He lifted it, and ran a proud glance around his entourage.
“My friends, I have the wound, and the organ is still functioning! Who knows?”
He bent over his work again. The most delicate moment: to suture the perforated organ, make it palpitate again, render the momentum to the pendulum that was beating its last oscillations.
“Catgut!” he cried. “Prepare the induction apparatus and the serum!”
And plunging the needle, the stopper of genius, he applied himself.
From then on, the rest of the operation no longer offered, for Gabriel, the same horrible interest. The surgeon’s “Who knows?” expanded within him a softness compounded of hope and stupor. His nerves gave way; he had to sit down.
He witnessed, in retreat, the last peripeties of the duel, the practices of the electrification of the heart, the propulsion of the physiological serum into Francette’s side.
And when, finally, the dressing was finished, the body, still similar to a cadaver, was taken away, his soul capsized. He venerated, with warm tears, everything that was carried off tenderness, virtue of bravery in that poor little livid muzzle, pointing its mutinous nose above the covers and retaining even in the grip of death the contrast of her absurdity and her heroism.
PART FOUR
I
Majestic and essential, two men were enthroned before a little table dressed in green baize, in the middle of the large vestibule with colonnades, where a few paintings, darkened by time, relieved the whiteness of the walls.
Mirande, sitting on a bench, whiled away the time by observing the two men who had, a little while before, received him with the arrogance inherent in their function. He had brandished the letter granting him an audience with the new Garde des Sceaux, Raucourt, but the austere guardians had not appeared to be dazzled by it. Faces shaven, chins high, gazes distant, doubtless lost in vast thoughts, they were reminiscent of two sphinxes on the threshold of a Temple guarding the enigma of Justice.
The attempted murder of Francette—still suspended, after two days, between life and death—had decided him on this step. Until then, only the secret thoughts of Castellan had revealed the existence of the pirate to him. He could not offer evidence to anyone. But the man had committed a new murder, Henceforth, therefore, Mirande could move out of cover, pursue his research in broad daylight, launch the police of the trail of the wretch, excite the zeal of sleuths. Poor little Francette, who, even on her death-bed, was still serving him!
He took out his watch. Four o’clock. He had wanted to be in possession of his power of divination before Raucourt, in order to contest with him at an advantage, to know his state of mind at every moment, to know whether he was gaining his cause. Not knowing how long he would have to wait, he had therefore injected himself an hour before entering the Ministry, in order to be ready for any eventuality.
He was astonished not to feel the first effects of the serum yet, the mental rumor that ordinarily rose up gradually within him. He ought to be able to glimpse the thoughts of those two stolen sphinxes...
Had the talisman lost its power, due to some unforeseen circumstance? Had the liquid deteriorated? Or had he become insensible to it?
Already, he was anxious. Without his prodigious clairvoyance, he would be nothing more, before the Minister, than a paltry solicitor. It would be a futile step, perhaps even a backward step, for he would lose the scant prestige that he flattered himself on having acquired in Raucourt’s eyes. And if, henceforth, he was no longer sure of his weapon, if he could no longer make use of it, he would fall back into impotence sand discouragement. He would not be able to finish the task that he had undertaken...
At that moment, a door opened with a dry click, and a short young man, with a false collar and shoes with built-up heels, swiftly traversed the room, darting a superior glance at the banquette.
Then Mirande received the impact of his thought: Another cretin who must be waiting for the Boss. Let’s flatten him.
He was not offended by that stupid reflection. On the contrary; he applauded it, for it proved that he really was under the influence of the serum. But the stupid young man disappeared and mental silence fell again.
He was not alone, however. The two sphinxes were still enthroned before their little green table. And suddenly, light dawned in his mind. The Ministry’s ushers were not thinking...
Shortly afterwards, a bell rang, and Mirande was introduced into a room that was solemn in style and dimensions, where Raucourt, in a casual jacket, seemed very small behind his desk.
