Without missing anything of the file-past, Mirande, sitting on the terrace of a bar, lent an ear to the conversation of two young people sitting at the table alongside him. Well-informed about that luxurious troop, they were putting a name to each face, underlining it with a brutal comment, and mounting an assault of erudition.
Mirande was listening avidly. His village childhood and his studious youth had always kept him a long way from a society that inspired more fear than curiosity in him then. He had never witnessed one of the meetings that offer to the gaze a kind of cross-section of all notorieties. It had required the arrest of his friend Lacaze to constrain him to confront the milieux of influence where opinion is elaborated. He had attempted to interest newspapers, move judges, touch politicians, but very rapidly, after his first steps, he had been obliged to beat a retreat, so much did he sense that his was disarmed, alone and vanquished in advance.
He still experienced that distress of a timid child lost in a crowd, while his two neighbors continued to list the people who held, by virtue of their wealth, their talent or their employment, a thread of power. This time, however, he knew that the fear would not last. He was about to confront the struggle with confidence, fortified by a talisman that might give him victory.
Pressed to act, to help his friend in time, he had quickly perceived that in Paris, in summer, he would find closed doors everywhere. And he had chosen, to test his strength in a first contact, the resort of Dorville, where fashion was grouping, for a few days, a number of those he wanted to encounter.
Shortly after the policeman’s visit, he had taken the train to the seaside. To Jeanne, surprised by that abrupt departure, he had naturally only revealed part of the truth, the hope of finding people out there useful to their cause.
He had not watched the races. Since Brion’s serum only acted for a few hours, it was important to put himself under its influence at the most favorable moment. Mirande had deliberated his choice carefully. He waited for the evening.
He had perceived as soon as Lacaze was arrested that the power he lacked the most, the one for which he was most avid, was that of money: the money that would permit him to move quickly, to go far, to appear and to please; the money that stimulates zeal and reawakens dormant memories; the money that can open all doors and lips.
Those initial subsidies, Mirande had decided to seek in gambling. Certainly, the important role he occupied in the laboratory since Brion’s death assured him of a small income, but he needed a round sum, quickly. No other procedure could procure it for him more rapidly or make better use of his faculty of divination. He did not hide from himself the incorrection of his conduct; he even suffered from it. Obviously, he possessed an unjust superiority over his adversaries. Without the necessary of helping Lacaze urgently, he would never have resolved to go to that extreme, but time was pressing. Furthermore, he would be enriching himself at the expense of people who had superfluous wealth at their disposal, and who did not seek gain at the green baize so much as excitement.
The casino at Dorville was renowned for its big bets. It was frequented by important lords. Who could tell whether Mirande might not have an opportunity to approach one, and subjugate him by his penetration? Thus, better than anywhere else at that time of year, he would advance at a stroke toward both influence and fortune.
Meanwhile, the stream of vehicles had almost dried up; the last automobiles were traveling at top speed. Already, dusk was falling. In a nearby restaurant, Mirande expedited his dinner distractedly. Solitude weighed upon him. He was used to eating with Jeanne, with the cheerful confidence that had animated her until Lacaze’s arrest. Obliged to retreat within himself, he fell apprehension of the approaching ordeal growing as the hour advanced.
Outside, a moonlit night prolonged the day. Mirande went on to the wooden jetty that protected the harbor and separated it from the beach. The sea was high and calm. The plash of the waves was softly noisy in the framework supporting the platform. At the extremity, a green light shone at the summit of the semaphore.
Mirande sat down on a bench, facing the shore. Lights were scintillating all along the shore, amassing at Dorville in a compact constellation. All that could be heard was a distant orchestra. He felt alone, as absolutely alone as in a boat at sea.
He took out his watch. Nearly nine o’clock. According to Brion’s notes, the serum took effect after an hour. The moment had come. He opened the case of the slender ampoule lying in its bed of cotton wool. It was a glass tube tapered at both ends, which contained a pink, slightly phosphorescent liquid.
