On the Brink of the World's End

by Brian Stableford

  She uttered a slight cry of surprise.

  “Oh! Pardon me! I thought I was alone.”

  “It’s me, Sister, who ought to beg your pardon,” Laurent murmured, rather emotionally. “Yesterday morning you played the organ admirably, and I’d be happy to hear you again this evening. Is that indiscreet? If it is indiscreet, I’ll go.”

  “Oh, Monsieur!” she said, smiling. “I believe you’re making fun of me. You play so well, so very well, that I’m scarcely a schoolgirl by comparison.”

  “Truly, no, I don’t play as well as you think—but I’ve had the rare good fortune to receive lessons from an excellent master, a great artist, and it’s to him that I owe the little I know.”

  He sat down at the organ. “If you’ll permit, Sister,” he said, “let me begin; that will embolden you. Didn’t you play Ave Maria the other evening? Well, this is how to approach that piece. It’s necessary that from the very start, one hears vibrating something akin to a supreme invocation, a cry of gratitude, a surge of infinite tenderness. It’s a solemn sacrifice; the incense of a humble and tender prayer that rises, and rises, solely and majestically, toward the blue sky. There is everything in that hymn, but above all, there is admiration and love.”

  Laurent was no longer preoccupied with Sister Marthe now; he allowed himself to be drawn away by inspiration; and again, in the silence of the evening, the Ave Maria shook the walls of the chapel, a song of almost-divine love, into which Laurent put his entire soul.

  Suddenly, he looked at Sister Marthe. She was immobile, standing next to him, her eyes staring, as if lost in the void.

  Laurent recognized that attitude, that ecstatic immobility. What? Could it be somnambulism? He knew that music can sometimes determine such crises, in nervous organizations. But how could he suppose that this nun…?

  He pulled himself together quickly. With a prompt and energetic gesture he extended his hand before Sister Marthe’s face. Immediately, she uttered a profound sigh, and her eyes closed.

  “Sister Marthe?” he said, very softly.

  “My name isn’t Sister Marthe,” she said, straightening up proudly. “My name is Angèle de Mérande.”

  As Laurent, amazed, made no response, she added: “What do you want with me?”

  Laurent was deeply embarrassed. Certainly, Angèle was in a somnambulistic trance. But what should he do? What should he say?

  “I want to cure you. I want to save you.”

  “Ah! You’re talking to the nun,” she said, with a supreme disdain. “But you know full well that she’s consumptive and is going to die.”

  “No, it’s necessary that she doesn’t die. I want her to die. It’s necessary that she lives.”

  Angèle reflected for a moment, and shook her head indifferently. “What does it matter to you?”

  Then she came very close to Laurent, put her hand on his shoulder, and said, in an imploring tone: “Play again, I beg you.”

  “No,” said Laurent, “I won’t play anymore. I want to save her.”

  “Again, what does it matter to you? You know full well that she can’t love you.”

  Laurent sensed that he had gone very pale. He perceived that his hands were trembling, and he understood the extent to which he was disturbed—profoundly disturbed. But he avoided replying to Angèle, and contented himself with repeating, as if mechanically, what he had said before.

  “I don’t want her to die. We’ll save her, won’t we? We’ll save her.”

  “If you wish,” said Angèle, taking Laurent’s trembling hand between hers. “If you wish. Don’t you know that I will always obey you?”

  “Always,” murmured Laurent, as if speaking to himself.

  He was almost no longer conscious of what he was saying. He felt invaded by the dream; he dared not even take his hand away from Angèle’s burning hands. How many times, curiously leaning over the faces of his magnetized subjects, had he not monitored their words, their gestures and their attitudes, in the hope of surprising some of the grandiose mysteries of intelligence that revealed themselves then in sudden and fleeting gleams? But today, it was not the sacred fire of science that made his heart beat and oppressed his breast. To love Sister Marthe, to love Angèle—had he, then, reached that degree of folly?

  Angèle took his hand and kissed it.

  He snatched it away abruptly.

  “No! I don’t want that,” he said, in a firm voice. “I don’t want that. Listen to me, now, and think about obeying me.”

