Timeslip Troopers

by Théo Varlet

  The mass of the population bowed their heads and sighed over the hardness of the times.

  Only the nobility and the temporal clergy held firm in their absolute faith in the Holy Office. The religious orders were divided. Without mentioning the nuns of Santa Cruz, plunged into the cycling lessons, the Franciscans had, for the most part, turned a blind eye to the singular circumstances of the return of their superior, Geronimo. Out of hatred for Toledo and the Dominicans, they affected publicly to see him as the glory of their Order, and to exonerate him as far as possible from the reproach of heresy. Secretly, however, they lamented the scandal, and were only awaiting the expulsion of the strangers to reject him and offer him up as a scapegoat.

  For Geronimo, in the intoxication in which he lived, was not taking any precautions. Stuffed with all the half-digested knowledge of his new reading—he no longer slept, sustaining himself with the strength of alcohol, and was heartbroken by the rapid flight of the hours, continually consulting the chronometer given to him by the major—he devoted the rest of his time to reorganizing the University on a new footing and producing a seed-bed of propagandists. He had surpassed Voltaire, Rousseau and even Victor Hugo, and saw in integral socialism the salvation of humankind. Karl Marx and Jean Jaurès became his idols.

  His own pupils and another group of students followed him on this adventurous path. He even persuaded Monocard to help him select twenty of the most zealous as military students destined to form the superior ranks of the future Army of Progress, which would be set up once the armaments factory was producing better results. In the meantime—that surplus of combatants might be precious, in caste of revolt or external attack—Lebels were entrusted to these substitute Saint-Cyriens,23 and Cipriani drilled them every morning in the palace courtyard. In addition, as they all spoke tolerable French, Monocard began his philosophy course, and excited the enthusiasm of his young listeners, accustomed to intricate scholastic dissertations, by talking to them about Henri Bergson, “élan vital,” “psychological duration” and “space-time.”

  In spite of his cynical indifference, the major took a real pleasure in inculcating healthier medical notions in his respectful and attentive pupils. Since the establishment of relations with the kingdom of Grenada, the renown of his science had spread, and a number of young Moors from the best families in Andalusia, who were destined for medical careers, had come to train at the University of Valencia. They were the most brilliant of his pupils. For them, especially, he stitched, dislocated, sawed and operated in every fashion on the invalids who flooded into his clinic in spite of the repeated excommunications. In the beginning, he used chloroform for major operations, but he soon renounced it, because the Emir had developed a taste for that anesthetic, whose use he alternated with that of ether to “give him dreams,” in spite of Thévenard’s charitable advice. And my word, Abdul Khan paid handsomely for his flasks...

  “I’ve kept back enough for us,” the major told the mess. “As for the patients in the clinics, they can howl. It only impresses my pupils more on seeing them cured. For I cure them, me, and they know full well that new patients are flocking in. I’m forced to entrust three-quarters of them to my young apprentices and swarthy assistants. In any case, it’s better than the remedies of the local priests. Some of them are priceless. I’ve told you about a few, but what I saw and heard this morning beats the lot. A woman who couldn’t walk as brought in; her anus was encircled by tumors as big as a fist, badly infected. I had her interrogated by the interpreter, and she finished up confessing that they’d started off as simple hemorrhoids. Instead of coming to see me right away, she’d gone to consult a holy bone-setter, the bell-ringer at the cathedral, and that bugger had sold her an ointment—you’ve guessed it, gentlemen—a greasy black ointment that he called bell-unguent: old axle-grease, which the good woman applied religiously; whence the tumors. I lanced them, and she was cured, but if she didn’t get tetanus, that’s not the bell-ringer’s fault. Oh, the prejudices of these clerics! One could fill volumes with them!”

  “These clerics,” of course, hated the doctor cordially, and opposed him by every possible means. The dissections of cadavers that he undertook, in order to reveal the mysteries of the human body to his pupils, were an admirable pretext; preachers thundered in their pulpits against his sacrilege; he was called “the Ghoul.” People even went as far as to accuse him, in certain right-thinking circles, of violating female cadavers. Several successful childbirths, which he deigned to supervise in person on behalf of the wives of hidalgos, and for which he was well paid, annoyed the midwives whose function he was usurping. A conspiracy was formed against him, which found an echo even in the University, among the students of theology and canon law. On several occasions the latter invaded the operating theater and manhandled the less numerous medical students. The major had to draw his revolver to drive the aggressors away.

