The Revolt of the Machines

by Brian Stableford

  Ten minutes later, the doctor, fresh and smiling, clad in an elegant indoor jacket, came into the drawing room where the visitors introduced by Jérôme were waiting.

  “Monsieur Rémois!” he said, surprised by the sight of the artist.

  “Doctor, I have the honor of saluting you, and I’ve brought you an experimental subject.”

  “Please, sit down….and you too, my friend….”

  While speaking, without paying any more heed to Rémoir, Lesécant examined the painter’s companion. With an entirely paternal tenderness, he sat him down in the best armchair in the room “There, my friend—are you quite comfortable?”

  “Not bad,” said the other, in a hoarse voice.

  “Oh…oh!” murmured Lesécant. “Terrible voice…burned by alcohol….”

  Indeed, the individual’s luminous face, the nose crimson and horribly shiny, completed by an entirely characteristic breath, supported the surgeon’s observation.

  Rémois did not leave him time to ask questions. “I read the advertisement that you inserted in the newspapers,” he said.

  “Three months ago, alas….”

  “It’s just that…people are afraid….”

  “Afraid of what? I’ll answer for everything. My operations always succeed.”

  Of course, thought the painter. The patients are dead…but cured. Aloud, he said: “It’s because your skill and science are universally known that I’ve succeeded in bringing you my friend, Arthur Vésigout—blind for ten years.”

  “Excess of alcohol, no doubt….”

  “If one can call six absinthes a day excessive,” Vésigout grumbled, taking offence. “But then, when I’m drunk…”

  “Let’s not worry about that,” replied Lesécant, softly. “A little preliminary treatment will quickly reckon with that inconvenience. So, my friend, you have confidence in me…and you’re not mistaken. I’ll render you, not sight….”

  “What!” said the other. “I was told that….”

  “I’ll give you something better than sight. A perfect organ, which I’ve allowed to be named the third eye, but which is nothing other than a nervous center of marvelous sensibility. Oh, my lad, when you’ve passed through my hands you won’t be an ordinary man, I give you my word. First of all, you’ll lack nothing here…the best room…a first-rate bed…nourishment….”

  Vésigout’s face lit up with a broad smile. “Suits me…suits me, Doctor. You can do what you like with me by taking me by the….”

  “Mouth,” interrupted Rémois, who was having difficulty remaining serious. “Vésigout is a little…how shall I put it?...a little….”

  “Realistic,” said Lesécant, laughing. “That doesn’t matter. Here, all whims are tolerated, except with regard to the treatment. This is the deal: I’ll pay twenty thousand francs after the operation, and ten thousand that the subject will soon acquire—they’ll be deposited in his name with my notary, with a delay of a fortnight—in case of accidents. It’s necessary to anticipate….”

  “That’s right!” declared Vésigout. “Well, that suits me, anyway. Then again, there isn’t going to be any accident….”

  “No, my friend, no! From now on, you’re at home here,” continued the radiant Lesécant. “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

  Rémois stood up to take his leave. “So, my dear Master, I can confide my poor friend to your science.”

  “He won’t have cause to regret it.”

  Indeed, thought Vésigout. Ten thousand bullets guaranteed…. Aloud, he said: “Au revoir, Rémois…you’re a pal….”

  “I’ll show you out, my dear artist.”

  “No, need, my dear Master.”

  “Yes, yes…I want to talk to you.”

  In the garden, Lesécant took the painter’s arm. “I think you’re admirable, you know.”

  “No…I’m impressed by your Herculean labor, and I’m only too happy to give you what help I can.”

  “Finally, I have a subject—thanks to you.”

  “Hazard…”

  “Allow me to thank you…oh, my dear chap, before long, everyone will be talking about it. I’ll have glory…and….”

  “And beauty,” Rémois completed, smiling.

  “Tell me,” said the doctor, in a low voice, red with emotion. “Hélène…Mademoiselle Hélène…how is she?”

  “Well, I suppose—for you must realize that I dare not see her any longer….”

  “Why? Go on my behalf, then, to the relatives she’s staying with….”

