“I’ll accompany you to the Minister,” he said.
“You’re too kind, Monsieur.”
They left the office and went through the station, where the drowsy policemen did not even look up. Oh, the worthy fellows! They scarcely suspected that their recent victim was about to save them from an atrocious calamity, an unspeakable scourge. But Gabriel forgave them their violence. He felt that he had the heart of an apostle.
Outside, the pure air soothed him after the emanations of the station. Moonlight caressed the roofs of the houses. He consulted the luminous clock of a nearby kiosk. Scarcely one o’clock in the morning. He still had time.
However, when the moment came to get into the taxi he was astonished. He was shoved very rudely into the back of the vehicle. That the secretary got in too was legitimate, but why that escort? Why were the two agents piling into the second banquette with a rattle of sabers? Why was a third getting in next to the driver? He was also disquieted by the fact that the vehicle pulled away without the address being given to the driver. Were they playing with him?
On the way, he tried to follow the itinerary. Where were they going? Where did Raucourt live? For pride’s sake, he did not want to interrogate the policemen. He grasped too late the odiousness of the situation.
The vehicle stopped. The faint light of a street-lamp illuminated a bleak frontispiece. An agent took him by the arm, drew him through a low door. A brief conversation, a clink of keys, corridors, a sort of cell: he finally understood. The Commissaire had judged him to be mad. He had sent him to the special infirmary at the remand center.
Mad…he thought he would go mad. Thus, on the whim of a stupid Commissaire, everything was collapsing. Lacaze’s cause was lost, Castillan was triumphant, and the fate of the country was compromised.
He wept, in the sheets that seemed still damp with other tears. Oh, the broken, fitful sleep, in which the vision of dear people, an impious war, filled his dreams and his insomnia!
And yet, in the depths of his distress, one hope still gleamed, No, he did not have the right to allow himself to be defeated by human stupidity, when he possessed a superhuman power. If he was obliged, at the price of a sacrilege, to reveal his power, he would not succumb...
In the opaque darkness of his cell, he thought he could still see, like a tutelary gleam, the fluorescent ampoule...
IV
In the morning, when Mirande was summoned before the little man in the black frock-coat, with a rosette in his buttonhole, a denuded forehead and a gray beard, he suspected immediately that it was the official medical examiner.
Finally, he was hoping to be able to explain himself. He was sure of convincing him, of quickly dissipating the misunderstanding. His plan was entirely traced. He had meditated it for a long time during his hours of insomnia. He had resolved not to abandon himself to violence again. And he would certainly be able to avoid the traps that were set for him.
He observed his judge. Profound wrinkles furrowed his cheeks, going astray in the undergrowth of his beard. The gaze was sharp, disillusioned, but the ensemble was honest, almost sympathetic.
Certainly, Mirande knew his name, his reputation. He searched his memory, evoked portraits published by the newspapers. And suddenly, a memory surged forth: Brimmel, the alienist. His story had caused a brief scandal in medical milieux. It was claimed that his rosette had been bought by his complaisance. In a medico-legal report, he had concluded the madness of a troublesome Minister. Later, events had justified his diagnosis, but the opposition press had made a great fuss at the time.
Mirande judged it prudent not to recognize him. And, following that strategy, he lent himself tranquilly to the examination. He willingly placed himself facing the light, as was demanded of him. He responded calmly to the first questions. He smiled internally at Brimmel’s ruse, representing himself as an envoy of the Court rather than a physician. He hid his irritation at seeing that the scientist began the conversation with the preconceived idea of madness.
In fact, Brimmel deployed the benevolence and amenity that one uses with an interlocutor whom it is unwise to contradict and whose confidence one wants to capture. He declared that he knew of Mirande’s fine work beside the lamented Brion, and the preponderant place that he had taken at the laboratory since his master’s death.
