Timeslip Troopers

by Théo Varlet

  Even the Moorish functionaries who had replaced the Spaniards in all the administrative positions were dependent on Renard. He had to direct the finances, the food supplies and the police. In addition to the typist, two secretaries were continually busy under his orders. Etcheverry, in charge of counter-espionage, seconded him as best he could, but the over-zealous Director of Operations bitterly regretted the old routines of the Lorraine front, where there was certainly less comfort and more danger, but also less anxious harassment. He sometimes wondered whether it might be better to give the poilus immediate orders to return to Port-sur-Seille, where Dupuy would activate the Machine to rejoin the mates left behind in 1917, in the part of the village that had not been displaced.

  For the urgency of the return no longer existed. A new fact had reassured the officers as to the consequences of their involuntary desertion. While effecting the transfer of the Machine to the tower in Port-sur-Seille, where it would be safer than in the cellar, Dupuy had finally discovered the purpose of the two mysterious dials. Their controls permitted the reduction—the compression, so to speak—of the duration passed outside the initial epoch, and the return, not merely to the exact place but to the exact moment of the departure.

  In practice, and in the present case, if they remained, for example, for a month, that month, thanks to the manipulation of the dials, would only represent a single minute of time—and an absence of one, two, three, or even ten minutes would not create any grave inconvenience.

  In the joy of his discovery, Dupuy had communicated it to the entire General Staff at table, who had unanimously decided to stay for as long as circumstances permitted. It was sufficient to have the Machine ready to function—and within a week, Dupuy had assembled the zinc and other ingredient required to manufacture a battery of rudimentary piles quite sufficient to recharge the accumulators.

  Everything was therefore in readiness, and the return could henceforth be effected at any moment—but Renard knew only too well that no one on the General Staff had the slightest desire to leave the delights of a Capua that became more seductive every day. Even Monocard wanted to bring his civilizing labors to a satisfactory conclusion.

  As for the men of the eighth, not one would have consented to go back to the sector; life in Valencia was too beautiful!

  The dirty and exhausted poilus of the triumphant entry had give way to potentates with the salaries of senators. The blue uniform, at first enlivened by gilt and embroidery, was soon reserved for duty, in the narrow sense. Outside tours of duty, the men of the eighth wore a uniform of fantasy more appropriate to the torrid climate: a sort of colonial costume in white silk, secured at the waist by a tricolor sash, and completed by a cork helmet and espadrilles. And the power of the “demons” was so well-established that the people of Valencia feared them no less, and continued to call them Blue-Helmets.

  Gathered in the Unicorn Hall, around a table refreshed by jets of water, they savored the fine ratatouilles that Duranton served to them—a newly-ambitious Duranton who had an entire ministry of culinary aides, scullions and slaves, both male and female, under his orders—and they rejoiced collectively in their good fortune.

  Nénesse opened fire:

  “I was idling in a little street in the Arab quarter when I spotted a nice lace veil on a railed balcony, which took my fancy, and two nice little chicks blowing me kisses. I took out my revolver and slipped quietly upstairs. They salaamed, brought me jam and pastries, sugared wine, while jabbering away and smiling. I tucked in, but I knew right away where they wanted to go when they started chattering at me, and undressing me, and making me lie down in a marble bath full of patchouli. After that, a little massage session all over—I was like a little Jesus. Talk about a party…I’ll spare you the rest, but I came home on my knees.”

  “That’s all right!” retorted Marloie. “It’s the usual. Me, I was passing through the Jewish quarter behind the University. A juicy little chick grabbed me and took me into a drawing-room. I made no bones about it and had myself served on a sofa that was there. Immediately afterwards, though, in comes a lovely bookworm who makes herself at home and starts to tell me tall stories. I carry on, and she has a good time, like the serving-girl. But that’s not all, it appears, for after that one another one arrives, dressed like a duchess…and I got my prick well-oiled, old chaps, I can tell you. Each of them even gave me a gold ring, and I gave them aluminum rings in exchange, since I was fortunate enough to have a batch of them in my pocket...”