  Geronimo’s lectures were also disrupted on several occasions by irruptions of the same sort, and brawls broke out around his presence in the city, between his partisans and the enemies of the strangers. It was necessary to provide him with a escort of two Moorish policemen for each of his comings and goings between the Palace and the University, whose clubs and grenades kept the boldest individuals at bay.

  Irritated by these attempts, the monk no longer relented in his anger. Since the hand-press had started functioning, printing a kind of weekly newssheet in French and Spanish. The Liberté-Libertad. Geronimo had written several editorials therein of a rare vehemence, under the title “Clericalism is the enemy!” He recognized the hand of Tortorado in every new obstacle raised by the opposition to hinder the march of Progress, and warned his colleagues in the General Staff explicitly that they would never achieve serous results—and that all the ground they had gained might one day be lost—so long as the Grand Inquisitor was alive and fighting them in the shadows. His style was reflected in the fulminations that the priests of the various parishes launched from the height of their pulpits—not to mention the confessional—in reply to the articles in the Liberté-Libertad, in spite of fines and proclamations. Renard ended up issuing an order to search the Convent of the Incarnation, but the entrances to the crypt where the rebel Dominicans were hiding were too well-hidden; again, nothing was found.

  Geronimo nearly had a fit of apoplexy on hearing of that failure. The others consoled him as best they could and reiterated their promise to name him as pope—which would permit him to issue an urbi et orbi bull against the Inquisition. But his faith in their success was eroded; he saw the future painted in dark colors, and on the day when he got his hands on the first fake banknotes issued by the Holy Office, permitting Tortorado to fight his enemies henceforth with similar weapons, he warned his colleagues that the days of their reign were numbered.

  All that was attributed to fits of bad temper. The General Staff, along with the poilus, did not believe that there was any danger. Fake banknotes or not, they felt that their domination was firmly established by the terror of their weapons and their personal prestige. The distillery now had two hundred workers, and its example showed that other manufactures could be carried out eventually; alcohol was flowing in rivers; gold was piling up in the cellars; two banknote-presses, one a new model, were functioning incessantly; the caravans from Andalusia were bringing treasures of art and Arab luxury, and giving the palaces an atmosphere of the Thousand-and-One Nights.

  Enfevered by an unprecedented agitation, Valencia lavished the fruits of autumn and its voluptuous daughters upon the conquerors. In addition to one-night stands, everyone had an official mistress or mistresses. Even Renard, who only attached a minor importance to such trivia, allowed himself to enjoy the charms of a young Jewess, Myriam, the daughter of Melchisedech, the licensed victualler—and the Genera Staff, following their leader’s example, immersed themselves in Hebraism. A dozen of Myriam’s young friends frequented the Palace, and the gentlemen’s bedrooms, every day.

  II. Geronimo, Antipope
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br />   “Put a tablecloth on the sideboard too, for the aperitifs…but no napkins, idiot! Yousouf, set another place at the General Staff’s table! I told you there were seven! And sixty-six at the Troopers’ table. Mohammed! The champagne corks! Have you brought the snow? Yes? Set them out at the last moment. And the wine? White for the entrées…the Chief Cupbearer will organize the rest. Flowers, Haydé! Little shrew—I’ll put my boot up your backside!”

  In the Lion Hall, harassing a dozen Moorish domestics and slaves, Duranton, in an immaculate white uniform with insignia identifying him as the Palace Majordomo embroidered on his sleeves with arabesque curlicues, was supervising the final preparations for the feast that was about to reunite the General Staff and men of the eighth, for the occasion of the sanctification of Geronimo. The sight of the two tables, the noise of the saucepans and the perfumes rising from the kitchens, promised marvels.

  Duranton stopped in his pacing to call out to a poilu who had just come in—a new-style poilu clad in gold-embroidered white and a white helmet.

