Homo-Deus

by Félicien Champsaur

  “Explain further,” said Homo-Deus.

  “In the last three months, since our financial situation improved, by virtue of a fortunate windfall, the young woman’s psychic state has undergone a strange transformation. Until then, I utilized her clairvoyance to attract those that I previously considered to be dupes, but who are now veritably informed by a marvelous second sight. There’s no longer any charlatanism in her revelations—which impresses me and disturbs me.”

  “Would you care to introduce me to her?”

  “In a little while. I haven’t finished. If that were limited to consultations susceptible of satisfying the clients and, in consequence, augmenting our reputation, I wouldn’t have insisted, Master, on obtaining your advice. But in addition to that singular psychic condition, Souriah has been subject, for a month, to attacks of epilepsy, followed by increasingly long-lasting catalepsy. The first fit lasted four hours, the second nine, the third twenty-five, and this time—the fourth—she has been in a cataleptic state for more than two days, fifty-three hours to be exact.”

  “The progression is rapid. Are you feeding the invalid?”

  “I’m entirely ignorant about her malady. That’s why, Master...”

  “You tell me that her spirit is double. When did you perceive that?”

  “About three months ago—I repeat, in a state of somnambulism. It was as if she lost her personality and spoke with the spirit of another woman; and that intruder is surprisingly perceptive. You ought to understand that three quarters of the consultations requested are motivated by lost objects, amorous rivalries and family interests, questions of inheritance: rather banal matters. Always hopes for the future—and about the future, Souriah is no better informed than I am, so then it’s the eternal game of simpleton traps. But with regard to the past, nothing—nothing, you understand—is hidden from her; it only requires some object to put her on the trail, and she sees it, even beyond the Ocean. Thus, she was able to give a young Brazilian from Montparnasse daily bulletins on the health of her father, resident in Rio. I could cite you twenty cases, which I can affirm as authentic. I don’t understand it myself, I repeat, and it’s completely different from how we began, when there was nothing but trickery. It’s already surprising enough, but now there’s this mental duality—yes, the junction of another being so different from Souriah that I’m almost frightened of her.

  “Is it so frightening?”

  “Frightening isn’t quite the right word. Alarming. Can you imagine a being who is not of our Earth, who has lived on other astral worlds?”

  “Come on! Are you mad?”

  “Not yet. But that might come, if I follow my wife’s fantastic dreams, in their deductions.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Homo-Deus rubbed his hands, thinking that this really was an interesting subject for him.

  “Take me to her.”

  Thomas Keysar took Dr. Vanel into the bedroom where the Seeress was lying. Souriah—Berthe Jafaux—was fully dressed, on the bed in the middle of the room, in her séance costume: an ample velvet dress secured by buttons of red coral. Her hair was cut to shoulder length. Thus extended, pale, with her eyes open and staring, as rigid as a corpse, the young woman was impressive.

  Homo-Deus approached, felt for a pulse, placed his ear on Souriah’s chest, and then touched her eyeballs lightly.

  “Well, Dr. Vanel?” asked Keysar, anxiously.

  “A perfect cataleptic state. The pulse is insensible, the heartbeat almost imperceptible. It’s the fourth fit, you say? Two or three more, and it will be death.”

  “Death?” stammered Thomas.

  “Unless I can master the malady. That chance seems to me to be problematic.”

  “What? You have no hope? You, whom they call Homo-Deus?”

  “Believe me, I shall do everything I can to save her. Have you a poker, and a small gas stove?”

  “In the kitchen, Master. If you’d care to follow me...”

  Dr. Vanel found the poker. “This will do,” he said. Then he switched on the gas stove and placed the iron rod on top of it.

  “Watch the poker, Monsieur. When it’s red hot, bring it to me swiftly.”

  He went back to the invalid and took off her shoes.

  A few minutes later, Thomas Keysar returned, carrying the red-hot poker.

  “Give it to me. Place your hands on her chest and put pressure on it rhythmically in order to reanimate her respiration. That’s tight…keep going...”

