“I’m not the cause of the delay that has been placed on your release,” affirmed the official representative. “I’m even astonished by it, since the report of the experts concluded the cure. I shall, therefore, try to disarm the enemies you’ve created by combating the illustrious deceased with so much violence. I fear, nevertheless, that you won’t be able to avoid an expulsion order.”
“Anything is preferable to this sojourn,” murmured the inmate of Bicêtre.
The preoccupied professor of biology was visibly trying to return to the subject that has just disturbed him. The pretended madman interrupted him as soon as he spoke.
“Insensate words,” he sniggered in his turn, “which you were wrong to take to heart. He put his index finger on his lips and added: “This mouth will be forever as mute as the tomb. I no longer have any desire to be interned as a lunatic. Forget what I said.”
“So be it,” said Dr. Albin’s former pupil, who moved toward the door.
He changed his mind. “It seems to result from our conversation that you knew my illustrious master well. Why, then attack him with such great bitterness?”
“I long admired the Biological Chemistry,” the unknown responded. “Then, one day, I made discoveries in flagrant contradiction with his theories. It’s therefore necessary that I demolish the reputation of the author in order to establish mine.”
Professor Larmezan went out, shaking his head.
Two days later, Dr. Iblan was told that he was free to leave Bicêtre, but that he was to cross the frontier within three days. Scarcely time to sell the little furniture that remained to him!
In fact, that concern was to be spared him; his creditors, informed of the scandal, had hastened to seize it; his landlord, fortunately for him, had got in first; he was thus able to save his personal effects and his manuscripts from the debacle.
He had a moment of terrible anxiety; he was almost penniless, and the journalist X***, the only friend who had not abandoned him, was not in a situation to assist him; they had all the difficulty in the world scraping together a hundred francs. It was with those meager resources that he was taking the road of exile!
He would have preferred to go to Spain or Italy, where his failing health would have found a more favorable climate, but his poverty and the hope of earning his bread more easily obliged him to leave for London.
He quit France with a frightful heartache. Would he ever return? Exile, at his age and in those conditions of poverty, was almost equivalent to a death warrant.
Sitting on a heap of ropes, he watched sadly as the Norman coast disappeared from view. Soon, it was no more than an indecisive line that was lost in the autumn mist.
He had bought a newspaper before leaving; he opened it mechanically, doubtless hoping to change the course of his ideas. The name Mariette suddenly struck his gaze and he read the relevant article.
What can one not find in the Seine? Divers exploring the bed of the river between the Châtelet and the Louvre have brought out various objects—a long list followed, which he skipped in order to arrive at his find: A woman’s handbag in Russian leather containing a thousand francs in gold, forty francs in silver coin, a small mirror with the initials R.G., a box of rice-powder, keys and a modest gold bracelet with the inscription Mariette, 18**, doubtless a desperate woman whom amorous chagrins had driven to suicide. Anyone who can supply any information is invited to contact the Prefecture of Police.
A cloud passed before his eyes. For a long time he had no longer doubted the fatal verity, but the complete absence of indications had sometimes been a badly jointed door that had let through feeble rays of hope. He had told himself that perhaps Rose Gontran was abroad. Now he had absolute certainty that the poor woman was dead. That mirror with the initials R.G.; that bracelet, his first gift, which she regarded as a talisman and from which she was never separated; the name and date that he had had engraved on it, were irrefutable proofs.
“Poor Mariette,” he murmured, remembering that last letter, the only memory of her that he was carrying. “Poor Mariette!”
It was at that moment of supreme melancholy, on the ferry that was carrying him toward a somber unknown, that the confirmation of his suspicions, the complete annihilation of his vague hopes had fallen, as if by chance, before his eyes!
Chance! Why was he obstinate in speaking of chance? There was too much logic, precision and cruelty in all the blows that had struck him for him to refuse, any longer, to deny the mysterious power that was relentless in his pursuit!
Passengers were chatting nearby.
“Here we are, in sight of the English coast,” said one of them.
He looked, and saw nothing before him but a horizon of thick mists, an intense and yellow fog rising from the turbulent sea.
Chapter XXXIV
Oh, those first weeks of exile! Sharp and penetrating rain, thick shrouds of fog. Muddy marshes of slippery streets, flagellations of cold winds, icy blizzards of blinding snow, earth and sky distilling spleen, despairs without a mirage; the bleak solitudes of crowds, contact with individuals whose elbows are brutalizing, nights in which imprecise dreams are formless and repugnant possessions, days spent wandering, groping searches, prodigal disappointments, disgust for the present, regrets for the past, fear of tomorrows...
The idiot torpor that paralyzed his debut in poverty has let its lid fall once again on his thoughts and will. The same darkness envelops him; his cranium is a child’s rattle in which ridiculous beads agitate; fragments of sentences devoid of meaning obsess him day and night: “That is certain,” “It is evident,” he mumbles continually, without that certainty responding to any precise question. He makes enormous efforts to follow a train of thought or make a practical resolution, but a glancing collision, the racket of an omnibus or a whistling passer-by is sufficient to break the thread.