Then, arriving at the adventure of the previous evening, he seemed to accept its plausibility. It was, in sum, the convenient procedure that the Commissaire de Police had used: flatter the lunatic, pretend to believe him.—with the variant that Brimmel was preparing his traps, noting in passing the points of the narrative that would later appear extravagant.
But at the first attempt of that sort, Gabriel cut him off: “Come on, Doctor, don’t use trickery with me.”
“Doctor? Who told you that?” said the physician, astonished.
“That you’re an alienist charged with examining me? But it stands to reason—the reason of a rational mind, at least. I ask you, would a magistrate have placed me facing the light to observe the equality of my pupils? Would he have interrogated me like a madman, flattering my supposed mania? Would he have praised my laboratory and my work so eloquently, to see whether I gave evidence of an unhealthy pride? No, no, the Court doesn’t take so many precautions! They reveal a specialist, a manipulator of madmen.”
He applauded himself for that engagement. Then, very calmly, he went on: “Well, so be it, Doctor. You need to make observations for your report. I will, if you’ll permit me, furnish you with the elements. Let’s begin with the reflexes.”
Methodically, he crossed his legs. He gave himself a sharp tap under the knee, on the tendon that links the tibia to the patella. At that stimulus, his leg gave a brief jerk, which testified to a normal nervous system.
“You can see that my reflexes are intact?” he said, smiling, and added: “You’ve doubtless also remarked that my voice isn’t affected by any tremor, which denotes the integrity of my rachidian bulb; that my march is assured and my movements are precise, which affirms the good state of my spinal fluid. I have not, thus far, manifested any ambitious delirium, in spite of your excessive praise. In a word, I don’t present any of the symptoms of the cerebro-spinal inflammation for which you’ve looking for ten minutes. Do you want me to lend myself to further experiments now, to come, to go, to debate?”
“You’ve studied medicine, then, Monsieur?” asked Brimmel, nonplussed.
“I have at least frequented the wards of hospitals, including those of Bicêtre and the Salpêtrière, where the sick are treated…very different from me, believe me. I can swear to you, Doctor, that I’m not afflicted by any flaw similar to those I’ve studied.”
The physician sketched a vague gesture. Gabriel interpreted it immediately.
“Yes, I see. You’re telling yourself that many of the insane escape the physical observations...that it often happens that the organism doesn’t denote them…that the entire drama is played out far from science, in the mysterious centers of thought...and that it’s necessary to put the demented on the path of their delirium to be persuaded of their condition. Well, so be it. Let’s get on to my obsession, let’s talk about my life, Let’s see whether my faculties are troubled from this moment on.”
For the first time, Brimmel found himself confronted by a subject who was discussing his own case, posing in advance the questions that he was going to ask. He was disorientated by that. But madness reveals itself under so many unexpected aspects, and sometimes so much logic, that he was still suspicious.
“Yes, let’s go into my mania,” Gabriel went on. “How have I manifested it, this mania? By claiming to have discovered a state secret in the midst of a diplomatic soirée, and by having difficulty explaining to the Commissaire how I came to possess it. That’s it, isn’t it? There isn’t anything else? For what happened thereafter, my attempt to reach the Garde des Sceaux, my exasperation when I was opposed by force, can all be explained by my impatience to communicate my discovery to him right a
way. And you would have acted as I did, Doctor. You would have revolted as I did, wouldn’t you?”
The physician nodded. He still had no comment to make.
“All the charges against my mentality, therefore,” Mirande continued, “can be summarized as follows: I gave an explanation of the origin of that secret that seemed suspect to the policemen. But suppose, for example, that I had that confidence from a person that I can’t name…or that I surprised it thanks to a method I can’t divulge. Isn’t it logical that I would improvise a story…maladroitly, in truth, since it brought me before you…but which was imposed by necessity? That’s the whole of it! Am I exposed to you as a madman?”
“Absolutely not.”
Gabriel had a flash of victory. His strategy was succeeding. He was triumphing without having to embark on the redoubtable struggle regarding the existence of the serum. All his assurance returned to him. He glimpsed imminent liberty.