  Meanwhile, Vanel moved the poker rapidly back and forth beneath the young woman’s feet. An odor of roasting, of burning, spread through the apartment. A slight shudder ran through Souriah’s body.

  “Put her to sleep,” said Homo-Deus. “Magnetic sleep—you’re accustomed to her temperament. By that means, we’ll avoid a brutal awakening.”

  Three seconds went by; he plunged the hot tip of the poker a few millimeters into the middle of the soles of the patient’s feet. This time she started, and uttered a slight screech—but as she felt the influence of the magnetic sleep, after a profound sigh, her eyelids closed, and regular breathing elevated her breast.

  “Take the poker back to the kitchen,” said Dr. Vanel. “We have no more need of it.”

  IV. The Mystery of a Double Soul

  Leaning over the sick woman, Homo-Deus said, authoritatively: “Watch over yourself. I forbid you to allow yourself to return to that sleep, which might be mortal. Will you obey me, Souriah?”

  “I’ll try. But why do you want her not to die.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The other one. Berthe Jafaux.”

  At that moment, Thomas Keysar came back in. Marc Vanel signaled to him to be quiet.

  “And what about you, who are you?”

  “There are no sounds to translate it via a human voice.”

  “Are you not a terrestrial being like us?”

  “No not me—the other, yes.”

  “The other? Berthe Jafaux?”

  “Yes. Oh, the poor thing!”

  “You feel sorry for her? Is she suffering?”

  “More morally than physically, and she has no suspicion of it.”

  Dr. Vanel looked at Thomas Keysar. “A strange case, indeed. Unless we’re dealing with a simulator. In the wake of a crisis of epileptic lethargy, however, that’s unlikely.” He turned back to Berthe Jafaux. “Are you aware, Madame, of the crisis you’ve just undergone?”

  “Perfectly, but its gravity doesn’t trouble me, because I don’t want to live with the brain of a woman who has committed murder.”

  “Silence!” Keysar interjected, commanding the invalid. “Excuse me, Doctor, but Berthe Jafaux’s secret is not only her own. Limit yourself, I beg you, to the penetration of the psychic mystery—the duality of a soul.”

  “If there is, in this woman’s past, a crime that is influencing her mentality, I need to know about it, if only to combat the malady. What she says will remain secret for others—it’s a matter of professional secrecy—but I must know everything.”

  “What’s the point of charging your conscience with a responsibility that you can’t infringe? I know Berthe Jafaux’s secret, and I swear to you that the invalid doesn’t want it to be divulged.”

  “You’re her accomplice. Don’t worry. I won’t say anything, no matter what happens.”

  “As you wish, then. But the vulgar spirit of Berthe Jafaux, my mistress—and, yes, my accomplice—has no interest for you, while the spirit that animates her at present is utterly superior. Homo-Deus alone is capable of penetrating that psychological mystery.”

  Without replying, Vanel went back to the invalid, who was still seeming to be reposing in the same tranquil slumber.

  “Can you see into my thoughts?” he said, placing her hand on his forehead.

  “Yes. Would you like to have the key to this duality, this enigma?”

  “Indeed. Do you have any objection to revealing it to me?”


  “Not in the least. Know, first of all, that I have nothing in common with this wretch. If I’m making use of her organism, it’s because I have no other means of existing on this globe, to which I have descended involuntarily.”

  “Your spirit comes from another world, then?”

  “Far in advance of yours: a world of pure spirits—which is to say, existing without, as on your world, being enclosed in a carnal envelope. Although immaterial, we have senses that allow us to communicate our thoughts, unite with one another and procreate. Death, about which I only learned on the Earth, does not exist for us, and we replace that kind of metamorphosis of matter by exodus. The excess population of our world, obedient to some unknown impulsion of need, embarks in the ether, on the luminous waves of the nearest Suns, and spreads out through the sidereal universe. Hazard brought me to the Earth, and to my misfortune, I plunged into the brain of Berthe Jafaux.