While the Minister shook his hand, and indicated a chair with a gesture, he perceived behind his forehead the naïve and new satisfaction of appearing in his power.
Mirande had meditated his request carefully. He explained the Lacaze affair briefly, and the attempted murder of his maidservant. Then he concluded: “I have reason to believe that the two crimes have been committed by the same murderer. That is to tell you the importance I attach to his arrest.
Raucourt had listened to Mirande with a somewhat distracted attention. Ignorant of the objective of his approach, he had initially imagined that the young scientist had come to request his influence in favor of a red ribbon. He was relieved to learn that it as a matter of a judiciary error.
For a moment, he was amused by the ironic comparison. The task of extracting a man from a prison camp seemed less onerous to him than getting someone decorated!
Nevertheless, the prospect of a press campaign, a resounding revision, sobered him. Complications already, stories…to hear them, in truth, one would think that there wasn’t a single guilty person in prison.
His faith in the law was firm, since he presided over its destiny. In sum, he rejected the hypothesis of a connection between the two crimes. Mirande, who had surprise his incredulity, could not help exclaiming: “You don’t believe me, Monsieur le Ministre!”
Raucourt was astonished to be divined. He flattered himself on cleverly concealing his opinions. It was a political habit.
“I don’t say that!” he protested. “I still need to study the dossiers...”
Mirande did not want a false and preconceived idea to take root in Raucourt’s mind. He went on, with more emphasis: “But you’re already rejecting my conviction, Monsieur le Ministre, and I want, on the contrary, to penetrate you with it. Remember that, since Lacaze’s arrest, I have dedicated my life to seeking the truth. I can’t go into the detail of my enquiries and my means of investigation, but believe me, believe me—my friend is innocent and the guilty party has just committed another crime.”
Shaken, Raucourt thought: It’s possible, after all.
Immediately, he searched the wind: where did his interest lie? Ought he to get involved? In what direction?
To mask his calculation, he said, gravely: “You’re not unaware that the process of revision must follow precise regulations. No one can change the course...”
Mirande, reading the hesitations of the ambitious politician, sure of touching the sensible fiber, exclaimed: “But one can hasten or slow them down. Now, once again, believe me, Monsieur le Ministre, that revision will happen. If you are hostile to it, the event will do you harm. You’ll regret too late not having believed me, for neither your friends nor your adversaries will forgive you for an error. If you show yourself favorable to it, you’ll receive the benefits of having seen clearly, of having preceded the law on the right path, and you’ll come out of it even stronger...”
Raucourt interrupted him with a modest gesture. “Let’s leave personal considerations out of it. It’s sufficient for a cause to be just for me to take an interest in it.”
And he thought: Yes, but that’s it: is it just? Oh, of course, if I were sure, I’d start moving immediately.
That was the opportunity for Mirande to deliver a final thrust, to touch his precise objective.
“It’s necessary to search and have the man arrested, Monsieur le Ministre, and he will give you the proof you lack himself. With nothi
ng left to lose, he’ll talk. Except that he’s being pursued for a rather banal murder: a working-class girl stabbed by a marauder. That’s scarcely enough to excite the zeal of an examining magistrate or his agents. But you can simulate their zeal, you can make sure that they treat that humble news item as a resounding drama, so that they bring more attention to it and more ardor. Do that, Monsieur le Ministre, do that, I implore you. At a stroke, you’ll make your clairvoyance shone, and you’ll be enlightened yourself.”
Raucourt made a few rapid notes. The he rose to his feet: “So be it. I promise to do everything, in that direction, that is within my power.”
He was sincere. His words were in accord with his thought.
As he quit the Minister, Mirande savored once again an impression that no human being had known before him: he was exactly edified as to the nature and the value of promises that were made to him.
