“‘Are there many worlds? Edgar Poe, one of our greatest philosophers — I am speaking seriously — has proven that there are many worlds and, consequently, there must be many gods. Many others have no less proven that there is only one god. Yet, the god of Socrates and of Descartes has nothing to do with the god of Pascal — nor, above all, the god of Spinoza.
“‘One god! Many gods! Which is the truth? And still you ask me if there are vampires — and if it be possible that a single Coulteray could have lived for a hundred and fifty or two hundred years.
“‘But I know nothing of all this, monsieur,’ he continued in the tones of a professor, which were husky with chronic laryngitis. ‘However, this is the secret of life and death, which has not yet been penetrated, but which we hope to solve one of these days — perhaps far distant. Where does Life begin? Where does Death begin? Everywhere! Nowhere!
“‘There is neither beginning nor ending! What do we see? What do we observe? Transformation. Movements, which recommence and which we may well call the pulsations of the heart of God.
“‘But this is what experience has already taught us — the thing that one believes dead is only Life asleep. Some day, monsieur, science will be able to bottle Life in the same way that we have bottled electricity in the Leyden jar — will be able to bottle the elements of this scattered life in that which we now call death. On that day we shall be able to recreate life.
“‘We shall be able to draw life from death as we can draw, in principle, radium from this table. Meanwhile, monsieur, I can only say to Christine — yes, pray, pray, if you must, for the marchioness; pray for those who believe in vampires and, also, for those who believe in nothing. Pray for me, and may Jesus, who is goodness itself, as the little children repeat, have pity on all the world.’
“‘Pray for me, also,’ I said, turning to Christine.
“‘Amen,’ she said, in that grave and religious manner which she used when she went to mass at the Church of St. Louis.
“They shook hands with me and left.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAN WITH RED ARMS
“DECIDEDLY, HE IS not commonplace, that sawbones fiancé. He has a brain, that fellow. What he said was fine! Christine, as I know her now, ought not to be bored. Life ought to be very interesting for her with an old rum of a watchmaker father, looking for perpetual motion, and a sawbones fiancé, who is seeking something on the same order, with his studies on the pulsations of the heart of God.
“And to think I had pitied her! They certainly ought to lead a singularly intense moral life behind those four walls of theirs. But I have not been counting in Gabriel.
“No, but I never stop thinking about him.
“It is unnecessary for me to state that Gabriel interests me in quite a different way from the marchioness. His secret touches me more closely.
“Naturally, in my thoughts, I cannot separate Gabriel and Christine.
“Since Mother Langlois’s confidential talk, I have tried to catch sight of the two of them, or at least, to watch them from a distance at their chaste love-making.
“But I have watched in vain.
“The only glimpse that I’ve had of Gabriel was at the end of Christine’s stylus on the plaque over which she lingers so lovingly. I am quite accustomed to suffering in silence, and not have my suffering noticed, but one day I fear that I shall cry out. Heavens! May that day be a long time off, for that day, I am sure, will be the end!
“Evidently!
“I have not seen the marchioness for the last two days, not since she gave me the collection of works on Brocolaques, and I am delighted. I pity her, but she wearies me.
“I want her to leave me alone for awhile, with my thoughts, which now belong to that trio, Christine-Jacques — Gabriel. I endeavor to disentangle the face of Christine from this strange play which savors both of burlesque and of crime, but I am not able to efface a line.
“It seems to me that Christine is very sweet to that fiancé of hers — that Jacques — and yet, very tender. with that what-you-may-call-it, Gabriel.
“Yes, what of Gabriel?
“And, after all, what of myself, also?
“Where do I come in in all this heart business, for, yes, I think I am in it. There are moments when I believe I am in it — a little, just a very little, but still, I am not hard to please. I need so little. I imagine that, in spite of everything, I count in this affair, that, to her, I am not merely an onlooker.
“Am I wandering? Just now I wrote that she did not notice anything, and that some day I should cry out. What will I cry out — yes, what?
“But, taking all into consideration, how can I conceive that an intelligent, young girl, like Christine, had observed nothing, absolutely nothing of the conflict which rages under my mask?
“Well, admitting that this is so, why does she carve the profile of the other in my presence? Idiot that you are, how do you suppose that she has become aware that you know of the other one?
“What does it matter? Is it not enough to make me shriek out when I see her carve such a beautiful profile in front of my hideousness?
“I realize that I am very ill. Yet, I dare not look toward the end of this illness, for, joyfully, I am poisoning myself. I know that a cure is not possible, and I do not wish it. I return to the air which she breathes and is willing to share with me, like an intoxicated man, running to his stupefaction. I am often the first to arrive, and I wait for her — I wait for her. To-day I have not seen her. That is almost a little too much. But, as a matter of fact, I have seen no one to-day.
“I have decided to be on the watch this evening in my little skylight. If I do not see Gabriel, perhaps I shall see her. It is very strange, but, before going out this morning, I did not see the watchmaker sitting at his window, nor did I see the surgeon go out, nor did I see Christine. I have seen no one stirring.
“But this evening at nine o’clock, I saw a stranger arrive.
