The people would have argued even more if they had known what only his familiars were able to observe: at an age when children only ask to play, he played at asking. His questions were often very strange; his responses were even more ludicrous; he gave evidence there of a species of good sense that put him in discord with established usages, received opinions and even current locutions; he would fatally have passed for a simpleton if he had not been the Prince. But he was born in a high place and his ways of thinking came from higher still; people knew that and repeated it, and his listeners inclined instead of protesting, although devoted ears were often offended by his words.
In order to avoid that displeasure, and also in apprehension of the requests that could not fault to assail a young person all of whose wishes would be granted—and also in fear of the excesses that he might imagine if he were informed too soon of his extraordinary condition—the child, as soon as he was seven years old, was consecrated to solitude. All servants were distanced from him, especially maidservants; a law forbade anyone to speak to him, on pain of death; only the chaplain had that right, and was to proceed with the Prince’s education.
The task of that tutor was initially too easy; soon, he became inadequate for it. As long as it was a matter of inculcating the child with elementary notions, the work went smoothly; he learned everything and forgot nothing. But Dom Ambrosius was not very knowledgeable, and his pupil very rapidly knew as much as he did; where the knowledge of the master reached its limit, the curiosity of the disciple did not stop, and they entered together into the domain of questions that remained without response—or, at least, any useful response. Understandably, the dignity of the pedagogue did not permit him to remain silent when he did not know how to respond; he therefore spoke, come what may, fatiguing the child with words that did not emerge from his mouth with the desirable facility, and which, once out, only produced around them an apparent satisfaction, because they did not signify anything.
The disciple was not content with those affirmations devoid of evidence, and the master was even more discontented that a nine-year-old boy, even one enlightened by the saints, dared to outstrip a doctor who, save for the vow of chastity, might have been his father, and was, at the least, his spiritual father. The young have the unfortunate tendency to want to go further than the old that is known as indiscipline; Dom Ambrosius was greatly disturbed by it; he shook his head sadly and labored for hours trying to figure out which of two influences was exercised on the child, that of the Holy Spirit or that of Satan.
It was much worse when the Prince, as he grew older, asked about problems to which the tutor had never given any thought. The priest’s perplexity became frightful. It seemed to him that his pupil as a sort of monster, as can be seen on the tympani of cathedrals: a hybrid, incoherent composite presenting the gigantic cranium of a demon over the winged shoulders of a cherub; for he was surely double, an excellent heart and a deplorable head. He gave proof of it continually.
One saw him, in fact, giving evidence of a frank and honest soul, a perfect probity, incapable of lying, and pushing charity to the point of showing himself irremediably cowardly before the dolor of others; he could not see them suffering without being affected all the way to the marrow; as for his own pains, when he had any, which was very rare, he supported them with and equable soul, with a sort of unconscious stoicism, which he owed to his mildness, his resignation and the scant regard he had for himself. In brief, on questions of sentiment, he never hesitated, and his instinct impelled him directly toward love and pity, without him even having to think, with evidently revealed a celestial inspiration.
On the contrary, as soon as it was a matter of knowing, not the Good but the True, the little wretch invented objections and demanded explanations, with ifs and buts, and a candor of reasoning before which no verity received mercy; he demolished them all, and in that, satanic inspiration was much more probable, since Satan is the demolisher par excellence.
However, probable as that influence of Hell was, it was not absolutely proven, and the priest, not feeling very sure, abstained from any definitive anathema for fear of offending God by confounding him with the Devil.
That uncertainty tortured him; it lasted for three years.
By virtue of seeing everything round him crumble at the breath of a boy, Dom Ambrosius arrived, involuntarily, at sensing the fragility of even the most solid axioms; everything tottered, he lost his footing, and he was already trembling for the salvation of his soul. The good shelter and the good table of the castle no longer appeared to him to be a compensation for the perils of his charge. He thought about resigning his functions, without, however, making that capital resolution. But it is the rule, in human life, that the most important decisions are provoked by the smallest incidents, and the incident was produced at the moment when the priest least expected it.
III. First contact with the dirigible classes
It was produced in the course of a walk.
Dieudonat had left the castle in the company of Dom Ambrosius and they were strolling hygienically along the high road after the midday meal. It was a fine October day; a sky that was still lilac enveloped trees that were still yellow, behind which a tangle of leafless branches cast a background of violet haze. Mosses made a ground of bronze sewn with gold, and, amid the oblique rays of sunlight, the cold was darting its first arrows maliciously.
“There’s a chill in the depths of the air,” said the almoner.
“Where are the depths of the air, Monsieur l’Abbé?”
Without responding, the ecclesiastic raised his eyebrows, which is the most discreet way of indicating a desire to shrug one’s shoulders.
“Come on, trot, run, act your age instead of walking like a margrave and cudgeling your brain.”
“Well, Monsieur l’Abbé, my fur coat is heavy and I’m growing old.”
“Eleven years, isn’t it?”
“Indeed; I’m a decagenarian.”
