“Some moment. Well, Georges, that’s what’s being proposed to you. You heard. In your place, I’d refuse. In any case, I refuse to associate myself with such an experiment.”
The young man was pale, but a grim resolution was legible in his eyes.
“It would give you pleasure, Jeanne? Well, dispose of me as you wish. I love you, and I’ve told you a hundred times, my life belongs to you. Take it.”
She was touched by the simplicity of tone accompanying such a generous, sublime and foolish offer.
Fortin, for his part, could not help saying: “That’s heroism!”—but he added, in a lower voice: “Unless it’s simply suicide... Well, my children, you’re counting without me: I won’t let you do it.”
Georges Garnier had stood up, though. He put on a long dressing gown, and said to Jeanne Fortin: “I’m my own master. You’ve expressed a desire that only I can satisfy. I love you, Jeanne, and I give you my life.” He added, with an ineffable smile: “No, because, personally, I have confidence. I know that you’ll succeed.”
Those simple words touched the young woman more than all the beautiful amorous phrases. She flung her arms around Georges’ neck. “Kiss me,” she said. “I’ve never regretted so much not being like others, in order to give myself to you—for you’re my hero, Georges, and I adore you.”
He went pale, hearing that confession. Mastering himself, however, he replied calmly and gravely: “I’m ready. Do with me what you will.”
Then the three strange individuals went downstairs. Jeanne marched ahead, Fortin brought up the rear, and Georges Garnier, between the father and the daughter, naked beneath the long white dressing gown—almost a shroud—resembled a victim being led by executioners to the sacrificial altar, to be immolated to the gods: to the god of Love, the cruelest of them all.
XI. Death Vanquished
Before Georges, stretched out on the marble, asleep, the young woman thought: He’s mine, completely and irredeemably. I was unjust to Love, since that’s what has given me Georges’ life—which is to say, the means of attempting the impossible, the unprecedented experiment that will make me akin to a creative genius!
She leaned over the splendid naked body. But doubtless I’ll return to you what you’ve offered me with so much heroism. Am I mistaken? Why would the soul perish? The spirit is a fluid contained within our individual. It can be liberated, as my father’s experiments prove. So, I can take yours, or only the quantity necessary to my experiment, for I’m in the presence of two bodies and only one soul. I need to remake a soul!
Remake a soul! Jeanne shivered, slightly frightened by the audacity of her own conceptions. She approached the resuscitated individual, whose cranial cavity she had opened.
“There,” she said, “is the center of memory. In that container, the images of the past are permanently inscribed. If I restore the spiritual fluid to that lifeless compartment, the man will remember; he won’t cease to be himself in spite of the foreign origin of the fluid that has reanimated him. It will be the same for all the containers, the various centers of the encephalum. But how long will the evolution take? How many days will be necessary for the mysterious fluid to reach every center and resuscitate it?”
She was tremulous with hope, slightly nervous and also anguished, for, in spite of her great confidence, she could not know, fundamentally, whether the experiment would succeed.
Dr. Fortin was staring at her strangely. “You’re hesitating, Jeanne, reflecting—so you’re in doubt. It’s necessary not to be in doubt, Jeanne. Before trying such a formidable thing, one must be absolutely certain of the result. Listen: there’s still time. Renounce this folly, let’s wake Georges up...”
“No,” she said, duly. “The die is cast; destiny will decide. Help me.”
Immediately, she set to work opening Georges’ cranial cavity. When the brain was laid bare, the young woman said to her father: “It’s time to put the mass of the encephalum in contact with the wires transmitting the electricity, because it’s necessary to avoid the parts in contact being isolated, even for a second, from the rest of the brain. The vitality of the fluid must remain entire, and we can only sustain it by maintaining a permanent contact between Georges’ brain and the dead man’s.”
The doctor, understanding Jeanne’s intentions marvelously, started up the battery, fitted the wires to Georges’ cerebellum, others to the cerebellum of the dead man and others to the motors of movement that the young woman was preparing to remove.
“Perfect,” she said. “Now we can go ahead. No break in continuity is possible. The individual’s brain will receive Georges’ fluid; it’s just a matter of acting swiftly.”
Rapidly, she connected Georges’ centers of movement with those of the automaton. Then she seeded the brain of her admirer, making use of her cell culture, and when the operation was complete she replaced the two sections of skull.
“Now, the electricity will do the rest, with time…but we’ll be able to see the first result right way.”
“And what if the experiment has failed, Jeanne? Have you thought about that?”
“Yes, Father, I’ve thought about it. If Georges dies, and if this one isn’t completely resuscitated, nothing will any longer attach me to this world. I shall disappear.”
“Me, too, then,” he said, with an intent expression.
They looked at one another, and then threw themselves into one another’s arms. Their embrace was prolonged.
Jeanne finally broke away. “The time has come, Father,” she murmured. “The connection in the stranger’s brain is sealed. We’re going to attempt the final experiment.”
In the entirely white laboratory, the spectacle at that solemn moment became tragic and emotional. The doctor and his daughter were no longer speaking, but in the silence of the room, the sound of the machines became more emphatic, making it reminiscent of some diabolical workshop where atrocious tasks were being carried out.