  “Shut up!” said Bidart. “You’re boring us. To begin with, it’s not necessary to try to introduce us to women of the world; we know them, we’ve been there…haven’t we, lads? That’s not as good as the little intrigue to which I treated myself not long ago near the docks. Cudgels…oh, my friends! She didn’t smell of patchouli, but she delivered, she delivered! It was me who was obliged to give thanks!”

  “Possibly,” said Garrigou. “But that’s not as good as what we got from the kind sisters.”

  Everyone knew what the situation was with regard to the Convent of Santa Cruz. Some time before, on the first day of the occupation, the Mother Abbess had come, in tears, to beg Renard to give the Lord’s brides protection from the enterprises of his poilus. The major himself had gone to inspect the damage, but had found no trace of a break-in. Since then, no further complaint had emerged from the holy dwelling. On the contrary, the postern of the convent, in the garden, opened at certain hours to permit the penetration of men of good will...not to mention others. Even Cipriani, the chaste Cipriani, who had ventured there, had seen his virtue succumb to the assaults of a troop of maenads.

  “Oh yes, the nuns!” sniggered Souplet. “You know them even better than we do, Professor Debray.”

  “What? Debray’s a professor? Of what?”

  “Of cycling. He gives lessons to the kind sisters on the garden paths. That’s why he’s so pale.”

  “That’s true—he’s getting thinner.”

  “It’s wearing me out—I can’t cope any longer. Anyone who wants to come to help me out…I’ll hand over.”

  “Okay, I’ll come—and my bike too…and my saddle.”

  “What, you? But you’ve forgotten your eight whores this morning, you stuffer!”

  The governor’s wife, an Italian—perhaps a Corsican; at least she pretended to be—was one of those insatiable Messalinas who, disguised as a woman of the people, tasted the pepper of sun with the subaltern demons. First Jasmin, then Cipriani—a compatriot in that foreign land!—and then Lénac secretly received her favors. By a singular casuistical scruple, however, she remained aloof with the officers, and the latter scarcely suspected what she was for several of their men when they saw her sitting motionless, pale beneath her thick black hair, presiding over the governor’s table. For Don Pedro Casanova, among others, had received secret orders from the Inquisition opposite to those given to the people, to attract the principal Devils to their homes in order to try to discover their plans and to obtain certain alleviations of the weight of the conquest. On several occasions, Renard, de Lanselles, the major, Etcheverry, Geronimo and the Emir had been invited to magnificent feasts at his sumptuous dwelling.

  The hidalgos, in black velvet with golden chains around their necks, and their wives constellated with diamonds, welcomed the conquerors with a politeness that was both obsequious and glacial. “By order of the Holy Office” was readable in all the faces, in every smile, and the difficulty of conversation—in spite of the Spaniards rapid progress in French—completed the congealment of the audience beneath the gilded ceilings, while the lackeys in armorial livery passed the silver plates and filled the glasses with sherry and amontillado.

  The conquerors, although flattered by these receptions, found them immeasurably tedious. The major, especially, was bored by such sessions, which terminated in concerts of guitars and plaintive violas, and he tried to introduce a little zip into them by bringing the accordion-player, who performed his most brilliant repertoire�
��but the result was pitiful; three great ladies fainted under the excessively sonorous strains and Thévenard gave up.

  To those gala evenings, the major greatly preferred his escapades in the Emir’s palace with Lénac. The latter, commissioned by Abdul Khan to procure new recruits for his harem, had adopted the major as a collaborator, in order to carry out medical examinations of the subjects, whose plastic aspects he also photographed. The Pernod ran freely during these little sittings and no one ever got bored.

  The simple daily meetings of the General Staff around the mess table in the Lion Hall were of considerable interest in themselves, by virtue of the lofty speculations that were indulged there.

  Served by women of the harem—who had not been divided up, in view of the difficulty of an equitable division—the leaders of the eighth never failed to get stuck in, over dessert, to the subject of their civilizing duties. Over the alcohol, they all waxed lyrical.

  “We’re really doing something for these ostrogoths,” proclaimed Thévenard, one day, “in spite of them! Valencia’s almost in step, but this only a beginning. It’s a matter of doing something to extend the benefits of progress further.”

