The Givreuse Enigma

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  Savarre started, and his temples swelled.

  “It’s necessary that the term be unambiguous,” Gourlande continued. “The bipartition of atoms is a phenomenon quite different from the bipartition of animal cells. In the latter, two polar nuclei are formed, which preside over the formation of new cells similar in every respect to their mother cell. In the bipartition of atoms, there’s also a formation of two complete atoms, but each of reduced mass and formed of pre-atomic elements, orientated in each new atom at right-angles to the pre-atomic elements of the other. One thus obtains two systems of simple bodies—for example, two hydrogens and two oxygens, and, in consequence, two kinds of ordinary water and oxygenated water. For the same volume, these hydrogens, oxygens and waters have half the mass, and, consequently, half the weight of ordinary hydrogens, oxygens and water molecules. They also have particular luminous and electrical properties…”

  Savarre had risen to his feet. A violent emotion was upsetting his eyes; a flood of light dazzled him, to the utmost depths of his unconscious. He could not hold back an exclamation: “That’s prodigious!” He suddenly had no further doubt; what Gourlande had said fitted in perfectly with the enigma of the Givreuses. “I dare to presume,” the neurologist murmured, hoarsely, “that Grantaigle extended his discoveries to organic matter.”

  Gourlande fell silent. His nyctalopic gaze, strangely distant, seemed to be coming to Savarre from the depths of a cave. After a long pause, he went on: “Yes, but my confidences must stop there. The formulas that I can communicate to you do not extend that far. They stop at pre-electric phenomena. To obtain the bipartition of atoms, it’s necessary to solve problems that will not, I believe, be solved for 200 or 300 years—for a man like my master might never be produced again, as none was ever produced in the past…”

  “I’m sure,” cried Savarre, with extreme agitation, “that Grantaigle has applied atomic bipartition to living beings.”

  “Sure!” said Gourlande, gloomily. “Sure?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  They remained standing face to face, their eyes fixed, quite pale.

  “Monsieur,” said the visitor, softly, “I’ve answered your questions, to the extent permitted by the sacred oath that I swore to my master. You will not refuse, in your turn, to answer me this: why are you interested in his discoveries? They have no connection with your own work…”

  “I’ll tell you—but first, I want to make a conclusive verification, in your presence. Can you spare me half an hour?”

  “I’m free all day.”

  Savarre went to the Château de Givreuse by automobile, where he asked to speak to Pierre. It was nearly dinner-time; the young man was in the garden.

  “Would you care to entrust me with your individual sets of identity papers—which I suppose you have at the château—for an hour or two?” the neurologist asked.

  Everything seemed perfectly normal to him, so Pierre went to fetch the identity papers without asking any questions, knowing that if he had something to say, Savarre would say it spontaneously.

  The doctor returned home, rummaged around in a cupboard, rapidly carried out a few experiments with a magnifying glass, made two or three weighings in a little precision balance, and then went to find Charles Gourlande.

  The latter was waiting for him, leafing through a journal. He had not entirely recovered his tranquility; his face betrayed a certain anxiety.

  “Excuse me,” said Savarre, “if I ask you to keep secret what happens here, and what I have to say to you.”

  Gourlande smiled sadly. “With regard to everything that does not affect my honor and my honesty, I promise you silence.”

  Savarre sensed that these were not vain words. He showed Gourlande one of the two sets of Givreuse identity papers, and another set that he had taken from the cupboard. “Materially,” he said, “by which I mean only taking account of the paper, these two objects appear to be almost identical—but if I’m not mistaken in my conjectures, they must differ profoundly. One of them is polarized.”

  Gourlande’s nocturnal eyes appeared to fill with deeper shadows. He looked at the two sets of papers very intently, then said, suspiciously: “Why should they be polarized?”