  “Oh!” she cried, bring her two hands back to her breast. “I beg you, don’t speak to me harshly. You’ll make me ill.”

  “Forgive me! Forgive me!” He had already renounced the role of master. He was at her knees, and tears stifled his voice.

  “Angèle,” he said, “Angèle, understand me. I won’t speak to you harshly again; I won’t cause you any more pain. It’s not a matter of you but the other, the nun, Sister Marthe, who will soon pronounce her vows. It’s necessary to cure her, to save her. You alone can stop the terrible disease that is threatening her, and I want you to save her.”

  There was a long silence. Angèle seemed to be reflecting profoundly.

  “So be it,” she said, finally. “I promise you that she won’t die.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

  It was him, now, who held Angèle’s hands clasped between his own. With her eyes closed, she smiled, as if that chaste caress had rendered her happy, all the way to the utmost depths of her being.

  And Laurent, allowing himself to be carried away by the vision that had entered his life, could not detach his gaze from that charming face, illuminated by a delicate and tender smile.

  Then, suddenly regaining possession of himself, he dropped the young woman’s hands.

  She sought now to retain them in his, but he resisted.

  “Adieu, Angèle, adieu! It’s late; it’s necessary to recall Sister Marthe.”

  “No—I don’t want her to come back. What need do we have of her?”

  “It’s necessary,” Laurent repeated. “It’s necessary.”

  He could see the shadows of dusk increasing by the minute. Already, the grooves between the flagstones of the church were no longer discernible, and the crucifix on the holy altar was half-drowned in the darkness.

  He understood that it was necessary to finish it. With an energetic effort he took hold of Angèle’s two hands and blew sharply on her forehead.

  She uttered a slight sigh, and immediately opened her eyes. Then she looked around and, after a brief moment of indecision, headed for the door.

  “Thank you, Monsieur le Docteur,” said Sister Marthe, gravely. “The next time I play the Ave Maria, I’ll remember the lesson you’ve given me.”

  Then she went out. Laurent, standing at the chapel door, followed her with his eyes until she went through the gate of the park.

  As is understandable, that evening, at dinner, Laurent was distracted, and he did not lend a very attentive ear to the conversation of his hosts.

  They were talking about magnetism again. Laurent got carried away.

  “Fundamentally, magnetism is an enormous ineptitude, and I shall henceforth hold it in horror. I shall never occupy myself with that nonsense again; it’s a waste of time—and I’d give ten years of my life never to have entered into that accursed study.”

  “What!” said George. “Don’t you know more about it than others?”

  “On the contrary, I know less than the others. Oh, my friend, what depresses me is that I’m always working in vain, in order not to understand anything. Look at its history! Magnetism is neither more nor less than the question of the beyond. When has it been resolved? When has anyone even approached a solution? For three thousand years people have been studying it, and they’re no further forward than they were three thousand years ago. The priests of Isis sought for twenty-five dynasties of kings; they didn’t find anything. For twenty centuries, in the mountains of Tibet, the fakirs have been mortifying and mu
tilating themselves. What have they achieved? And we, in our savant Europe, are as impotent as those old bonzes. What consoles me for my pains, is thinking that, after us, others will seek without finding any more. No, truly, the best thing is to let all that rest in the folderol of old errors. Let’s sleep, eat, drink, walk, live, and not rack our brains searching for a solution to the insoluble.”

  “Good,” said the General. “All that’s talk, and you don’t believe a word of it. You’d be the first to complain if tranquility were imposed on you.”

  “No, General, I swear to you. Oh, I believe that the curé was right, and that they’re infernal problems. By delving into them I’ve lost—and completely lost, alas—the divine peace of the heart.”

  “The peace of the heart, the peace of the heart—a fine affair! It’s only snails that possess it, the peace of the heart.”

  That evening, on the terrace of the château, smoking their cigars, Laurent and the general talked again. They talked about happiness, that ungraspable dream of every human being, a hollow dream, a vain imagination, a frightful and harrowing pursuit.