  “That’s easy,” opined the monk, who now spoke French with a certain elegance that was literary and familiar at the same time. “It’s merely a matter of silencing the Inquisition.”

  “Well, we’ve closed it down in Valencia,” Monocard replied, “but elsewhere? Toledo, for example?”

  “Bah!” Renard interjected. “We’ll conquer Toledo too.”

  Etcheverry made the observation that they had expended a great deal of ammunition, and that they did not have enough for another battle.

  “We’ll make some,” Dupuy put in. “The same with black powder, guns and machine-guns.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said the major. “But before making gunpowder, we’d do better to think about alcohol. Do you know that the cellar’s terribly low? Isn’t that so, Chief Cupbearer?”

  Jasmin, who was attempting to merit this new rank by means of an even more dignified manner, declared that the fine liquors extracted from the cellar would run out in less than ten days.

  “That’s your fault, Thévenard,” de Lanselles remarked. “You’ve lavished a bit too much Pernod on your chicks, with Lénac.”

  “Don’t complain! Since it procures you the pleasure of examining our collections of photographs…and even the originals!”

  “All right, all right, gentlemen,” Renard put in. “Tomorrow, we’ll look into the problem of alcohol, gunpowder and a few other manufactures. I have an idea. It won’t be these details that stop us. In a month, two at the most, we’ll be entering Toledo—that’s a done deal.”

  “Then it’ll be the turn of Madrid, Salamanca, Burgos...”

  “In six months, Spain will be ours.”

  “We could leave Andalusia to the Emir. He’s a good bloke.”

  “I claim Gibraltar,” interjected the aviator, who was swilling whisky in his corner.”

  “You’ve already planted a few too many of your little flags,” said de Lanselles, severely. “We’ll have to be careful not to use as much fuel with your aircraft.”

  “Let it be—it’ll run on alcohol when the manufacture’s under way. Its flights are preparing the populations for our coming.”

  “And when we pass the Pyrenees…what shall we do in France?”

  “In France? Why, we’ll proclaim the Republic…more than four hundred years in advance. It’ll be a famous progress—a great leap forward for history.”

  “The Republic? Damn! You’re going too fast. I doubt that they’re mature enough for that, our ancestors—they’re scarcely out of the Crusades. They’re just starting the Hundred Years’ War with England. In parentheses, Bennsbury, watch out—we might take you prisoner.”

  “Not at all, since we’re going to prevent the Hundred Years’ War. It’ll be necessary to aid Progress, to fulfill our civilizing mission.”

  “All those are long-term projects, which it will be necessary to realize by force of arms. We have to hand a means of acing on the consciousness of all Christendom. That means is to make our friend Geronimo pope. Nothing prevents us from proclaiming him pope in Valencia. We can enthrone him in a Rome later...”

  “The papacy isn’t in Rome at present,” Monocard sniggered. “You’re forgetting that Benedict XII is in Avignon, busy building his famous palace.

  “All the more reason to elect Geronimo,” the major said. “The popes at Avignon aren’t real popes.” Tapping Geronimo on the belly he continued: “Well, what do you say, Brother?”

  The latter, congested by Martell, started and became even more red-faced. “Oh, personally, I don’t care,” he declared. “But for the good of my Order...” Then, struck by a sudden idea, he added: “Yes, yes, my dear friends—that’s it! Make me pope! I’ll crush the swine! I’ll suppress the Inquisition everywhere!”

  “Granted! That’s another job done! Next…but first, Chief Cupbearer, fill the glasses. I’m thirsty tonight!”

  And, over another round of liqueurs, the division of the world continued.

  VIII. “Adversus Diabolos!”

  To R. F. Fray Esteban Segura, Inquisitor-General of Toledo and superior of the Order of Dominicans, from R. F. Fray Juan Tortorado, Grand Inquisitor of Valencia and Provincial of the Dominicans.

  My Most Reverend Father,

  The power of God is infinite, but that of demons is great, and God permits it to be exercised in full plenitude on those who have sinned. Alas, in spite of the vigor that put the Holy Office into the hands of the glorious Order of which you are the venerated leader, to pursue heresy and bring back stray lambs to the flock, Valencia has sinned greatly. Today, Valencia is receiving its punishment.