  “Look at the transparency of the sheets, and compare them! An indefinable difference between the pages of the two sets of papers is perceptible. It’s more obvious under a magnifying glass. With respect to the Givreuse papers, one perceives that the light passes more easily in the direction of length than in the direction of breadth; with respect to the others, there’s nothing similar. Then again, the weights differ in a surprising manner.”

  Savarre drew a little balance towards him, weighed the documents successively, and observed: “The ordinary papers weigh almost exactly twice as much as the Givreuse papers! And that’s not all…”

  The neurologist took the second set of Givreuse papers from his pocket and superimposed them on the first on the balance.

  “Put together, these have the same weight as a single set of papers—and if you compare them under the magnifying glass, the apparent transparency is equal in the two documents, but in perpendicular directions!”

  Gourlande carefully verified each of Savarre’s assertions. “Exactly right,” he agreed. “Where are you going with this?”

  “You’ve already guessed,” the doctor replied, softly. “I affirm that these two sets of identity papers come from a single set, divided by Grantaigle’s methods!”

  “It’s not impossible—and as an experimental fact, that does not surpass the confidences that I’m authorized to impart.”

  A fever had gripped Savarre; forcefully, he exclaimed: “The papers belonged to a soldier—who was carrying them on his person at the time of the experiment!”

  Gourlande shivered. “Is he still alive?”

  “He’s alive—they’re alive!”

  A kind of fearful joy appeared in the nyctalopic gaze.

  “You knew!” said Savarre, imperiously.

  Charles Gourlande raised his eyebrows. “Do you understand,” he said, in a low voice, “why my master wanted his experiments to remain secret? Do you understand how dangerous they might be in the human era, still so barbaric, in which we’re living? Above all, don’t hold it against him. He’s innocent. He didn’t want this frightful thing to happen. The note that I found is brief, but clear. It was quite by chance that the wounded soldier arrived in his laboratory. It was entirely accidental that he fainted at the exact spot on which the polarizing energies were focused. My master was also wounded and unconscious. When he came to, the metamorphosis was complete. They fled. My master just had time to write the note—then he and the laboratory were destroyed.”

  “But still, you knew.”

  “I knew what the note told me. I discovered it recently, after my return from Germany, where I had spent long months, very ill and badly wounded. On my return, the first thing I did was visit Grantaigle. As you must have been told, the laboratory was annihilated. It was then that I found my master’s last notebook…the note moreover, was comprehensible only to me. I must say that I had doubts about the reality of the event. I supposed that my master had suffered some sort of nervous breakdown, accompanied by delirium and hallucinations. It was only natural that his hallucinations should have related to the subject that had preoccupied him day and night for so many years…”

  “So you considered the experiment impossible?”

  “In those conditions, yes. Until then, my master had only obtained successful results with rudimentary organisms. The bipartition was successful with batrachians, particularly with newts. The duplication of newts generally produced resistant individuals, which were ‘completed’ in a matter of weeks. Most of the time, the newly-formed frogs were inviable. My master duplicated moles, mice, even birds, but they didn’t survive the experiments, or only survived for a few hours. It’s remarkable—and this will interest you—that the months of July and August 1914 were extraordinarily favorable to the experim
ents. During that period, several duplicated mammals survived for quite a long time. My master inferred that the Earth was traveling through an interstellar medium particularly rich in pre-electric energies; he demonstrated the fact by experiments in atomic transformation. At any rate, his discoveries multiplied, and he thought he was on the point of rendering duplication inoffensive for higher organisms. Then the war took him…”

  Charles Gourlande buried his face in his hands. A harsh sob elevated his bosom. In a barely-audible voice, he murmured: “When I saw Monsieur Abel de Grantaigle again, I was gripped by anxiety. Your approach to him could not have been motiveless. I was obliged to wonder whether it might be connected to what I had believed to be my master’s hallucination. At that time, I thought that the adventure must have terminated in the death of the duplicated man—and I still don’t know whether…” Gourlande fixed the neurologist with an imploring gaze.