  “Oh!”

  “I’d be so happy if she came here to see me, to encourage me with her divine presence…the sight of her would multiply the resources of my genius tenfold….”

  “I can’t promise you anything…but for you, I’ll do…the impossible.”

  “Good man! I’ll never be able to repay you….”

  Scarcely had Rémois left the villa than Lesécant said to himself: “I was definitely right about him. He’s an idiot.”

  For his part, as the artist went away with a spring in his step, humming a tune, he told himself that he had not wasted his time, and that Vésigout was going to give the “illustrious” doctor quite a headache.

  As soon as the doctor and Rémois had left the drawing room, Vésigout got up and looked around the room.

  “It’s not at all chic, Père Bistouri’s place, but it’ll be a soft existence—like a oasis in the desert of my destitution. Ten thousand francs…plus the thousand Rémois promised me if the trick comes off. No-o…not so hard up. Enough of playing the ventriloquist at Trône, Neuilly and wherever...at least friendship’s good for something…as long as I make sure I don’t get butchered…pffft! None of that, now! Get on with it…it’s a good job I was once an art student….”

  Sprawling in his armchair Lesécant’s future “subject” relaxed into his pleasant dream of comfort and greed. A few days before, he had seen himself plunged forever into the blackest misery, when hazard had put him in the presence of Rémois on the Boul’Mich, were he was dragging his worn-out shoes. Afflicted by a pronounced keratitis that veiled his porcelain-blue eyes, he had not seen his old studio buddy, but Hélène’s fiancé had understood right away, what he might do with such an individual and had hailed him—and between courses, in a nice restaurant, he had had no difficulty deciding to render him the service of entering the house of Dr. Lesécant as an experimental subject.

  One shadow obscured the cheerful landscape glimpsed by Vésigout. What if the other were to perceive the deception too soon? Adieu fortune, adieu meal ticket…it was necessary to keep up the role for at least a month, the time necessary for the surgeon’s ten thousand francs to be duly acquired….

  As the pseudo-blind man was reflecting, Lesécant came back into the drawing room.

  “Well, my lad?”

  “What time does one eat, Monsieur le docteur?”

  “Hungry already?”

  “Thirsty, especially….”

  “Good, good… a little patience. First, my dear chap, I ought to warn you that you won’t get a drop of alcohol here.”

  In spite of the painful impression caused by this prohibition, Vésigout found the strength to smile. He thought about his ten thousand francs, and promised himself ample future compensation.

  “And also,” said the surgeon, “no more meat, bread, vegetable or fruit—nothing, any longer, except my tablets…two every three hours….”

  The shock nearly caused the subject to open his eyes and give himself away.

  What! he thought. That’s what you call comfortable? Oho! We shall see, old fellow.

  The other, following his train of thought, did not notice the Bohemian’s discomfited physiognomy.

  “You understand that my first concern, before endowing you with the marvelous organ that no other known individual has possessed until now, must be to prepare you. First of all, I’ll remove your eyes…”

  “Oh!”

  “Well, what use can they be to you? Those vitreous bodies
you have there are wasting your nervous substance. Afterwards, we’ll see about getting rid of your hair….”

  “I shave every day.”

  “You shave…yes, get rid of it…all those hairs, nails….”

  “Oi!”

  “Those teeth…objects that will be useless to you henceforth. What good are teeth, since my tablets dissolve in the esophagus of their own accord? Fingernails? What for? Beard, hair…useless things. Onerous work for the brain….”

  “But I’ll be ugly!”

  “Ugly? First of all, what’s ugliness? A matter of convention, like beauty. Anyway, if you insist, you can have false teeth, fingernails of celluloid or horn….”

  Aieee! thought the unfortunate Vésigout. My God, where will it end?

  “Afterwards, I’ll shorten the intestine….”

  “Oh! Sir…!”