“Furthermore,” he added, “one doesn’t deliberately lock up a man—even a maniac—who doesn’t pose any danger to public safety. I’m not dangerous. And a decision you make against me would be severely interpreted by the press…the press that easily accuses a physician arbitrarily, that willingly charges him with partiality…sometimes of interest....”
No allusion could have been more sensible to the medical examiner. Since his adventure with regard to the rosette, the fear of scandal had dominated him.
“In fact, the press isn’t always convenient,” said the alienist, reaching for the inkwell. Undoubtedly, he was about to write a favorable report, concluding with Mirande’s release.
At that moment, however, a warder came in, and pronounced a few words in Brimmel’s ear; the latter got up immediately.
“Wait for me, and have confidence,” he said, as he went out.
Unfortunate Mirande! Would he have retained the joy in his eyes if he had been able to suspect that Castillan was on the other side of the door, asking for Brimmel?
A brief item published at the last minute by the morning newspapers had alerted Castillan to Mirande’s misadventure. What an admirable opportunity! For him, the young chemist represented a constant danger, a living threat. For he knew. How? That, Simone’s husband could not understand. At any rate, he knew. And Castellan had already been thinking of ways to harm him when that news item fell under his gaze. One again, destiny was offering itself to him, tempting him.
Knowing the time of the medico-legal examination, he had arrived just in time.
He approached Brimmel cordially. He had known him for a long time, encountering him frequently at dinners of a body of which he was the president. Serious questions were rigorously banished therefrom. Sympathies were sealed there by the warmth of good wine, and Castillan excelled at spreading charm and enthusiasm at those feasts.
He said immediately that, passing the remand center, he had seized the opportunity to notify his dear colleague of a change in the date of the next banquet.
“The January promotion has offered our society three new decorations,” he said, in a satisfied tone. “It’s appropriate to give a certain splendor to the monthly feast. That’s why I’ve put it back for a week in order to bring together more people. That’s all right? You’ll come?”
“I’ll come.”
They were about to separate when Castillan, indicating the office door, said “You’re on duty?”
“Yes, I’m examining Mirande…you know Mirande, Brion’s pupil...”
“What! Mirande’s been arrested?” said Castillan, feigning surprise. He seemed to reflect momentarily. Then, slyly, he filtered between his teeth; “Of course, it was to be expected.”
“Why is that?”
“But he’s mad!”
“Well, he doesn’t seem so to me…I wasn’t about to conclude that.”
“Be careful, my dear, be careful!” His voice and his physiognomy expressed such conviction that Brimmel became anxious.
“Do you know something?”
“Me…not at all,” said Castillan. At the same time he extended his hand, to bid farewell. He was manifestly removing himself for the sake of discretion—so Brimmel restrained him by one of the buttons of his impeccable jacket.
“But yes—you know something, I can see by your expression. Come on, admit it.”
“Professional secrecy, my dear, what can you do?”
“Between us?”
Castillan hesitated; then, generously: “No, it wouldn’t be charitable.” And he attempted to withdraw again.
Then Brimmel pressed him to speak, alleging their good relationship, the services that colleagues owe one another, his fear of further troubles with the satanic newspapers.
“Well, yes,” Castillan consented, vanquished by that pressure. “Yes, I’ve known the poor fellow for a long time, and I pinned him down with a solid diagnosis long ago. He has the most dangerous persecution mania…can you imagine that I’ve even been the victim of it?”
“You?”
“Me, my dear.”
“In what circumstances?”
“Quite recently, in fact. It’s necessary that you understand that I know him slightly through my wife. Quite recently, he presented himself at my home, and in what a state, great gods! What agitation! And there, without warning, he accused me of several crimes...several, you hear? All as frightful as one another.”
“Tell me...”
Castellan shrugged his shoulders. “So ludicrous that it’s not worth the trouble of taking about them.”
Brimmel insisted: “But yes, yes...”