  “Ah, Père Jasmin, you’ve returned to the mess. What about the others? Are they coming?

  “Close behind me. I came out a little in advance to supervise the aperitifs. My colleague the Chief Bread-Supplier has gone directly to the kitchens.

  “To see to my vol-au-vents. His bakers haven’t yet brought them. Hey, Margarita—run and see what Monsieur Saucisson is doing. And tell the chef to get the minced langouste ready. Well, Jasmin, did everything go well at the ceremony?”

  “It was magnificent,” said the Chief Cupbearer, heading toward the credenza where the bottles were lined up in several neat rows. “You missed out by not coming.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Duranton replied, following him and fanning himself with a menu. “I never see anything, me—I’m always busy with my ovens. I’m well-paid, but there’s too much to do. At the end of the day, it’s worse than in the trenches. Come on, pour me a picon-curaçao. Hey, Yacoub, a fresh jug, at the trot. So tell me about it. He’s been crowned pope, Père Geronimo?”

  “He’s crowned—but first there was a high mass. A splendid ceremony, my dear. The cathedral full to bursting—all the people, all of high society, including the governor and his noble spouse, seemingly quite content, but there by order, like the rest; the choir dressed in velvet, tapestries from top to bottom, candles by the thousand, floods of incense, al the clergy in golden chasubles…and the orchestra! Violins of a sort, and our accordionist played so that he could accompany Lénac, who sang Gounod’s Ave Maria...”

  At that moment several poilus in white with gold braid—the factory directors—came in, went straight to the sideboard to quaff an aperitif, and joined in the conversation.

  “Oh, yes, that fellow Lénac,” said one of them. “Talk about a tenor—he’d make a fortune at the Eldo. And Monsieur Thévenard sang bass...” He trumpeted: “I believe in God, master of nature...”

  “Shut your gob!” they protested. “You’re not Thévenard.”

  “Lénac retaliated,” Jasmin continued, while filling the glasses. “He got his revenge with the Angelus de la Mer. It was a triumph. Women wept. Madame Casanova was in a spin. The mass continued. At the moment of the elevation, Père Geronimo came forward to the middle of the choir, in his all-white cope, and received the papal tiara from the hands of the new bishop...”

  “And what a tiara! Barbarin put a month into making it, with six workers from Grenada. All in aluminum, encrusted with gems pinched from the churches. It was at least a meter fifty high...”

  “A meter fifty! You’re joking! Why not the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Hey, Jasmin,” Nénesse cut in. “Why aren’t you pouring us that liter of genuine Pernod? The new Progressinette’s strong, I don’t deny, but it tastes lousy. You could mistake it for bleach.”

  “That liter? It’s the last one. Reserve stock—for the gentlemen at the high table.”

  “Oh, it’s always the same…anyway, to yours, lads!”

  “The bishop,” Jasmin continued, “wanted to crown him, but Père Geronimo, lifting up the tiara, put it on his head himself, while we applauded fit to bust and the trumpets sounded boots and saddles. Only, there were a few murmurs in the audience...”

  “They didn’t grumble for long. The guy beside me was muttering between his teeth. Sacrilegium! I gave him a kick in the shins.”

  “All things considered, they have some reason to protest,” Paincarat insinuated, his eyes lowered. “I’m just a humble medical orderly, a poor numbskull—I don’t have factories like all of you, but if I might be permitted a word of criticism, papal dignity...”

  “Oh, you can talk, seminary boy. Here, drink a glass of gnôle instead.”

  “Is it true, Paincarat, that you’re going play aeronaut tonight?”

  “It’s still on the program of public rejoicing. Look, here’s the official poster that Lénac gave me. Read it: ‘At seventeen hundred hours, great aerostatic ascension over the Palace square. The spherical balloon Geronimo I, four hundred cubic meters, manned by Monsieur Galfart, pilot and Monsieur Paincarat, passenger…’”

  “You won’t dare go up, Jelly-Legs!”

  “Bet you choke at the last minute.”

  Tumultuously, however, a crowd of troopers and the General Staff made their entrance, acclaiming the new Pontiff, his tiara on his head.