  “Not only are they alive,” said the latter, “but, after a period of torpor, they haven’t ceased to develop. Presently, they have all the appearances of normal human beings…”

  “That’s more than I dared hope. Undoubtedly, the etheric circumstances must have been more favorable than ever on the day of their metamorphosis, and continued to be excellent in the months that followed. Oh, if only my master had survived! He would have saved us all, for he would have resigned himself to war work. He would have manufactured radiations that would have paralyzed and immobilized millions of enemies.”

  “Why did he stay at Grantaigle?”

  Gourlande shrugged his shoulders. “He had made Grantaigle into an immense accumulator of energies, which depended more on situation than equipment. It would have taken him years to rebuild such an apparatus.”

  There was a profound silence. Then Savarre observed, with a sort of wry satisfaction: “So the occurrence wasn’t supernatural?”

  “It was superhuman. My master was not only the greatest of men; he was, in himself, a new humankind.”

  Epilogue

  Thérèse was walking with Philippe in the shade of the copper beeches. It was the day of her departure. In a few hours, Madame de Lisanges would set forth across the vast Atlantic. She was experiencing a dull distress and bitter regrets. At intervals, she looked up at Philippe feverishly.

  He, sadder still, was ravaged by his love as by a disease. A wild astonishment surged through him in gusts; how was it possible for him to desire the woman that had been his mistress with that new force? Because she believed him to be another man, she had become another woman herself! In a sense, she was even more enigmatic than if she really had been unknown to him. He no longer strove to understand; his agitation was too extreme—but he sensed that he alone, among human beings, was able to perceive so fantastic a metamorphosis.

  Such sensations were alien to Pierre; his relationships with familiar individuals remained, if not identical, at least comparable…

  A slow old-fashioned chime sounded in a nearby bell-tower. “In a little while, we’ll no longer be alone,” Thérèse whispered. Suddenly, she gripped Philippe’s arm and said, in a vehement tone: “Forgive me, Philippe…I fear that I’ve caused you genuine suffering, and must appear very cruel to you…” Her hand was so agitated that it trembled on Philippe’s wrist. “I could not do otherwise! Since you wanted proof—it’s you who forced the issue!—and as you did not displease me…what could I do? Love isn’t a game for me…I’ve always feared it as the worst misery and desired it as the highest beauty. The longer I live, the more I want it to be profound and durable. So I had to discourage you immediately, or subject you to a long wait, had I not? I couldn’t discourage you—you were dear to me, Philippe! You brought me the most extraordinary mixture of the past and the future. I needed time…and the certainty that your own love was no mere caprice. Philippe, are you perfectly sure that you love me? Will you have the strength to wait for me…more than six months…two seasons? If not, is it worth the trouble?”

  The passionate voice cut through Philippe as the equinoctial wind cuts through the woods. He replied, violently: “I love you, Thérèse—the very love that you desire, patient and resigned.”

  They were in the middle of the wood. Nothing was audible but the light rustle of the branches; a jay fled into an aerial pasture; the odor of vegetation spread out like an emanation of eternal life.

  She sighed, let her head fall on to the young man’s shoulder and half-closed her eyes. “I’ve loved you for several days already…but it was necessary not to say so…I was afraid…there’s so much uncertainty between souls. I wanted to be sure that you’d wait for me.” She smiled ironically. “Now, you’ll wait for me!”

  He leaned down; the scarlet lips were no longer evasive; their mouths exchanged an avid promise.

  “Here are my friends!” she said. She had drawn away; she darted a long glance at him, in which there was a victory and a prayer.

  He did not regret not having possessed her; he would wait for her as one waits for Destiny.

  Two days later, Valentine, Pierre and Philippe were walking along the foot of the cliffs. Although it was summer, the day was oddly similar to the mild and charming winter day when large clouds had pursued one another over the inexhaustible waves. As they had then, boats were floating in the distance, clearly visible, although blurred. Frigates were sailing beneath the cloud-mass; the sea had the same ample and regular beat—the beat of an incommensurable bosom—but there was not the same anxiety in their souls.