  The general’s conclusion was that happiness is neither repose or action, but action with the hope of repose.

  Laurent, by contrast, claimed that the greatest stupidity is necessary to happiness. “A very modest ease, a tenacious passion, moderate and easy to satisfy, like collecting postage stamps or butterflies; a petty monotonous employment, which occupies the day without fatigue; an irreproachable stomach that nothing upsets; a ferocious egotism that nothing disturbs—those are the conditions of a true and solid happiness.”

  Poor Laurent! He sensed that happiness was not made for him. He could not go back, to efface the images and memories that imposed themselves upon him. One is not the master of one’s thoughts; one cannot say to oneself: “Let’s forget; let’s stop.” Even in the midst of follies, one can neither forget nor stop.

  This ridiculous adventure can only degenerate into an odious scandal. So it’s necessary to go, and to go right away. But to go is never to see her again. What a cruelty of fate!

  He spends the entire night without sleep. Standing on the balcony of his window, he gazes out into the countryside. The moon illuminates the chapel; a profound silence reins everywhere.

  Sister Marthe is asleep now. But the other, that adorable Angèle, where is she? In what shadow is she plunged? If I wanted, she would appear again. And why shouldn’t I want it? Can I not find true love there, the pure and profound love that no woman in the world can give me? And then again, if it’s love, it’s power too, power so great that no man can dream of its like. Love and power—what more is necessary to make the human heart beat?

  Happiness, love, science, power, the future! What truth is there behind all those big words?

  It is only at dawn that Laurent is able to fall asleep.

  VII

  The next day was to be spent hunting. George and the General had promised Laurent to enable him to kill a few pheasants, perhaps even a capercaillie, an entirely exceptional game-bird scarcely found anywhere but France. All three of them left early in the morning.

  Laurent was seeking to stun himself, to distract himself, to rid himself of the unhealthy agitation that had stirred him during the night. He walked all day, and had the good fortune to kill a few pheasants, to the great joy of the General, who was astonished to find such an intrepid hunter in that Parisian.

  George was the first to want to go back. Then the General followed his example. Laurent thus fund himself in the wood alone, in the company of a twelve-year-old boy who was carrying his cartridges and his game-bag.

  Until then he had put on a brave face, but when he saw that he was left to his own devices, all his hunter’s courage suddenly disappeared. On the slope of the valley, between the clearings in the chestnut trees, the turrets of the château were visible in the distance, and, nearby, the little white chapel where, yesterday, Sister Marthe...

  Angèle or Sister Marthe; he no longer distinguishes them from one another. He is in love.

  In love! Is he that mad? Certainly, he has been in love before—twice, counting accurately. The first time, at twenty-two, it was with a cheerful, insouciant, elegant seamstress, also very affectionate, whom he had loved madly for months on end. Then, a second time, at twenty-eight, there was a charming woman, pretty and amiable. But those two amorous caprices, perhaps more sensual than loving, bore no resemblance to the palpitation full of anguish, both delightful and fatiguing, with which the mere memory of Angèle obsesses his breast.

  Then he perceived that he had taken a path that was bringing him closer instead of further away from the village. He also recognized that, instead of descending slowly and serenely, in the manner of a hunter whose is looking in all directions, he was striding past the brushwood on the stony paths, as if he were in a tearing hurry to get back. His young companion was entirely out of breath.

  “Hey there, Doctor!” someone called to him, a few paces from the path.

  He stopped dead. Under an oak, the old curé was reading is breviary.

  “You’re going back to the village, young man, I can see. It’s nearly five o’clock—time to go back to our lodgings.”

  “Give me your arm, Monsieur le Curé.”

  “Why? The legs are still solid. But, from what I see, you’ve had good hunting at Plancheuille.”

  “Well, yes, Monsieur le Curé, the day has been quite good. Not for capercaillie though.”

  “Ah, they’re wily, the vagabonds. It’s necessary to get up very early to see them.”

  There as a moment of silence. The curé was marching ahead of Laurent, and they had a lot to do to steer between the stones and the brambles.