Mirande broke one of the tips, and through the narrow opening introduced the extremity, formed as a hollow needle, of a Pravaz syringe. The small metal reservoir was filled up by a slow aspiration. Mirande rolled up his left sleeve in order to inject it into his forearm.
Just as he was about the insert the slender point into his skin, however, he was numbed by a vertigo. He doubted. Such a power, such a prodigy…it wasn’t possible. Brion, already ill, on the threshold of death, perhaps delirious, had believed, in his fever, in the realization of his great dream, but...
But what about the notebook he had found next to the case of ampoules in the cupboard his mater had indicated to him? He had written those notes in full lucidity. The oldest dated back ten years. What strict logic there was in the account of the research, what entirely scientific precision in the mode of preparation…and the results of the experiments, reported with dry concision, those glances darted into the consciousness of others like thrusts of a scalpel into the core of the brain. Did not those words have the bitter flavor of truth, the odor of life?
Had he, Mirande, not proved the prodigious action without knowing it? Without it, how could he have perceived Simone’s plaints through the stones of the tomb? Had he not been in a superhuman state that night? Had he not perceived the thoughts of the workers grouped round him?
No, no, doubt was not permissible. Once again, the implausible was true.
Resolutely, he introduced the hollow needle beneath the skin and injected himself with the dose of serum.
As soon as he had accomplished the decisive gesture, however, a revolution took place in his mind. One might have thought that his conscience, his intimate being, was protesting against that violation of natural laws, that the cells in which thought is elaborated were rebelling against that temeritous invasion.
His scruples had reawakened, and, full of a new vigor, were stifling the voices that had cried out to him to act.
He was gripped by the sharp sentiment of a profanation. He was about to violate the thought of others…and all the relationships of individuals, their habits, their laws, their amours, were founded on the invincible right of keeping the secret of themselves. Face to face, heart to heart, two lovers do not know one another. Everyone jealously retains his mystery and remains an enigma to others. The liberty of thinking for oneself alone was the true property of a human being; his sacred wealth, his supreme modesty, his ineradicable refuge.
And he was about to overturn that last rampart, to tear away that final veil? Was that not something impious and odious, a crime against humanity?
He was tempted to abdicate, to remain there, on his bench, between the sky and the water, in absolute solitude, until his redoubtable power vanished, until he had become a mere human being again, like all the rest...
What? Was he about to let the opportunity escape to know? There, a short walk away, in less than an hour, he could put the miracle to the proof. Was he going to abandon the task he had undertaken? The image of Lacaze standing in the dock, of Jeanne weeping, imposed itself on his memory. Compassion and curiosity prevailed. He rose to his feet.
Resolutely, he deplored the time lost in that sterile debate—for it was necessary for him to reconnoiter the terrain and map out his battle plan before being under the influence of the serum.
At a rapid pace, he went back to the quay, and headed for the lights of the casino, going through a deserted garden, brigh
tly illuminated, florid with large red and white parasols. In the vestibule, he had to appear before a tribunal of solemn checkers and submit to vain formalities in order to obtain an entry ticket to the gaming rooms. He finally got in.
In a décor of banal sumptuousness, an ardent and silent crowd was already pressing around the gaming tables. Mirande perceived that the majority of men were wearing smoking-jackets. Unaware until than of the dress-code, he was dressed in a simple tourist costume. He could not help feeling the embarrassment one experiences in not being conventionally dressed. His timidity increased. Once again, the temptation traversed him to retrace his steps, so foreign did he feel to that milieu; but he got a grip on himself. In a few minutes, would be not be superior to all these people?