Under the porch, he almost bumped into Dutoit, the examining magistrate. When he had encountered him for the first time, on the evening at Lambrine’s house, he had felt disarmed, for want of the serum. His rancor reawakened against the man who had worked to doom Lacaze, but the fortunate outcome of his interview with Raucourt, and the certainty of finally reading the magistrate’s thought, incited him to clemency. He saluted him without stiffness.
The other conserved the unctuous bonhomie that he only set aside in order to harass accused individuals and witnesses. Internally, however, he was anxious. What the devil was Mirande cooking up with the Justice? Was it a matter of that accursed Lacaze affair again? To engage him to confessions and dazzle him with his own importance, he said: “I have a meeting with the Minister...”
“I’ve just left him,” Mirande admitted, candidly.
Without allowing anything to appear, Dutoit was alarmed. Oh, but…but this was becoming serious. He enquired, graciously: “Do you know him well?”
Decidedly in a good mood, and delighted to torment the torturer, Mirande played with words: “He has no secrets for me...”
Suddenly, the magistrate took fright. The young man before him had a grudge against him for having condemned his friend, for perhaps having mistreated him somewhat as a witness. Was he about to become an adversary, to take his revenge, to weigh upon the Minister? Was that nomination as a counselor, so keenly coveted, about to retreat again?
So Dutoit was preparing to solicit a promotion...
Mirande congratulated himself on learning that. By virtue of that, he might have a hold on him, for the magistrate might be dangerous. If he mentioned the Lacaze affair incidentally to the Minister, Dutoit would want to defend his decision. He might shake Raucourt’s fresh conviction.
“Some good advice,” said Mirande, in a peremptory tone. “Avoid as much as possible mentioning the Lacaze affair to Raucourt. You won’t be of his opinion. You’ll risk annoying him. You know as well as I do what these interviews are like. It’s a matter of explaining one’s desire clearly and leaving the Minister with a good impression. So, you have nothing to gain by it, and you might lose by it. Adieu.”
He left Dutoit resolved to a prudent silence.
He would be under the influence of the serum for a few hours yet. Buoyed up by the result of his interview with the Minister, he had himself taken rapidly to the offices of La Lumière, in order to attempt an analogous step with Favery. A shift of opinion would stimulate Raucourt’s zeal. For a Minister, the press is often a second conscience.
On the first floor of La Lumière, he found employees almost as solemn as the sphinxes of the Justice, but he did not have the leisure to spy on their thoughts because, in that late afternoon, visitors were crowding the newspaper’s antechamber, from the debutant who was bring his first article or launching his first novel, and the complainant who had come to demand a rectification, to the petty actress who would exchange a smile for three lines of publicity.
They were all ruminating the speeches that would seduce, convince or conquer the director—except that the fear of not being received by him that evening traversed their meditation. Ardent prayers and disparate invocations were launched toward the omnipotent Favery, a canticle that buzzed in Mirande’s brain, sometimes troubled, like the bell of a choir-boy in the meditation of a mass, by a strident alert: What if he won’t see me!
But the employee who had announced Mirande showed him into a waiting room, doubtless reserved for select visitors. There, two mature men, decorated, sitting on a settee, were conversing in low voices. One of them, dressed casually, with a cigar in his lips, seemed at home: some administrator of the house. He was mainly listening. The other, gloved, fastidious and comfortable, was speaking abundantly.
Suddenly, Mirande perceived the name of Quatrefin. What did the man want? Habituated now to disentangling the double thread of speech and reflection, he followed both.
Aloud, the loquacious individual was criticizing the financier with moderation: “An intelligence of the first order. Very enterprising. Very audacious. But he wants to have everything. So, he’s launched this affair of electrical wires and cables, which, well directed, would have the finest future, thanks to the development of distant transport and the increasing employment of hydroelectric power. He ought to devote himself to it entirely and be content with it. Well, yes. Today he covets the furnishing of military airplanes. He wants to found a company of which all the small constructors of airplanes will be tributaries, and to centralize those considerable orders in his hands: all the inconveniences of a monopoly without the advantages. It’s too much, too much. The fellow will end up breaking his back. In the interests of the army, it’s important to warn him of the danger.”