  “A rather repugnant detail of material worlds like yours—of which there are many—is that it is usually at the moment of copulation or genesis that our materialization takes place. Thus, many people on Earth have double souls, as there are double bodies, attached by a strip of flesh at the groin, double flowers and fruits, and double stars. I wanted to avoid that fundamental law, taking advantage of a syncope of an adult individual to violate her cranium, the domicile of her spirit, and install myself unknown to her. I had the ill fortune to happen upon this adventuress, and thus to be at the mercy of a villainess and her accomplice.”

  Dr. Vanel, astounded by this revelation, looked at Thomas Keysar, who put a finger to his forehead to indicate that his mistress was mad, adding: “For three months, Berthe’s mind has been deranged. I, too, can feel my mind becoming unhinged. That’s enough for today, isn’t it, Master?”

  “Au revoir, then. You can be sure that all this will remain between the two of us.”

  “Do you think that I can continue my usual experiments and consultations without any danger to the patient?”

  “I don’t see any reason why not. But make a careful note, for me, of anything that seems to you to be abnormal with regard to the somnambulist.”

  “I promise. Behind the charlatan that I appear to be, there’s a writer who is very interested in psychic mysteries. With the aid of the illustrious Marc Vanel, Homo-Deus, a great discovery is possible.”

  “Amen,” said the strange doctor. “I ought to tell you that I came here with a mind greatly prejudiced against you. I don’t want to know anything about your past. This woman seals an alliance between us. Science above all.”

  V. A Pretty Bird of Passage

  Having shown the famous scientist, Homo-Deus, on to the landing, Thomas went back into the bedroom and contemplated the sleeper for a long time. He did not have the courage to confront the unknown alone. He made a few passes and woke the sleeper.

  Souriah—Berthe Jafaux—stretched herself, opened her eyes and said: “I’m hungry.”

  “Of course—you’ve been asleep for two days. After a consultation, you had an epileptic fit, which terminated in a lethargy, which would probably still be enduring if I hadn’t called Dr. Vanel.”

  “I’ve never felt so well.”

  She jumped out of bed, but fell back onto it, uttering a scream of pain. “Oh la la! My poor feet!”

  “I forgot to tell you. To wake you up, it was necessary to pass a red-hot iron over the soles of your feet. I’ll bandage you up. You’ll no longer feel it in a few days.”

  Thomas Keysar, who had done a little of everything, had been a medical orderly for six months during the war; he had just completed the dressing when the gong rang.

  “Oh!” cried Berthe. “Whatever it is, after an affair like this, I’m not up to it.”

  “It’s Madame Coutan, Monsieur,” said the maid.

  “Josette? That’s different. Show her in. That little bird will make me forget my burns.”

  Clad in a magnificent sable fur, in spite of the mildness of the weather, coiffed in a hat that was a marvel of fantasy, and with her hands, neck and ears a firework display of jewelry, pearls and diamonds, Josette appeared.

  “Bonjour, my children. Why, what’s up? Is Berthe not out of bed? She doesn’t seem to be ill, though…unless…am I interrupting you, lovebirds?”

  “Nights are sufficient for us. But you’re flamboyant, my dear.”

  “Aren’t I?” said Josette, going to admire herself in the wardrobe mirror. “I was right to make my husband let go of his factory. Sixte has just made three hundred thousand francs. That’s work for you. Since he’s been in business, he earns what he wants. From his latest deal, he gave me a third. So, you see, I bought myself this coat and hat, to come to see you.”

  “How did he make all that?” asked Keysar.

  “You’re more curious than me. I didn’t ask him. In business, you understand, it’s never the same thing twice... Oh, we’re going to spend the winter on the Côte d’Azur in our Rolls. There’s a whole gang of big players out there. He rubs shoulders with the cleverest. Albert Dubarry, the editor and owner of the Ere Nouvelle,60 the godfather of Herriot, of Painlevé, the faithful friend of Caillaux, our future masters, is advising him to let himself appear on the lists of the Cartel des Gauches in the next elections, and he’ll support his candidacy. There was a question, recently, of leaving for Russia with Charles Humbert.61 It seems that there are millions to be made with the Soviets. This is the good life—he was vegetating with that old mussel Antoine Aubert.”