The only clear and precise impression that remains in his head is the memory of shameful jeers and past suffering, the incessant recall of which multiplies his fear and distress tenfold.
Once again he exhausts the strength to act therein, but it disconcerts and paralyzes him. He wanders aimlessly, and in the London fog, where the décor of crossroads and edifices takes on fantastic proportions and lugubrious aspects, he seems to be moving, a predestined victim, through an implacable drama whose unknown denouement fills him with tragic terror.
Certainly, the poverty suffered on native soil is cruel and harsh, but there, a little pity still seems to be disengaged from people and things; the sky has smiles, the street-corners memories, the passers-by a discreet indifference—but poverty abroad, the abandonment of exile, the glacial inclemency of harsh climates, the scornful insensibility of another race, do not take long to engender the worst despair: the one that no longer fears death. Death would be repose, deliverance; but a banal and cowardly death, obscure death, is unworthy of his pride, the only piece of wreckage that is sustaining him and to which, as he drifts, he clings on desperately. Who, then, will accomplish his work?
Thus far, he has lived on the little money he brought from Paris, and then sold his watch, a few minor objects, and the surplus of his garments. He has nothing left now but a dozen shillings with which to lodge himself sordidly and not to die of hunger for a few more days. If he has found nothing by then, he will simulate an illness and try to get into a hospital. After that, come what may!
A vendor of French newspapers has indicated to him, in one of the most sinister districts of London, a sleazy inn kept by a compatriot, and it is there that he proposes to go to hide his destitution.
He goes into the Dauphin Tavern and first orders a slice of salted piece. Several individuals at table before pots of beer seem to be plotting in a corner. His arrival has interrupted all conversations; he is being examined with a suspicion that no one takes the trouble to dissimulate. A few words of French are exchanged in low voices. He has not understood the conventional meaning, but he senses that he is being watched. He looks at the strangers with a sad
smile, supposing that he is in the presence of political refugees, and feels the need to speak French to them; he does not want them to mistake him for a police spy.
“If you have something private to say to one another,” he declares, “don’t speak the French language, or else I’ll be obliged to understand you.”
“You’ve arrived from Paris?” says one of them.
“Expelled,” he replies. “The newspapers have doubtless informed you of my adventure. I’m Dr. Iblan.”
“The author of the scandal,” exclaims a voice. “The energetic protester who launched harsh words at the official world?”
“The same.”
“Weren’t you locked up as a madman?”
“I have, in fact, emerged from Bicêtre.”
The ice seems to be broken; the strangers ask him for permission to sit down at his table and bombard him with the most various questions.
“The papers don’t always reflect public opinion,” one of them asked “What are Parisians saying about anarchists?”
“Those I know think that isolated acts of violence are futile and criminal. It’s by means of the Idea that it’s necessary to fight.”
A pale, thin young man with white hair and blazing eyes laughs bitterly. “But to fight by means of ideas,” he exclaims, “it’s necessary that the fighter can make himself heard. He needs a stage, a tribune, a pulpit, a newspaper or a book. Now, I don’t admit for a moment that the power won’t stifle the voice that dares to proclaim the Truth. Who is there, among the combatants of ideas, who hasn’t sensed his faith totter as soon as he finds himself in a position to make himself heard? As long as he’s at the bottom of the ladder, his energetic demands launch a challenge, but scarcely has he climbed a few rungs than his words change complexion. His affirmations of the day before take on question marks, justice becomes the law, love is transformed into commiseration and pity. He no longer demands his rights imperiously; he begs for them as if he were soliciting favors; he no longer threatens, he warns. His satisfied egotism and pride find that that life is good and that Society or Suffrage can recognize merit. He hasn’t yet forgotten his principles, but he always finds that the moment to apply them isn’t yet opportune—and in the meantime, the lamentable herd of the wretched continues, as before, to die of hunger!”
“I know, in fact,” Dr. Iblan replies, “that present society is a corrupting milieu, and too often closes the mouth it is afraid to hear roar with honors and money. I know too that the most ardent convictions are disarmed by wellbeing and the satisfactions of self-esteem. But aren’t those inherent weaknesses of our incomplete nature? Do they legitimate violent means? In my humble opinion, I think that the slightest scientific progress—the discovery of the transmission belt, the importation of the potato, the discovery of vaccines, and a thousand others—has done more for humankind than all political, religious or social revolutions.”
“Don’t exaggerate the value of your discoveries,” retorts the old revolutionary. “First of all, without the revolutions you dismiss, it’s probable that you wouldn’t have been permitted to make them. Secondly, what you call progress is a tree of which the powerful take possession for their own profit; the people water it with their blood, science by its sweat, so that the masters can devour the good fruits, and scarcely leave us the worm-ridden ones.
“Capital has grown monstrously, but wages haven’t followed the proportion. Works has become easier; they have it done by women and children and pay them less; machines have led to overproduction, which is to say to people being out of work; competition has produced the lowering of wages; the means of preserving human life have improved, it prolongs the agony of the poor—it would be better to attenuate their suffering!