“Well, he claims that I had a cousin of my wife’s murdered, from whom we inherited. He added that in order to profit alone from that inheritance, I had my wife buried alive after plunging her into a hypnotic sleep…and other inanities even more ridiculous, such as can germinate in the mind of the persecuted. Oh, he won’t go away and remain quiet. And note that he presented these enormities to me with such an appearance of reason that if he’d accused another person in the same terms, in truth, I would immediately have gone to the public prosecutor.”
“Sapristi! You’ve done well to warn me. I was about to sign his release!”
“At least keep him under observation for a few days,” advised Castellan. Then, before going away, he politely offered to wait for his colleague, to drop him at home when he had finished with Mirande. As the alienist hesitated, fearing that he might be too long delayed, Castillan protested: “No, no! We so rarely have the opportunity to chat.”
“All right—we’ll go back together,” Brimmel agreed.
When Mirande saw him come back in, he understood that his dispositions had changed. Something had turned his judge against him. But he was careful not to let his suspicion show, in which, Brimmel, forewarned, might have been able to discover persecution mania.
He therefore waited for a new interrogation. Questions did, indeed, fall upon him, striking the same point with irritating insistence. How had he discovered the diplomatic secret?
“I’ve allowed you to divine it, Doctor: from a third person.”
“What third person? That’s very vague information you’re giving me there. I could consider it an evasion. It’s necessary that I know, do you understand? That I can check...”
“I’ve also told you that the check was impossible.”
“However, what if I gave you my word of honor to verify your affirmation personally? What if I promised to go alone to find your confidant, to ask him for his evidence and to forget it immediately?”
“That can’t be done, Doctor.”
The struggle continued, stubborn on both sides. And suddenly, war weary, Brimmel reached out toward his penholder again.
“In that case, what do you expect? I’m obliged to keep you!”
Mirande collapsed, desperate. He had glimpsed a chink of the sky through the breach. It was being walled up again. Oh, how could he put an end to it? How could he recover the necessary liberty?
Certainly, one means existed: to re
veal Brion’s discovery to the Doctor. But had not the old master demanded secrecy? Would he not be dishonoring his memory, breaking his word?
He debated the matter internally, very rapidly. Evidently, in ordering silence, Brion had not foreseen such complications. His indulgent and generous heart would have yielded to the force of circumstance. And it seemed to Mirande that an encouragement from beyond the tomb came to him from the Great Seeker, a generous, tutelary: “Go on, I permit it.”
Then, recklessly, turning an anguished face toward the alienist, he said: “Forgive me, Doctor. Well, yes, I haven’t told you the whole truth. You’re pushing me to a confession that costs me dear, but I owe it to you. Know this: I have no confidant in this affair. I alone discovered the diplomatic secret…and this is by what mysterious power...”
Oh, the emotion, the dolor, the solemnity of Mirande when he dared to make the august revelation. One might have thought that he was drawing it from the depths of an abyss. He veiled his face as if before a sacrilege. He trembled throughout his being.
Alas, to end with what! With a smile of compassion! Brimmel did not believe him. Brimmel inclined his head with pitying skepticism.
Then the unfortunate embarked on a theoretical explanation of the serum. To convince a scientist, science would perhaps serve? Not at all! The alienist was no longer even listening. He had picked up a pencil and was tracing vague figures on a piece of paper. Then he abandoned his drawing and looked for his portfolio.
That gesture inspired Mirande. For half an hour he had been exhausting himself trying to convince him; why had he not thought of the decisive testimony? But he was carrying it on him, the proof! It was there in his pocket!
“I can see that you don’t believe me, Doctor.”
“But yes, my friend, but yes.”
“No, you don’t believe me. But I’ll oblige you to believe me, because I’ll inject myself in front of you. Only consent to summon me in an hour, the time for the serum to act, for me to be fully impregnated by it, and none of our thoughts will escape me. I’ll repeat them to you—all of them! And I’ll finally have reckoned with those who want to doom me.”
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