  That name caused a frisson to run down the spines of Berthe and Thomas. Untiringly, she continued: “What’s become of Etienne? He needs licking into shape—we never seen him any more. He’s well-made for living amid scrap iron, that one, but he’s always been welcome at the house. Do you see him sometimes?”

  “A fortnight ago,” said Thomas. “Absorbed by the factory, Etienne doesn’t have time to see his friends.”

  “I can do without him,” said Josette, deliberately. “Do you know why I’ve come?”

  To show off your jewels and your fur coat, whore, thought Berthe. Aloud, she said: “In truth no, but it’s very kind of you.”

  “Well, here it is. Would you like to come to Nice with us? I’m offering you hospitality. We’ll amuse ourselves with trifles and sorcery.”

  “We won’t say no,” said Keysar.

  Josette went on: “If the Russian affair works out, Sixte will soon be leaving for Moscow and Leningrad. Then it’ll just be us. We’ll try not to get bored.”

  Berthe exchanged a glance with Thomas. The invitation was amiably egotistical. Josette would be able to show off her luxury and distract herself in their company. But the two wily accomplices also perceived something better than a distraction for Josette. In such a house, given her depravity, there would surely be gleanings, by virtue of her squandering. Then again, if one wants golden apples, it’s necessary to go to the Garden of the Hesperides.

  “On reflection,” said Thomas, my reputation as a thought-reader is made in Paris. In Nice, Cannes and Monte Carlo, I’d have a ready-made clientele. Count on us, my dear friend.”

  “You’re truly very kind, both of you. I’ll telephone you the day before we leave and come to pick you up in the Rolls.”

  She was about to leave, but suddenly, as if she had forgotten something, she said: “By the way, if you see Etienne Aubert, I wouldn’t be sorry if he were to learn about our new situation, since Sixte quit his dirty factory.”

  VI. Prey to an Intense Desire

  On the same day that Josette Coutan invited Thomas Keysar and Berthe Jafaux, alias Souriah, to come and spend the winter with her on the Riviera, an intimate feast was held in the little house on the Quai de Javel in order to celebrate Ulette’s complete recovery after her convalescence. Naturally, Etienne Aubert was to preside over that solemn dinner à trois. The ephemeral and still delightful Madame Aubert, who saw her daughter’s recovery as a good omen for her new maternity, still invisible, had prepared a delicate meal and decorated the t
able with the last roses of September.

  Madame Aubert had the intention of going to spend the final phase of her pregnancy at the home of her godmother, Madame Desambez, the well-off widow of a notary in Cannes, who possessed a villa at the bottom of the wooded slopes of Cap Estérel, at Théoule, that was far too big for her. It was a welcome pretext for the opulent widow to offer her goddaughter hospitality, an opportunity that permitted the old lady to play with dolls. Madame Desambez had had two sons, both killed during the Great War; the older one was married and the father of two children, a boy who was ten years old in 1923 and a girl of seven. Although they had a beautiful apartment in Nice, Madame Ossola,62 her daughter-in-law, and her children lived with Madame Desambez almost all year round.

  At eight o’clock precisely, Etienne presented himself, carrying a superb doll for Ulette and a bouquet of roses for the young mother.

  “Thank you, Big Brother,” cried Ulette, throwing her arms round his neck.

  Then he kissed the hand of his stepmother, who said to him: “How can I express my gratitude, my friend? What would have become of us, in all the emotions we’ve gone through, without your attentive solicitude? Oh, if our Antoine could see us”—she pointed to the bronze bust on the mantelpiece of the drawing room, modeled for La Monaca before the accident and now completed—“he’d be proud of his son’s conduct.”

  Etienne went pale at that reminder of the past. The bronze visage seemed to be staring at him, and the son occupied at the factory a place usurped by murder. To change the subject, he said in a strangled voice: “Let’s think about the future instead. Have you had any news from Théoule?”

  “Yes. Madame Desambez is awaiting us impatiently, as well as her daughter-in-law, Madame Ossola. Robert, her grandson, and Simone are asking for Ulette. We’ll form a veritable colony of widows and orphans down there.”

  “Madame Ossola is a war widow?” asked Etienne.