Suddenly, a hand clapped his shoulder and another was extended toward him.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Mirande looked up. That tall stature, that energetic chin, that large black moustache, those dark eyes, that clear forehead! He recognized Captain Delacoste, who had commanded the battery in which he had served for two years as an artilleryman, and then as a quartermaster. He had met him again recently during a training exercise. The officer liked him. Rigid in service, benevolent outside, intelligent and worldly, he was reputed to enjoy his vocation and his pleasure equally. Mirande retained a pleasant memory of him.
“Mon capitaine!” he exclaimed.
“Commandant!” the offer corrected him, smiling. “Oh, don’t apologize. That only dates back a week. Yes, I’m attached to the Ministry. Presently, I’m on leave, and I came to Dorville to watch the races. I’m fond of the sport. But you, a pillar of the laboratory, what are you doing in this place of perdition?
As best he could, Mirande improvised a story. He explained that he had come to spend a few days by the sea to recuperate from his labors. Alone and idle, he had allowed himself to be tempted by the casino.
“Are you a gambler?” the Commandant interrogated.
Mirande, congratulating himself on having found an experienced guide, refrained from denying it.
“A little game wouldn’t frighten me.”
On the way, he had meditated his chances of success. At games of pure chance, like roulette or little horses, his power of divination would be no help to him. At baccarat, his superiority over a normal punter would be scarcely perceptible. There remained games such as écarté and poker, which left a part to initiative, in which the fact of knowing the adversary’s intentions would constitute a real and formidable advantage.
He admitted a secret preference for poker. He had spent entire evenings playing it in the ward-rooms where he spent time in the company of his comrades, hospital interns. But was it played at the casino? He had not yet had time to ascertain that. Perhaps he would have to fall back on écarté.
He confessed his predilection to the Commandant and asked him whether he would find competitors.
“They play a little of everything here,” the officer replied. “Anyway, we’ll make a tour of the rooms. You’ve never been here before?”
“Never.”
“Then it’s the moment to try your luck,” the Commandant suggested. “Me, I play cards and bet gladly, but I’ve been in a black streak for I don’t know how long. A real run of bad luck.”
After a pause among the crowd amassed around the little horses and the baccarat, they reached a quiet room, illuminated solely by shaded lamps played over tables, the peace of which was only troubled by the rustle of cards and ritual pronunciations.
The Commandant raised his hand to salute four players grouped at the back of the room. Then taking Mirande aside, he asked: “Without indiscretion, do you have some money to risk?”
Mirande had brought a few thousand-franc bills borrowed on his inheritance. He was determined to multiply them. He answered in the affirmative.
“Well,” Delacorte replied, “over there in the corner there’s a table where you might try your luck. But they’re good players, damn it! If you really have strength, it’ll be a hard tussle, I warn you. I know three of the messieurs; the fourth is a newcomer.”
“Who are they?”
“The handsome young man is Gomard, a Papa’s boy—you know, Gomard, of the Gomard capsules. As for the offspring, he hasn’t invented anything: a little popinjay, idle and snobbish, who makes the paternal millions waltz gracelessly.”
“And then?”
“That noble trapezoid beard is Martigue, the notary, with one of the biggest operations in Paris. He boasts of being richer than his richest clients.”
Mirande breathed out. He could, without overmuch scruple, vanquish such opponents. But a third person intrigued him: a true gentleman, proud and refined, soberly elegant, who was playing without departing from an attitude of great detachment, a lofty nonchalance. He pointed at him.
“Oh,” said Delacorte, “that’s the Marquis de Strezza. Genoese nobility, and a good player. It appears that he’s just lost large sums in a very exclusive club in Dorville itself. Here, at the casino, chance seems rather to smile on him. He likes baccarat. He’s the perfect banker, impassive and courteous. Indulgent even to small punters who hazard a modest stake, he goes so far as to calm the zeal of a croupier ready to take a hard line.”