  “Don’t scream in advance—you won’t feel anything. Come on, my lad, what’s the point of seven meters of intestine when you won’t have to digest anymore? My tablets will be absorbed into your blood of their own accord. You’ll be a rational organism, without a flaw, without any excess labor. Your muscles will atrophy—thus, everything for the brain, the motor of life. Then, when you’re perfect, I’ll finally be able to cultivate your third eye, bring it to the light. And then, my friend, it will be glory for me, happiness—ecstasy—for you. Unknown sensations will be reserved for you. You won’t see like vulgar and miserable human machines. Better than that! You’ll sense there, on your forehead, the form of objects, the smallest and the greatest, the nearest and the most distant. Mysterious effluvia will enable you to penetrate the secrets of all individualities. Nothing—nothing!—will escape you when I’ve reduced your gross carnal envelope to its simplest expression; you’ll no longer be a man but a human quintessence: a brain…nothing but a brain!”

  The surgeon mopped his brow after this tirade, borrowed from the preface of his paper at the Académie. Then he took Vésigout in his arms, and, braving the strong odor of pipe-tobacco and alcohol that emanated from his overly imperfect person, he embraced him cordially, moved to tears, murmuring; “Oh, my boy, you’ll bless Dr. Lesécant.”

  Zut! thought the unhappy Bohemian. There’s a picture! First things first…look at the menu! Tablets? Ugh….

  When Lesécant had relaxed his grip, he said: “Oh yes, Monsieur le docteur, I’ll bless you….”

  “Finally!” the surgeon exclaimed. “I’m certain of success, now. All right!”

  That evening, Vésigout learned with enormous relief and intense joy that Lesécant would not be staying overnight at his villa.

  “I go back to Paris; until we commence the operation, I’ll leave you here alone. Jérôme has his orders. So, my dear boy, sleep, have a good time…and in a month, you’ll be ready….”

  When the “boss” had gone, Vésigout declared that he liked to go to bed early.

  “Ah—so much the better,” said Jérôme. “At my age, one needs one’s sleep.”

  When the old servant had gone to sleep, Vésigout went into the study, sat down at the writing desk and wrote, with a nervous pen:

  My dear Rémois,

  Your illustrious master has reserved for me—if I let him do it—tortures such as the Chinese have not yet imagined. I don’t know whether I’ll have the courage to struggle against that frightful butcher…especially if I don’t have a well-filled stomach. Can you imagine, my dear chap, that he’s giving me for soup, hors-d’oeuvre, entrée, roast, salad and dessert, a frightful chemical mixture…a true remedy…tablets of carbo-pepto-etc. etc. I don’t like it. Just now, I stole a crust and a bit of cheese from the kitchen, which is meager. Help me, or I’ll jack it in. One thing will sort me out: open me an ‘eye’20 at a café nearby. Since the illustrious doctor has a monopoly on the third, that’ll be my fourth, and not the worst. I promise to be reasonable.

  Your devoted

  Vésigout

  P.S. The doctor has only forgotten one thing—to verify my blindness. He didn’t think of it. So I have a fortnight ahead of me.

  A moment later, with the agility of an acrobat, the “blind man” had scaled the garden wall. After having posted the letter in the box, he came back in to get some sleep. He lay down in a bed that he thought delightful, and was soon sleeping the sleep of the just.

  When Rémois received Vésigout’s letter, he hastened to the villa.

  In the garden, the “subject,” playing his role conscientiously, was taking a stroll, his arm supported by Jérôme, to whom he was telling a story that was obviously very funny, for the manservant was laughing wholeheartedly.

  While Jérôme went to fetch his master, Vésigout questioned Rémois. “You got my letter?”

  “Yes—I’ve done the necessary. Your bill’s paid for a month at the Quatre-Chemins restaurant.”

  “Good. Thanks. At least, that way I’ll be able to fight. Oh, I can string the old pruner along for three months….”

  “Monsieur le docteur is waiting for you, Monsieur,” said Jérôme, coming back. “I’ll show you the way.”

  The painter followed the domestic to the Master’s study. “Pardon me for the informality, my dear friend…I’m working….”

  “Oh, between us, Monsieur Lesécant…well, are you satisfied?”

  “A pearl, my friend a pearl…everything will go marvelously.” After an embarrassed pause, he added: “You went to see Mademoiselle Noirmont on my behalf?”