“Go ask those who have nothing to eat whether they have any great consideration for Parmentier. Believe me, your humanitarian who cures all the evils of the future thinks too little about immediate distress; your propaganda by the Idea has had its trial; for too long it’s been lulling us, putting us to sleep, duping us, promising everything and delivering nothing. Since there are still people dying every day of hunger; since an entire class, the most numerous, the sanest, the most valiant, can’t succeed in obtaining the price of its crushing labor; since...”
The man stopped dead and lowered his head; three individuals had just entered quietly and sat down at a neighboring table. The whispers that had greeted his own arrival immediately recommenced. Then, one by one, his companions disappeared from the table without saying a word.
“Don’t stay here,” the last of them said to him in a low voice. “Come with me.”
They moved at a rapid pace through narrow and stinking streets, went into a narrow passage, took a kind of long corridor, found themselves in another street and doubled back. Night was beginning to fall.
“Our three policeman should have lost the trail,” said the unknown man, breaking the silence. “Flanked by two English detectives, that was a police spy from Paris who wouldn’t be sorry to know where I live. For more security, I’ll be off.” He added: “Perhaps we’ll never see one another again. May your exile be light, Monsieur, and adieu.”
“Thank you for your good wishes,” replied Dr. Iblan, “and excuse the liberty I’m taking. Do you know of a means by which I might get out of embarrassment? I have no resources and no work.”
“Perhaps. What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Anything.”
“If you’re content to be a teacher of music and French at an institution near London, present yourself in the afternoon, the day after tomorrow; the place will be vacant.” The unknown wrote a few words in pencil on a page of a notebook, left him the address and disappeared.
For want of anything better, Dr. Iblan has taken up the ruler again. The memories he retains of the Béguinard school are not such as to inspire him with enthusiasm for the profession, but there, his special functions at least save him from the imbecilic teasing of the children.
Part of his day is spent preventing the young Englishmen from mangling the French language too much, and holding the most exasperating conversations with them. He goes to the market, buys all sorts of vegetables, meat and fish; he enquires about the time and health, discusses the weather and asks for directions; he changes money, buys socks, rents hotel rooms, buys tickets in railway stations, debates prices with cab-drivers and guides, produces model letters, etc., etc.
The rest of his time is devoted to teaching them an infinity of instruments that he scarcely knows and listening to them massacre on the piano “God Save the Queen,” “My Jenny,” “The Last Rose of Summer” and rapid jigs.
Months go by. It is no longer black poverty, but it is still poverty. He allows himself to live in a kind of neurasthenic resignation in which revolts become increasingly rare. Fortunately, the sight of his completed manuscripts, ready for publication, is still an aliment that reanimates the vacillating flame of his energy. Will he continue to vegetate so pitifully? He has learned, by showing others, to play the cornet and the clarinet passably. Has he abandoned so many honors and so much glory to play the roles of an obscure buffoon?
He makes new efforts to seek employment with a manufacturer of chemical products. He has visited nearly all of them in his hours of liberty, with no result.
A conversation overheard in the course of his last attempt inspires an audacity that borders on expediency. An individual whose jovial and well-to-do appearance denotes a successful businessman has just ordered a hundred liters of oxygenated water30 and is complaining about the high price demanded by the previous manufacturer.
“What do you expect?” replies the merchant of chemical products. “The manufacturing process is in the hands of German chemists; we’re their tributaries, they skin us as we please.”
“In your place, I’d try to discover their secret; oxygenated water has bleaching properties that render it precious to a number of industries. Someone who could manufacture it cheaply would make a colossal fortune in a sho
rt time. Look, for myself, if the price permitted me to bleach all my cod that are too old or damaged, I’d have a net benefit of several thousand pounds a year.”
“Thief!” murmurs the eavesdropping petitioner—but an idea suddenly occurs to him. He runs after the ship-owner and catches up with him as he is about to climb into his cab.
“How much do you pay for your oxygenated water, Monsieur?” he asks him, point-blank. “I’m doubtless in a position to be useful to you.”
“A pound a liter,” replies the businessman, who looks him up and down. “Why do you ask?”
“I can manufacture it for half that,” he affirms, without batting an eyelid. “What am I saying, half…a quarter, and still make a tidy profit.”
The ship-owner becomes perfectly amiable. “To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
“Dr. Iblan of the Faculté de Paris, who has made a specialty of chemical studies.”
“Well, Monsieur, come to find me at five o’clock this evening. Here’s my address. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.”
Dr. Iblan only knows one very costly laboratory procedure, but the dazzling vision of a rapid fortune that caused him to make that risky declaration, the belief that he can achieve what others have done, causes him to renew the lie before a competent person that Sir Arthur Frey, a great owner of fishing-boats, has judged it appropriate to ally himself.
Of the method, of course, he has not breathed a word; the presence of the other chemist explains that reserve; but the unknown gives proof of knowledge so vast and so conclusive that no doubt can be born in the minds of his listeners. A few days later, the businessman, a rich and adventurous man, signs a contract of partnership with him, and, as the inventor relates that, because he has been expelled from France for political reasons, he is a schoolteacher and does not have the money necessary to equip a laboratory, he receives two hundred pounds in advance.
The Second Life of Doctor Albin Page 34