  “By the way,” said the curé, turning round, “are you giving another organ lesson to our Sister Marthe this evening?”

  “I don’t know,” said Laurent, perplexed.

  “She was delighted by yesterday’s lesson. You have a rare musical talent, my dear Doctor. Have I told you that you transported us all with admiration on the day of the burial, with your Ave Maria? Certainly, Sister Marthe has dispositions for music, but she’s still far from you, and I’m sure that that a few lessons with such an artist would do more for her than two years of solitary work. Two years! Will she even live two years, poor child?”

  “I certainly hope so, Monsieur le Curé, I must confess—and I fear that I might have alarmed you the other day by telling you that the disease has no remedy. Yes, truly, nature has unexpected resources.”

  “So has Providence, young man,” said the curé, gravely.

  Laurent made no reply; he did not want an argument. He allowed the curé to sing the praises of Sister Marthe—and on that matter, the worthy man never ran dry. Sister Marthe was the best teacher that had ever been encountered in Plancheuille.

  “All the little girls adore her, and if there’s a sick person to be helped, a chagrin to be consoled, it’s always Sister Marthe who arrives first. And there are people who talk about laywomen! No, truly, my friend, find me among your communal teachers a woman like Sister Marthe... Look, I’ll call in at the school and send you your pupil...”

  It was five o’clock when Laurent went into the chapel. A few moments later, he saw Sister Marthe arrive.

  “I want to thank you again, Monsieur, for your kindness. Monsieur le Curé told me that you were waiting for me, and I’ve come...”

  “Yes, Sister, as often as you wish. I’m glad to be able to be useful to you. Come on, sit down beside me. Today, if you don’t mind, it won’t be the Ave Maria but Rossini’s Stabat. See how, from the very first measures, the song reveals the solemn and profound dolor that invaded the soul of the mother of Christ...”

  Laurent had promised himself that he would not evoke Angèle, but he did not have the courage to keep his word, and when he saw Angèle’s gaze become fixed, he extended his hand over her forehead. As on the previous day, she uttered a profound sight, and her eyes closed. Immediately, a smile anim
ated her visage, previously serious and cold.

  She got up, moved toward Laurent, and took his hands.

  “Oh, thank you for having called me back. If you knew how I’ve been waiting for you. All night I was thinking about you—for I dream during the night, and I go in search of those I love. Well, last night, I saw you: you were standing by the window, and you were gazing at the chapel.”

  “That’s true,” Laurent murmured.

  “And the other, the nun, how can she understand anything? She doesn’t know that I’ve come. She doesn’t know that I can see you at night. She doesn’t know that I can read your thoughts.”

  “What! Read my thoughts?”

  She smiled with pride. “Didn’t you know that, you who have studied magnetism so much? Yes, I can see what is going through your imagination and your will. I don’t even need to make an effort; everything presents itself to me with perfect clarity, as if in a mirror. Would you like me to tell you what you were thinking last night, and what you’re thinking now?”

  She smiled with a sort of malice. Laurent, nonplussed, made no reply.

  Then, in a very low voice, leaning close to Laurent’s ear, she said to him: “Thank you for loving me amorously.”

  “Angèle, don’t talk like that. Don’t pronounce the word love. You can’t understand it.”

  She stood up and placed her hand on Laurent’s shoulder.

  “Now we’re united forever, and nothing can separate us. From now on, whatever you think, whatever you do, I’ll always be there, nearby. I even want to protect you. See how obedient I am to the orders you give me. I can’t do otherwise, for I’m proud to obey you. Didn’t you tell me that it was necessary to cure Sister Marthe? Well, yesterday evening, Sister Marthe was much better, and I promise you that in three months, she’ll no longer be ill, and won’t cough any more. Are you content with me, my lord and master?”

  Laurent did not reply. What could he say? Angèle’s hand was resting gently on his shoulder. How could he defend himself.

  He said to himself: A few more moments and I’ll wake her. We’ll return to the reality of things, to cruel and implacable reality. Then, there’ll no longer be anyone but Sister Marthe, unknown to me, as I’m unknown to her.