  Hell is unleashed, and demons reign as masters in Valencia: such is the unprecedented, frightful news that has plunged all the faithful here into sadness, and which will make the heart of Your Paternity bleed. As in the times of Nero and Domitian, the Faith is reduced to hiding away: the Holy Office—I weep as I write—has seen its treasures dilapidated by odious persecutors, and it has been constrained to suspend its activity and to take refuge out of human sight, in the crypts of the convent of the Incarnation!

  But to help Your Paternity to understand the full extent of an evil that threatens to surpass in gravity the most famous heresies, to show him the anguishing situation to which we have been reduced and what need we have of spiritual and temporal assistance, it is necessary for me, overcoming my legitimate dolor, to offer a detailed account of events.

  You know already, my Most Reverend Father, that in answer to the appeal of the heretic Geronimo, an annex of Hell surged forth on Earth on the morning of June 29 in the vicinity of Valencia; that an airborne Vampire which came to our city was repelled, not so much by our archers as by the ringing of our bells and the prayers of the faithful. You know that, two hours later, a small number of demons, guided by some Moorish horsemen, vanquished our warriors by means of invisible bees launched from metal tubes with a loud noise, felled the city gate with two thunderbolts, along with the tower above it, which we had only just left, and freed their protégé Geronimo. You know, too, by what artifice we surprised them, plunged in debauchery—without, alas, being able to lay our hands on the impious monk, whom they took to their infernal City.

  When I sent you the courier bearing that report, we believed the city to be purged, without any reprisal from those reprobates. Alas, I repeat—the power of demons is great!

  In order to ward off a further attack by the Moorish forces that had theft their camp to join the demons, we had gathered in the city all the royal troops from ten leagues around. Our valiant soldiers, duly confessed and provided with blessed medallions and scapulars, recovered their courage and massed in front of the city, notwithstanding a fire suddenly lit by magic in the Puerta del Sol quarter and the unexpected prodigy of an artificial sun that the sacrilegious imitators of Joshua had brought forth to dissipate the
darkness.

  My pen is incapable of the description necessary to enable you to see all the horror of the disaster in which our troops perished. I shall limit myself to reporting the pure and simple fact with a brutal dryness: our army was annihilated by the fulminating bees and thunderbolts of the infernal militia, and the cadavers mutilated by their allies, the Moors. And while we watched this catastrophe unfold from the top of the battlements, and addressed our prayers to Heaven, which did not heed them, the Vampire, from high in the air, harassed us with its thunder and multiplied the victims among the unarmed crowd.

  We took pity on our unfortunate fellow citizens and authorized the governor, our faithful and devoted Don Pedro Casanova, to surrender the city.

  In all haste, I had the sacred vessels and the archives of the Holy Office moved out of the palace; the prisoners in the cells were executed; and I ordered our brothers to seek shelter in the secret floor of the Convent of the Incarnation, for I anticipated that the apostate monk would pursue us with his hatred. But time was pressing and the greater part of the treasures confiscated from heretics in the last ten years by our vigilantes fell into the hands of the invaders. An irreparable loss, in the present circumstances, when gold is more necessary to us than ever!

  The entry of the Satanic hordes—I saw it with my own eyes, under a disguise—justified the belief, widespread among the people, that the end of the world was nigh. But it was demons in blue helmets, not archangels, that sounded the trumpets in front of a chariot in which the image of the Antichrist, the apostate monk, was enthroned, alongside his ally, the Emir. That chariot was an object of fear and admiration to us all. No horses drew it; it climbed the slope of the street under the sole impulsion of the damned souls who were contained within it, and whose presence was attested by their howls, their flatulence and the din of their charms. Another chariot of the same species, but much smaller, with only three wheels, came after the horde of the principal demons and their standard in the three colors of blasphemy: blue, to symbolize their power over the air; white, over the Earth; and red, over Hell. Other vehicles with two wheels placed one behind the other, were each mounted by a single demon, who toyed thus with weight and equilibrium.