They followed the road, and suddenly saw, to their right, a little blue smoke rising between the trees. In a forest, the slightest event causes anxiety; perhaps we have conserved a hereditary memory of the times when our earliest ancestors lived in the depths of the woods, uncomfortable and devoid of security; it is even necessary to believe that the human species prolonged that existence for a long time, since fifty more-or-less civilized centuries have not yet sufficed to rid us of our prehistoric terrors.
With an instinctive prudence, the priest and his pupil veered to the left in order gradually to approach the middle of the road, but they continued walking straight ahead. Their courage was compensated and the scene that they beheld reassured them immediately.
In a minuscule clearing, under inoffensive birches, between a lively stream and a small fire of dead branches, a family was gathered, composed of a woman, a man, a donkey and five ragged children; that progeniture was staged year by year: five years old, four, three, two and twelve months, and the woman was pregnant. The father was weaving rush baskets while the donkey was attempting to browse, exhibiting a bare back. Close to the quadruped, a vehicle painted yellow, encumbered by dirty clothes, was somnolent on its rickety wheels.
Charitably, the priest observed: “God blesses numerous families.”
“I can see that,” replied the Prince.
He had stopped, and the poor children, sniffing the windfall of a rich man, advanced in Indian file in the hope of holding out their hands. The father doffed his cap and went back to work. In the resounding autumn, Dieudonat shouted: “Good day!”
But his tutor took hum by the arm and said to him, in a low voice: “Milord has forbidden you to talk to anyone, and you’re going to catch vermin; come away.”
The heir pulled away gently and advanced with a youthful smile toward the hearth of the proletarians.
“You must be cold,” he said, “for the depths of the air aren’t warm today.”
“Nor the depths of the water,” said the woman, who was extracting a clump o
f dishes from the stream.
She spoke without amenity, and Dieudonat was chagrined by that. He thought: The poor lack indulgence for the rich, and perhaps they aren’t wrong.
The woman wiped her wet hands on the fustian of her dress, and the future gentleman was slightly ashamed of his gloved hands; he hid them behind his back. The he saw the mother pick up her youngest child from the grass and install him in the vehicle, bringing the flap of a white sheet over him; he felt even more ill at ease in his heavy fur coat. At the very least, he wanted to be amiable, and he sought a means of beginning; he had some difficulty finding one.
“Is he comfortable there, the little boy?”
The mother grunted: “It’s a girl.” Then, without paying any further heed to the youth, she went to stoke up the fire under the cooking-pot.
But Dieudonat wanted to chat. “Does the little girl like traveling in the vehicle?”
“When it goes,” replied the father. “Otherwise, she cries.”
“Do you travel a great deal?”
“As much as is necessary to sell.”
“Do you live far away?”
“We live everywhere.”
“I mean, is the house where you sleep far from here?”
“It’s there.”
“That open vehicle? You sleep there? In the open air?”
“Wherever we happen to be.”
“And you can all fit into it?”
“We aren’t fat, we pile ourselves up, the heaviest at the bottom, with the sheet on top.”
“Oh!” The Prince was profoundly astonished, and the father scarcely less so, on seeing someone astonished by such a simple thing.
The child said: “So that vehicle is like a kind of nest, in the woods, a nest on wheels...”
The man laughed heartily.
“And your children are like chicks...”
“One is what one can be.”
The disciple of Dom Ambrosius turned to his tutor, who appeared to him to be the representative of human society on the deserted road, and his gaze implored an explanation of the excessive difference that existed between the sons of Adam.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that these people have prolonged a trifle belatedly the mores and habits of the terrestrial paradise. I believe that they are mistaken, for the temperature has changed considerably since our common ancestor, and the depths of the air have become chilly.”
Deliberately, he took off his overcoat and he approached the vehicle; the oldest of the children had just climbed into it, in order to demonstrate is talents, and was huddled against his younger sister. Smiling at them, Dieudonat extended his fur coat over them.
“Little brothers,” he said, “here’s a little down for your nest.”
The mother left her cooking-pot and ran to the children. The father dropped his rushes.
“Say thank you, Hans. Say thank you to the lord who has given you a beautiful cloak.
But Hans lowered his nose and did not say a word, he pulled the fine new cover over his shoulder and sniggered slyly.
“Hans!” exclaimed the vagabond.
“Don’t spoil his pleasure,” said the ducal child, “but I beg you, why do you call him anse?”4
“Hans; it’s a name.”
“In your country, doubtless?”
“Perhaps; I don’t know.”
“Where did you get the idea of giving him such a name?”
“It’s mine, and that of my father and grandfather too.”
“Ah?”
“Yes. It’s like a rule in the family that the eldest son is always called Hans. The old man told me, and his father told him, and I’ll tell the kid when he grows up.”
“For what reason?”
“Well, I can’t explain it, but it appears that it must go back to another grandparent, in times past, who must have made something good for his epoch; he had that name and then it became a rule that the eldest would have the same name as him, in memory of him.”
“You don’t know what he did, your ancestor?”