Mirande decided to spare that generous adversary. But the Commandant continued: “In that regard, I was witness last week to a rather amusing coup. It was a small game. He’d given face cards to two blockheads and two others to himself. Asked for cards he distributed an eight to the left and an eight to the right. Before serving himself he half turned to drink a lemonade for which he’d asked a few minutes before. Immediately, profiting from the banker’s inattention, a good number of twenty-franc bets, not to mention a few chips, gently pushed, came slyly to increase the stakes. The marquis put down his glass, looked at his card again, took a card and drew…a nine. The gallery was most amused by the incident—except, of course, the pushers.
But Mirande was having difficulty listening. Feeble and scarce at first, strange thoughts were going through his mind. He was conscious of not having engendered them, but of registering them. The miracle of science was commencing...
Fortunately, Commandant Delacorte, attracted by a discreet conflict between two players, had drawn away slightly. Leaning on the mantelpiece, Mirande remained alone.
Doubtless the serum was not yet acting in its full force. Those thoughts were merely the advance guard of the ones that soon invaded him. They had to emanate from the nearest players, or the most energetic Then, very rapidly, they increased in number and strength, soon pullulating. There was a chaotic tumult of ideas in his head, a cerebral activity a hundred times more intense than that of the most exalting drunkenness.
He clasped his forehead with his hand, thinking that he was going mad.
He understood his master’s striking image. Yes, one became similar to the wireless telegraph posts that vibrated with all the scattered waves. Innumerable messages, in fact, were flying from the four corners of the room and falling upon him, mingling, overlapping, in the disorder and extravagance of an unparalleled delirium. They were passing, passing…all the preoccupations of the games, chagrin, hope, the names of cards, calculations, alarms, triumph, anguish…and also the fortuitous reflections that go through the minds of players, trivial concerns, projects, desires, amorous obsessions...
But Brion’s notes foresaw a kind of education of the new faculty, the possibility of extending his attention in a determined direction, of perceiving one thought more clearly than the others, as one hears the voice of a preferred interlocutor at table, in the midst of the hubbub of a general conversation.
In spite of his distress, Mirande attempted to train himself in that exercise. It seemed, after a few seconds, that he was obtaining some results. He succeeded in isolating himself relatively from the mental tumult, in choosing a subject, and reading better than any other the mind that he held most directly under this gaze.
But the Commandant summo
ned him with a sign. The unknown player had just quit his seat at the poker table. Delacoste offered to introduce the three of them to his young protégé. Mirande agreed, and on the officer’s warm recommendation, was immediately accepted.
The game began. Determined to spare the Marquis de Strezza, Mirande engaged in conflict with the other two opponents, and tried to exercise his clairvoyance on them. Gomard was revealed to be prudent and Martigue audacious. Thanks to an extreme mental tension, directed his gaze alternately from one to the other, he succeeded in discovering their cards and their intentions. He folded when they had good hands and stayed in when they risked the adventure and attempted a bluff. He quickly reckoned with them; soon, a pile of gold and banknotes accumulated in front of him.
But luck had favored the Marquis de Strezza, who had obstinately refused to cross swords with him, and he understood that a final duel was imposed between the two winners. He experienced a genuine embarrassment that spoiled the joy of the triumph.
It was the turn of the Marquis to deal. Leaving Martigue and Gomard to one side, striving no longer to perceive the murmur of their thought, Mirande concentrated all his attention on the gentleman. Suddenly, he started; he did not see the gesture but he glimpsed his noble adversary’s decision to substitute one deck of cards for another. The proud Genoese was nothing but a card sharp! That explained his indulgence for the push and the ingenious coup of the lemonade. Instantly, Mirande’s scruples vanished. There was pleasure and profit in cheating a cheat!
Stimulated by that strange context, Mirande followed the subtle maneuvers whose plan he read in his adversary’s thoughts. The Marquis served his opponents in such a way that at the draw Martigue and Gomard only needed one card. Mirande, with three of a kind, should have asked for two. That way, the fifth would go to the Marquis; it was the eight of hearts, which would have filled a flush and assured him of the winning hand.
The Lynx Page 6