  “Yes, my dear Master.”

  “And?”

  “She will come…fortunate victor.”

  Lesécant welcomed the flattery with a discreet smile; then, in a low voice, as if he were afraid of being overheard, he asked: “Do you know what’s become of Cordeau?”

  “No.”

  “Oh! You’re so very kind that, if I dared, I’d ask you to go see how he’s doing.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “And then….” Lesécant hesitated. “And then…why not?...you’re devoted to me….”

  “I’ve give you proof of that.”

  “Well, if…if Cordeau hasn’t found a subject yet, one could…furnish him with one….”

  “Oh, no! Of course not….”

  Is he naïve! thought Lesécant. “You haven’t understood me, my dear boy. It would be easy to deceive Cordeau. He isn’t very bright.”

  “That’s rather Machiavellian.”

  “Well, I want to win. So, it’s agreed—you’ll try to find him a fake subject.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good man! I’ll never be able to thank you….”

  “Don’t worry about that. Your triumph will be my recompense.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “I’m only doing my duty.”

  A few moments later, going back to Viroflay railway station, Rémois was overtaken by a fit of hectic laughter.

  What idiots they are! he thought. One might think that they were suffering a bout of insanity….

  The previous evening, the young man had gone to visit his fiancée and had made her party to Lesécant’s desire. “I’m charged with the greatest compliments for you, my dear Hélène. You have no idea how much you’re loved. It’s not me who is speaking, but the messenger.”

  “Miscreant!”

  “One cannot do without your divine presence. And I confess that the word ‘divine’ is still too feeble—that’s me speaking.”

  “I’ll give instructions not to let you through the door….”

  “I’ll come in through the window, like Romeo. The illustrious Master desires to be honored by your visit. Will you come?”

  “No, no—I hate the frightful fellow too much.”

  “If you knew how hard he’s working! What an intoxication it would be for him to give you a lecture on the prosthesis of the third eye. You wouldn’t want to deprive me of that pleasure, Hélène.”

  “All right, my friend.”

  “By the way, I’m better than he is—I’ve opened Vésigout’
s fourth eye…and I can guarantee that he’s happy.”

  “Poor fellow.”

  “Rather feel sorry for Monsieur Lesécant…but let’s talk seriously. Has your father written?”

  “No—and I think it’s been a long time. Three weeks.”

  “His last letter was optimistic. Why worry?”

  “It gave me hope, but nothing affirmative. I’m afraid, my friend, very afraid...for us.”

  “Why? What’s the worst than can happen? Ruin….”

  “You know how badly my father would be affected. I’d have to renounce marrying you…”

  “Chase away the dark thoughts. And to distract you, let’s go to Fontenay. Dr. Cordeau has been expecting your visit for days. He too is dreaming about giving you a lecture on his sera. It will interest you. We ought to go.”

  “I don’t have the courage at the moment. I’m too anxious.”

  “You’re wrong, Hélène. Within a month, if Monsieur Noirmont hasn’t succeeded, I’ll have covered the two suitors in ridicule…and they won’t dare show their faces again.”

  V. The Psychic Sera

  A week later, Hélène received news from her father. Thanks to the capital lent by Rémois, he had been able to fulfill a part of his engagements. Assistance generously given to the victims of the disaster had rendered the engineer popular, and that had helped him get his operation back on its feet. Negotiations had begun with bankers in Chicago, and it was possible that within two months everything would be in place. Then, with a little luck, within the deadline of a year, Lesécant and Cordeau would be reimbursed and Hélène’s happiness could finally be assured.

  Radiant, the young woman had written to her fiancé. The horizon now seemed clearer; she consented to accompany Rémois to see the doctors.

  “Let’s amuse ourselves with them,” said the painter. “Why should we have any scruples? Did the two old egotists have any pity on our love? And then, I adore vengeance—it’s a pleasure of gods…and lovers.”

  When they arrived at Cordeau’s residence, they found the psychologist prey to an extraordinary emotion. With his short-sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, he was examining his arms, peppered with puncture marks.