  “Long live the Pope!”

  “Long live Geronimo I!”

  “Long live the Holy Father!”

  “Long live our worthy chaplain!”

  In the middle of a cordial bustle, Geronimo received the Pernod of honor from Jasmin’s hands. Expansive and truculent, he turned round, glass in hand, and calmed the ovation.

  “My dear friends,” he pronounced, “I won’t matagrabolize24 your brains with a long speech. The supreme rank to which you’ve elevated me will enable me never to forget how much I owe to you—particularly to you, de Lanselles, who have initiated me into true Progress, and you, Renard, who were my liberator and have never ceased since to guide and support us in our efforts undertaken against infamous Obscurantism. I shall prove to you better than by words that I’m worthy of you by consecrating all my energy and all my thought to the triumph of the worthy cause, but struggling for it, if necessary, until the last drop of my blood…until the pyre! Intelligenti pauca.25 I drink to our valiant Director; I drink to you all, noble workers for Civilization; a drink to a better future for Humankind…to the Company!”

  Renard attempted to reply, but cheers burst forth irresistibly. In any case, Duranton, anxious for his dishes, scarcely waited until the toast had been drunk before announcing in a stentorian voice: “His Holiness is served!”

  “To table!” bellowed the doctor, by way of an echo.

  And in a hubbub of conversations already animated by the distillery’s violent aperitifs, the poilus spread out around the large table, the General Staff around the small one, which was raised on a platform, and the feast commenced.

  The Moorish lackeys, clad in felt, passed the plates; the pretty scantily-clad slaves ran around pouring the wine, all under the direction of Duranton and Jasmin. Various wines, indigenous or Andalusian, washed down a magisterial menu, from black and green olives, saveloys, anchovies and tomato salads to cheeses and pyramids of fruits, via bouillabaisse, fried octopus, red mullets, suckling pigs, poultry and lamb chops.

  The Emir, prevented by religious observance from taking part in the ceremony, arrived for the coffee, just as the sorbets were being brought in, along with the showpiece: an aircraft made of honey sugar, a delicacy suggested by the Protestant Bennsbury but which was not to be sniffed at. Diplomatically, Abdul Khan addressed discreet congratulations to Geronimo, and installed himself beside the doctor with the intention of obtaining a phial of sulfuric ether from him.

  At the poilus’ table, everyone was talking at once. The General Staff, scarcely less inhibited, swilled the last bottle of champagne originating from the Englishman’s cellar, while lighting p
ipes and cigarettes. Liqueurs were poured. Renard, seeing the major preparing to get the new pope drunk—the latter having set down his tiara, his face as red as his hair, was taking enormous mouthfuls of his Jacob, and explaining his plans for social and ecclesiastical reform to de Lanselles—remembered that Geronimo still had to preach a sermon at vespers, shortly after the balloon ascent.

  “Bah! He’ll still be able to talk to those philistines, and anyone who doesn’t like it...”

  But an unknown voice interrupted: “Ausculta novellas, Sanctissime Pater, quas ego, nuntius indignus, habeo tibi dicendas...”

  A Franciscan friar had come into the hall, darting scandalized glances at the “demonic” orgy, and had just knelt down beside Geronimo’s chair. He spoke for a few minutes in Latin, in a low voice, and then retired as discreetly as he had come.

  The new pope sat there frowning, his mouth twisted bitterly, the red of his face tending to violet.

  “But you’re exploding like a 420, old chap!” said the major. “What’s up? What did the priest say to you?”

  “He told me,” Geronimo stammered, “that Tortorado...is going to have me killed…while I’m in the pulpit, shortly, at vespers.”

  “A bizarre coincidence!” remarked de Lanselles. “One might think that he has some suspicion of what you’re going to say.”

  “He knows, the filthy swine!” exclaimed Geronimo, with a gesture so abrupt that his pipe fell on to the mosaic floor and broke. “He knows—he knows that I’m going to decree the suppression of the Inquisition. Founded by a pope, it requires a pope to abolish it. I only agreed to be pope in order to do that, anyway. Yes, Tortorado knows—he knows everything. He knows what we’re saying at this very moment.”