  Philippe was as strong as ever; destiny was no longer stifling him; his hope had the appearance of a certainty.

  Valentine had forgotten those sinister evenings when the two men seemed like revenants to her. She no longer confused them with one another. Philippe’s gaze scarcely reminded her of Pierre’s; she no longer discovered the love therein that made any choice impossible. Pierre alone was close to her…

  She bathed in the delicious wind; it told her the hazardous legend of creation; it gave her cheeks an eglantine shade; her young innocent mouth had taken on a red flush and the gleam of pearls still steeped in sea-water.

  As on the winter day, Pierre found himself alone with Valentine in the region of shaped stones. The tide was beginning to lay siege to them; it arrived in the gullies with its moist plaint.

  “Valentine!” the young man murmured.

  She lowered her head, deeply moved. She recalled the two episodes of souls mingling on that spot—but the second was faded; it was the other that mingled with the beast of the waves.

  “Would you like my life…all my life?”

  She did not reply immediately. Her dress danced in the wind; a stray wisp of hair eddied around her temple. She savored the joy of holding her destiny, and Pierre’s, in suspense…

  Then, nodding her head with a smile, she determined the future.

  When they came back to the cliff-top, they saw Dr. Savarre walking near a Calvary, beside a man of gigantic stature.

  Savarre stopped; his companion looked at the young people with a singular avidity. All five of them followed the narrow path through the bracken.

  The neurologist drew Philippe to one side and asked: “Everything’s settled? You’re resigned?”

  “I have no need to be.”

  Savarre pointed at Pierre and Valentine. “Nor them?”

  “Nor them.”

  Savarre shrugged his shoulders vaguely and rejoined his companion. The Château de Givreuse appeared, silhouetted against the clouds. While Valentine, Pierre and Philippe continued on their way, the neurologist and his companion paused, in front of the resounding sea.

  The tall man—Charles Gourlande—said: “I’m glad to have seen them. They seem robust…”

  “They are. Everything suggests that they are reconstituted for a long life.”

  “I feared the contrary. How well they have stood up to the metamorphosis! It was a thunderbolt, after all—but in terrestrial organisms, everything is progressive, save for death.”

  “Even that! When the
end isn’t sudden, the agony undergoes a gradual evolution. Dr. Barbillion12 has described, with remarkable talent, the sequence of deaths that precedes the real death. First we lose intelligence, memory, will, speech… everything that constitutes consciousness…”

  “Is that certain?” Gourlande asked, interrupting him abruptly. “It would be a great consolation…”

  “I have no doubt of it; as soon as the agony begins, we no longer know what is happening…”

  “But the dying man breathes…he moves, his heart beats…”

  “He does not know it! The medulla continues to regulate movement. It passes away in its turn; our skin can then be burned without the muscles reacting. We’re still breathing in the meantime, but our respiration is awkward, as if reversed; it only ceases after the sound that has frightened men since time immemorial—the ‘soft and prolonged’ sound that is the last breath. Many people, even intelligent ones, believe that consciousness is only truly extinguished with that breath. At that moment, which is not the supreme moment, as so many intelligent men believe, there is no longer the slightest trace of consciousness. The heart still beats, however, as it did at the dawn of life, in the fetus. When the heart falls silent, general death is consummated, but the series of local deaths lasts a good deal longer!”

  “In sum, we always die from top to bottom?”

  “According to Barbillion’s apt expression, ‘we take off our clothes at night in the reverse order to the one in which we put them on in the morning; it is the same with life…’”

  Gourlande remained thoughtful for a moment, then said: “In the Givreuse case, the division must have resembled an instantaneous death, but a death of the whole, in which there was no normal passage from consciousness to unconsciousness, even less from the higher faculties to the inferior ones.”