“I am sure that this is the first time that I have seen this odd-looking man. He is a thickset chap, with a bulldog neck, and he glided along the wall as though he were ashamed to breathe the same air as other people. He wore a round cap without a peak, and a shapeless suit, cut like a sack. And, under his arm, he carried a big box covered with a leather wrapping.
“He looked like an executioner’s assistant.
“The Norberts must have been expecting him, for he did not have to knock at the door. It was opened for him at once and closed behind him immediately.
“You can imagine how I raced upstairs.
“They seemed to be very busy in the house. I saw Christine cross the garden several times. She had on a big white apron like a nurse. She was talking quickly, in a low voice, to her fiancé, who also wore a blouse like a hospital attendant.
“Jacques seemed to be comforting her, for she appeared to be very agitated.
“Finally, they disappeared in the rear of the little villa on the right. I did not catch sight of the newcomer again, nor did I see old Norbert. An hour went by in the profoundest silence. But a light could be seen through the crevices of the shutters on the ground floor of the villa.
“Suddenly, the same black cloud that I had seen coming from the chimney on that particular night, and which had spread like a funereal veil over the whole island, rushed out from the roof, and the same dreadful odor reached me, while I watched from my skylight. There was no wind to-night. The heat was stifling, and the cursed odor, weighing down on me, was enough to make me swoon with horror.
“And, all of a sudden, the shutters of the ground floor of the villa were flung wide open. In a blood-red ray of light, spotted by forms, hollowed like one of Goya’s engravings, I beheld a sight which I shall never forget.
“The great stove on the right, used for experiments, appeared to be blazing with an infernal fire. On the side of the stove, near a table covered with a white cloth, some human remains were spread out. The thickset man was standing, an apron round his waist, hi
s chest half bare, sleeves tucked up to his elbows, and his arms were as red as though he had plunged them into blood.
“Jacques was leaning over the stove, heating some pincers, the incandescent prongs of which he examined from time to time. Old man Norbert and Christine, who were nearer the window, were leaning — one on each side — over an operating table, on which Gabriel was laid out. From my position, I could only get a glimpse of him. I could only see his forehead and his closed eyes, which turned in my direction.
“The rest of his face disappeared vaguely under white bandages, and some white mask which hid his nose and mouth. Norbert and Christine held the body in place and, from my little observatory, I could only observe indistinctly an operation which must have been something out of the ordinary.
“I repeat, something out of the ordinary, for, although from all appearances Gabriel was asleep, this did not prevent him from raising himself every now and again with a sort of a spasmodic jerk, only to fall back between the watchmaker and his daughter, who held his hands and arms and put them back in their original position.
“Three times, the incandescent pincers accomplished their work.
“What work?
“It was not merely a question of branding, nor even anything approaching this, as one might think.
“It was on the interior of the body that they were working. I could hear the sizzling from my window. Then Jacques threw aside the pincers and, in company with the man of the red arms, remained leaning over Gabriel for a time that seemed to me to stretch out indefinitely.
“Christine’s back was toward me, but I could easily imagine from her position that she held the patient’s wrists. She continued to count his pulse, a basic precaution in an operation, which seemed to be prolonged beyond ordinary limits.
CHAPTER XIX
ACROSS THE SEINE
“THEN THE OPERATOR and his assistant stood up.
“Jacques Cotentin threw his steel implements, instruments of torture and salvation, on the table, where I had just seen the human debris, but which I could no longer see and which must be burning in the laboratory stove, because the dreadful odor still persists.
“Then I heard Jacques say distinctly:
“‘That’s enough for this time. We must get rid of all this blood. Now for the serum, the serum, the serum!’
“Whereupon, Christine turned and came over, and closed the windows.
“From her expression, I could see that she was quite at ease now, for a buoyancy seemed to light up her beautiful, calm face.
“In vain did I search her beloved features for a trace of emotion which, at least, physically, must have nauseated her during those horrible moments.
“There was nothing, nothing at all!
“Only a few minutes before, I had seen her so agitated in the garden, and now she had been capable of assisting like a surgeon, during an operation upon which the life of a loved one depended. She had acted during this scene, with its scalpel and red-hot pincers, like a professional nurse.
“Ah, hers is certainly a well balanced nature!
“But I speak from a moral point of view as well as from a physical point. I am sure that she will come out of this adventure, which can be nothing short of murder, with a smile.
“She will love Gabriel, marry Jacques, and old man Norbert, living happily with his daughter and the two men who will assure the happiness of this charming child, will return peacefully to his square wheels.
“And I — and I!
“And now I am on the trail of the man with the red arms and the bull’s neck, who has just come out.
“Perhaps, through him, I may at last learn who Gabriel is.
“He is still carrying the box, which is wrapped in leather of an indefinable color, and which I saw under his arm when he first made his appearance.
“He went toward the city. I waited until he had crossed the bridge, then I crossed also. Now he is passing in front of the morgue. In spite of his firm, solid step, he moves with head bent in a timid and ashamed manner.