“No one knows anymore.”
“What was his name?”
“Hans.”
“I understand that—but his other name.”
“Oh, our name? Gutenberg.”
“Hans Gutenberg is your ancestor?”
“Father to son. Have you heard of him? What did he make?”
“A world.”
The vagabond stated to laugh, and the youth contemplated him. He saw a thick and dirty beard, eyes imprinted with kindness rather than intelligence, and a low and already wrinkled forehead.
“Do you know how to read, Hans Gutenberg?”
“Read? How would that help me to make baskets? No, I don’t know how to read.”
The traveler laughed heartily. Dieudonat felt some unease, and also a slight chill in his back; he no longer had his coat. He turned toward the almoner, pitifully, who concluded: “You’ll catch cold now, without a cloak; it’s necessary to get moving and go home.”
“You’re right, Father. Let’s go.”
The father and mother ran on to the road, yelping: “Thank you very much, my good lord, thank you. Another time!”
The Prince took off his cap. “I salute you, Hans Gutenberg.”
Then he set forth, while the couple, leaning over the vehicle, picked up the cloak and weighed it, caressed the fur and searched the sleeves, where they found an Oriental silk handkerchief, forgotten there.
“Necessary to return it,” said the man.
“Are you mad?” said the woman. “He has others at home, that fellow.”
In the meantime, Dieudonat was walking with his head bowed.
“It’s sad, Father.”
“Trot,” replied Dom Ambrosius. “Warm yourself up.”
“I think...”
“You can reflect at home. I don’t criticize you for imitating Saint Martin, but it’s still appropriate not to catch cold. Trot.”
In order to conciliate obedience with his personal desire, the adolescent started trotting on the spot alongside his tutor, and while he was hopping he followed his train of thought.”
“Why did Saint Martin only give away half his cloak, Father?”
“In order to keep the other half, my friend, and, in so doing, he was obeying the Lord strictly, who recommends us to love our neighbor as much as ourselves, and not more; with the result that those two equal parts are presented to us as a symbol of equality in fraternity.”
“One can also suppose that that cloak had no sleeves, for its two halves would have been inconvenient.”
“It was a cape. Run now.”
“And then, that fraternal equality—I’m running, as you see, Father—scarcely seems to me to exist in people.”
“Run, I tell you, and in order that our encounter with a fallen family should be of some advantage to you, you can do your next writing assignment on family heredity and the inequality of social conditions. A debating point, that’s all.”
The master had the habit of concluding speeches and discussions with that final formula. The pupil lengthened his stride and as soon as he was in his room he started working with a zeal whose results were, in every respect, deplorable.
Departing from the principle that, in order to come into the world, he had needed a father and a mother, who had previously had the same need, he extended his genealogy and discovered, with amazement, that only twenty generations required more than two million ancestors. Extending his calculation to the first century of the Christian Era, he came to observe that, since that not very remote era, he had personally collected eighteen quadrillion, fourteen trillion, five hundred and eighty-three billon, three hundred and thirty-three million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three forefathers, and as many mothers.
“Wow! I knew that our family possessed a respectable number of ancestors, and that the number in question makes our nobility, but I didn’t realize that I was as noble as that. For by myself I have more a
ncestors than the earth has had human beings since the world began. That’s very curious. Not to mention has the priest has as many for his part and that little Hans has no fewer, and that each of our servants, not excepting the scullions, has an equal number.”
He checked his calculations, which he found to be accurate.
“There’s no error; let’s draw conclusions. Since the total of a single family is greater than the total of humankind, it’s therefore the case that the same individuals have served several times. Not only must they figure simultaneously in different branches of the same genealogical tree, but they must be represented there with an indubitable frequency; consanguineous crosses and recrosses must be effected in stupefying proportions, and every alliance or misalliance has sufficed to introduce into the closest families an incalculable number of relatives...”
Still ignorant of the existence of illicit amours, he was only tabulating marriages, without any hypothesis regarding the intrusions that hazard, tender grass and travels, might effect, and, in general, all the circumstances foreseen and forbidden by God’s ninth commandment.
“We’re all cousins, that’s evident, and it’s even a matter of mathematical necessity that we’re cousins an indefinite number of times over. Our groom descends in a direct line from Charlemagne, just as the traveler descends for Gutenberg: a fallen branch And I too am a Capetian. A debating point, that’s all.”
He closed his notebook.
“Without any doubt, that verity is little known, to judge by the harsh and arrogant relations people have with one another; it would be rendering them a precious service to inform them of the error into which they’ve fallen in believing in different castes; if they knew their parentage better, they’d treat one anther more kindly, and that would simplify many things.”
As little as he had learned about the world and social life, he had divined much more, and his precocious intelligence, connecting effects and causes, saw clearly that arrogance engendered abuses, which caused misery, which gave birth to rancor. His little head started working hard on that theme, for a good hour, at the end of which he wished that he were able to divulge to the powerful and the humble the useful verity that his arithmetic had just put into the world.
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