And silently: Inasmuch as I want to appropriate that enormous supply myself, Quatrefin is a hindrance to me. He has to disappear. He’s supported by his wires and cables. That base has to crumble. Classic procedure. I’ll buy all the shares in that company surreptitiously, and once I control the market, I’ll provoke a fall by spreading nasty rumors, until there’s a panic and a debacle. My man is down and I have an open field...
Mirande was beginning not to be indignant any longer about the murderous thoughts that so often rolled around behind foreheads. So someone was meditating Quatrefin’s ruin…what should he do? Warn the financier? Let him sink?
But a door opened and, neat, polished and astonishingly young, Favery was framed in the bay.
The two men continued talking in low voices on the settee. Mirande went into the director’s office. For a second time, he exposed himself to the double drama, strive to impose his conviction, lauded the benefit and the advantage of a campaign assured of ultimate success.
Like Raucourt, Favery appeared attentive and as sometimes distracted. While nodding his head gravely as a sign of acquiescence, he noted that Mirande must have shaved himself, for little islets of hair persisted in the folds of the neck. He judged the form of the collar becoming and promised himself to adopt it. Unlike the Minister, however, he allowed himself to be won over without resistance. His adhesion was rapid and complete.
“Understood,” he said, standing up. “I’ll put you in contact with one of my reporters, who’ll occupy himself with these questions. He’s a man we’ve just released from prison by means of a vigorous campaign. Although his innocence was recognized, he’s had difficulty finding employment. I took him on at the paper. You’ll see that he knows about judiciary errors!
Indeed, he knew them very well. Of the Lacaze affair he assimilated rapidly everything that Mirande could unveil without revealing the secret of his power. He promised to follow the plan traced by his employer, to pique the curiosity of the public by semi-revelations, to stimulate the zeal of the people in place. At the back of his mind, however—where Mirande penetrated—he was resistant. He was more difficult to convince than Favery, or even Raucourt. By a singular irony, the man unjustly condemned did not believe in the innocence of others!
Outside, the memory of Quatrefin imposed itself on Mirande. He was not, for him, some marionette whose
fall or rise one regards with an indifferent eye. No, he was the man who was courting Madame Castillan discreetly, the man who had spoiled, by a surge of jealousy, the pleasure of seeing Simone again. But he was also the man who had had the rare courage to testify in favor of Lacaze, the man who was ready to aid him with his fortune.
Certainly, Mirande only had to disinterest himself in the struggle, of a kind so frequent between rich men. Quatrefin would sink for a while, cease to cause him umbrage and at least deliver him from one anxiety. But ought he to let one of those who had dared to extend a hand to the accused Lacaze go to his ruin without a gesture, without a warning, purely out of personal interest?
Generosity prevailed. Ten minutes after leaving the offices of La Lumière, he entered Quatrefin’s, and rediscovered his warm handshake, his rude voice and his direct gaze.
As soon as the words of welcome had been exchanged, the financier asked: “Have you seen our friend recently?”
And Mirande, who still had his power, perceived all the pleasure that Quatrefin had in evoking Simone: a brief and sharp torture that he was able to master and which did not deflect him from his project.
Unable to confess how he had learned the truth, he explained that he had overheard a conversation in one of the waiting rooms of the Lumière, and revealed to Quatrefin his adversary’s plan.
“Of course!” Quatrefin exclaimed. “It’s that animal Chardin. I knew he wanted the cake.” Then he offered thanks that Mirande recognized as sincere: “My dear Monsieur, you’ve done me a great service. In our world, a man warned is worth a hundred. Alerted in time, I can ward off the blow. On the other hand, unaware that Chardin was buying my shares surreptitiously, I wouldn’t have been able to avoid the storm on the day it burst forth.”
“What are you going to do?” Mirande asked. “I’m entirely ignorant of matters of the Bourse.”
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