“It is a beautiful night. There are only a few families strolling about the Square of Notre Dame. He crosses the Seine, goes down a narrow, dark by-way — Bernardins Street — and comes out on the Boulevard St. Germaine. He glides along by the walls of St. Nicholas-du-Chardonnet and turns to the left in St. Nicholas Street.
“He goes into a wine shop and, as soon as he appears in the doorway, I hear several voices greeting him with these words: ‘Ah, here’s old Corpse-head!’
“They serve food in this wine shop and some customers are there, having supper, but they are evidently regular customers, and my entrance might make a sensation.
“I am not dressed very elegantly. Bah, they will take me for a medical student just installed in the quarter. It is important that I should not lose sight of my ‘old Corpse-head.’
“He made no reply to this sinister nickname, but took a seat at a table in the corner.
“The night is warm, and through the door, which stands wide open, I can see all that goes on.
“I now make my entrance and the people at supper are silent. Suddenly a voice says:
“‘Hello, old man.’
“I hear stifled laughter.
“I am accustomed to that, so I pay no attention to it. My life would be nothing but one long battle. It is not my elegance which has caused the sensation, it is, of course, my ugliness. I have no doubts on that.
“‘Say, Chariot, your wife’s looking for a lover, isn’t she?’
“This time the laughter breaks out.
“Chariot, the proprietor, alone keeps his dignity. He comes forward and inquires what he can serve me.
“I had not dined. I do not know how I live. I do not know whether I’m hungry, or whether I shall be able to eat. I order the same as Corpse-head — some Gruyere cheese, some bread, and some beer.
“Some of the smart fellows make several attempts to get into conversation with my man.
“‘Well,’ some one calls, ‘how’s the distribution today, old Corpse-head? How’s the distribution to-day?’
“At last, old Corpse-head ends by getting annoyed. Folding his evening paper, which he had been reading while he ate, he eyes his interlocutor from head to foot, apparently appraising the skeleton structure at its full value. Then, in a mild voice, which is in great contrast to his rough, uncouth appearance, he says:
“‘My friend, your carcass at the distribution would not fetch ten francs, even at the low price of money.’
“There is no doubt that old Corpse-head is an attendant at the medical college, or something on that order.
“‘Now, don’t get mad, Baptiste,’ said the other fellow, getting up, ‘we must have our little joke.’
“I wait until Baptiste has gone and, from the conversation of the other fellows, I learn that they are also employed in the hospitals on the left bank of the Seine. I learn that Baptiste is a bear and never jokes. It seems that he was a market gardener, who had been ruined by hail and money lenders, and that M. Jacques Cotentin — they speak of M. Jacques Cotentin in tones of greatest respect — got him a place at practical work, then took him on as assistant in his own special work. It is he who takes care of the pieces of anatomy which the surgeon needs for his private experiments.
“Jacques Cotentin had received permission from the Medical College to conduct experiments, at certain hours, in a small building, when it was not in use, and it was customary for the surgeon and his assistant, Corpse-head, to shut themselves up in this place. It was against the rules, but no one objected, because M. Jacques Cotentin was permitted to do anything.
“So then M. Jacques Cotentin is a genius.
CHAPTER XX
A MYSTERIOUS WOUND
“JUNE 25 — NO! I will not ask M. Baptiste — old Corpse-head — whose address I do not know, who this Gabriel is.
“I will not ask him that or anything else.
“In the first place, he may not even know himself, and, if he do
es, he may not tell me.
“This chap must be devoted, body and soul, to Jacques Cotentin, else why should the surgeon, who will not even have an assistant, permit him to assist him in experiments in which he can only render the services of the most ordinary workman?
“Jacques Cotentin’s commonplace face — it is not even ugly — has suddenly assumed immense proportions in my mind. I want to read some of the articles that he has written from time to time in the new review of Anatomy and Human Physiology. I hear that they are quite remarkable.
“They are highly audacious, overthrowing all old theories. In other days, I have no doubt that the old school would have shuddered. But now we are eager for the unknown. The war has passed us, and left us crossing between the past and the future, in an abyss, or, rather, if you prefer, filling it.
“I have an article before me on the ‘Degradation of Energy in the Human Being,’ in which I read these phrases on Bernard Brunhes’s theories. The last one startled me.
“‘In like thermodynamics, one encounters bodies which transform themselves in one sense, while they are really expected to transform themselves in just the reverse sense. A system can, therefore, in an isothermic transformation, provide a useful power which will be greater than its loss of useful energy. Perpetual movement is therefore not impossible.’
“I also find that at the end of his book, M. Duhem, writing on viscosity, says: ‘Friction and false chemical equilibrium have attested nothing stronger, and we find ourselves facing Hemholtz’s hypothesis materialized — the hypothesis of a possible resurrection of available energy in human beings.’
“That is to say Death Vanquished! The Perpetual Movement always!
“And so it is the same thought which animates both the old watchmaker and the young surgeon, the former from the mechanical point of view, the latter from the physiological. Most assuredly, the life in the brains behind those walls, alongside of which I walk as I wait for Christine, the same wall which separates two dramas — the key to which I have not yet found — this life must be intense.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 392