maid? With these servants one’s never tranquil—there are no more honest girls nowadays.”
Baudard was a trifle drunk. The idea of dazzling old friends got the upper hand over prudence. “The property belongs to me,” he said, self-importantly, “and I’ve retired from business. I have my income.”
Arthur ecstasized: “Oh, I’m glad for you, old man. At least you’ve made it, and you’re no snob. You still have time for your old friends from Ménilmuche.”
“Say, Sans-Liquette,” Baudard went on, pouring out three glasses of rum, “we’ll walk Arthur back to the station. We’ll have a drink at the buffet. Put on a skirt, for it seems that you’re a little lightly dressed, and we’ll be on our way.”
Sans-Liquette sketched out a rather risqué cakewalk, given her summary costume, and ran up to the first floor to get ready.
“Yes,” Baudard went on, in a vein of pride and confidence, “I’m a proprietor. Tomorrow, when you come back with the wife, I’ll show you over the place. I paid forty thousand bullets for it. That’s nothing, for the house and the land—eight hundred meters.” Struck by an idea, he said: “Look—if you like, I’ll take you on, the wife as maid and you as gardener. The two of us, we’ll grow potatoes and salad.”
“Me,” said Arthur, gravely, “in your place, I’d have chickens and rabbits. That’s not tiring and no fuss—crack, you break a rabbit’s back or cut a pullet’s throat, and you’ve got your stew.”
“I’m glad I ran into you, mate. I was getting bored here all alone, and Sans-Liquette was missing Panam. The four of us will have fun. There’s plenty of room—three bedrooms upstairs.”
“Nice! We can go fishing and play cards.”
The two friends embraced. Sans-Liquette came back, decently and attractively dressed. The three friends set out along the narrow path, staggering slightly. Before leaving, the newly prosperous couple gave Tuemouche two tins of preserves for La Rouquine, who was waiting for something to eat in order not to go to bed on an empty stomach. There were forty minutes to wait at the station. They went into the buffet and had a coffee and a liqueur. Finally, all three embraced like family members.
“Until tomorrow! Don’t forget, Arthur—see you tomorrow!”
On the way back, Baudard and Sans-Liquette congratulated one another on their good fortune. Solitude and retirement were decidedly contrary to their temperaments. They were, therefore, going to have some fun.
III. The Consultation with Homo-Deus
Thomas Keysar’s consulting room.
Since he had inherited four hundred thousand francs, Thomas had abandoned the gratuitous literary criticism, signed “A Savage,” that he did for a daily with a modest print run. Anyway, literary criticism was undergoing a commercial evolution analogous to the one that had partially transformed art criticism. He had understood, as soon as he had a little money, that it was necessary not to count on Letters for a living, that glory is humbug and that only money counts. Installed as a thought-
reader in the Rue Huysmans, with the aid of advertising, he exploited the extraordinary divinatory powers of his mistress. To impress visitors, there was a deck of tarot carts, a celestial globe and a crystal ball on the table. The ceiling was painted an intense blue and speckled with gilded paper stars.
Thomas was pacing back and forth when the gong in the antechamber rang. Keysar advanced rapidly toward the door, which opened, giving passage to a strange but correct man, Dr. Marc Vanel, who had been startling Paris for some time with his psychic experiments, and whose public demonstrations were astonishing all the scientists to a greater or lesser extent. Aged about thirty-five, he did not seem that old, and his visage, which as very handsome, maintained a marmoreal impassivity. Having come in deliberately, he made a gesture of salutation without taking his hat off. The somewhat theatrical and suggestive appearance of the reception room had caused him to shrug his shoulders slightly.
“Please, my dear Master. I know that the time of Dr. Vanel, Homo-Deus, is valuable. I wouldn’t have asked you to disturb yourself if it weren’t a matter of an extraordinary phenomenon.”
“I’m listening, but be brief.”
“I confess to being more of a clown in matters of somnambulism than a veritable scientist. I assure you, however, Master, that I’ve obtained results that I find stupefying with the medium Souriah, my mistress for three years. She’s a daughter of the people, born of alcoholic and syphilitic parents. I mean that the fundamental organism of my subject is rather unhealthy, not only on the physical side but the mental side. As such, she’s very apt to somnambulism, and, what is more, to a certain exteriorization of the spirit. What I mean by that is that Souriah’s spirit seems at times to be endowed with dualism; she’s herself and she’s also someone else, who has not the slightest moral rapport with her own self. The enigma of that nature intrigues me, and I have faith that your aid might clarify the matter.”
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