Outside, daylight was coming. A white, opaline dawn was spreading over nature, slipping into the basement through the high-set barred windows. The arc-lamps became paler, their light seeming diffuse and weak, for the whiteness of the invasive dawn rendered the artificial light unnecessary.
In a milky halo, Jeanne’s face stood out very palely, with immense eyes: avid eyes fixed on the two supine men, on the lookout for the expected movement indicating life. The machines were still turning with a lugubrious, oppressive noise.
Activate the current, Father,” said Jeanne, in a strangled voice.
A crackle followed the doctor’s gesture, and blue flashes, in a magnificent sudden flamboyance like those of a stormy sky, filled the laboratory, mingling with the soft whiteness of the nascent dawn.
“Look out!” said Jeanne, “A little more…that’s enough!”
“Anything abnormal?”
“No.”
“The heart?”
“Beating regularly. The body temperature is constant.”
A long silence followed these words.
Then, a sudden cry: “Father! Oh, Father! Look at his eyes!”
“Jeanne!”
“And his lips are moving, the skin’s quivering, the fingers clenching…the centers of movement are accomplishing their natural function. Victory! The man is resuscitated; he’s no longer, now, a vulgar automaton. This time, death is vanquished!”
It was true. Dr. Fortin, leaning over the body of the unknown man, watched the slow, progressive return of life. The eyeballs were now moving in their orbits. The mouth opened and closed without any words emerging. The legs and arms moved of their own accord, giving the impression that it was not a matter of simple nervous reflexes, but of the true, real movements of a living creature.
Finally, the subject’s right hand was lifted to the nape of the neck. Together, the doctor and Jeanne seized the arm and returned it to its position alongside the body.
Jeanne explained: “He felt the pain resulting from the injury to the vertebral column. It’s the rea
wakening of sensibility, and as he’s able to move, his first impulse is to touch the part of his body that hurts. Perhaps the awakening of the other senses will proceed more rapidly than I dared to hope. Who can tell whether he might not already be able to hear us, to understand us?”
She tried to question him: “Who are you?” she asked.
There was no answer.
“No,” she continued, he doesn’t have any other faculties, for the moment, than that of movement. However, as his actions, unguided by any intelligence, might be disastrous for his dressings we’d better tie him down. When life has returned to all the containers in his brain, we’ll liberate him.”
“And Georges?” asked the doctor.
“We’ll wake him up.”
A short while later, the laboratory presented a singular appearance. The resuscitated dead man, lying on a bed set up in a corner, with his arms and legs bound, resembled an unfortunate victim of dementia, a creature devoid of thought, but incapable of any extravagant action. Georges, the bewildered lover, sitting in a chair set against the tiled wall, looked like a poor idiot. Stiff, in the immutable attitude of a marionette, like one of those wax figures seen in museums, he evoked the lamentable vision of an inert being, a parcel of futile flesh forever deprived of his faculties.
Jeanne, on considering him, could not help smiling. “That’s the image of love,” she said, sarcastically. “That’s where passion gets you.”
Dr. Fortin was distressed. “Don’t joke, Jeanne,” he begged. “I assure you that it pains me to see the poor fellow in the attitude of a grotesque puppet. Look, I’ll tell you what I think. On looking at that one, plunged in an inertia akin to paralysis, and the other tied up like a dangerous lunatic, I’m wondering whether, instead of creating life, you haven’t destroyed the sure and marvelous harmony of nature permanently.”
At that moment, the unknown man made an effort before being restrained by his bonds. His body was seen to stiffen, and his face to contract, and then a long sigh, like a groan, escaped from his mouth.
“Did you hear?” Jeanne exclaimed. “A sound came from his throat. The work of the fluid is taking effect. Soon, it will be words that the man is proffering, and the great work will be complete. Oh, Father, I can feel my heart swelling, my bosom inflating. I need air. Let’s go outside, shall we?”
Her face illuminated by joy, she darted one last glance at Georges, still plunged in his lamentable prostration, and stroked his jaw, smiling. “Come on,” she said, “you’ll soon be reanimated, puppet, and you’ll be proud of having collaborated in this magnificent discovery. But what will the other say when he perceives that he isn’t dead?”
“Indeed,” said Fortin. “We’ll learn interesting things then.”
“Probably. But what prevents us from seeking information already, and penetrating the mystery of his death? Might we not find some clue in the pockets of his garments that might facilitate the task?”
They explored his clothes that they thrown onto a bench. There was nothing in the pockets, or almost nothing.
“Of course,” said the doctor, “if it was to rob him that he was murdered, nothing is more natural than him being without any possessions…hold on…there’s a piece of paper. What is it?” He read it, and said: “A jeweler’ invoice.”
“Made out to whom?”
“Julien de Vandeuvre. That must be him? The jeweler is Massin, Rue Saint-Honoré. Nothing easier, with that, than to identify our man.”
“Remember, though, that the fellow, having mysteriously disappeared, is going to be the cause of quite a fuss in Parisian society—and you want us to go, just like that, and give ourselves away, by asking this jeweler for information?”
“That’s true.”
“The investigation, I can see, involves some danger. Marc Vanel will take charge of it admirably. I suspect that he has prodigious means at his disposal, compared with which ours are child’s play.”
“What makes you think that, Jeanne?”
“This cadaver came here on its own. Then again, to tell all, I have a suspicion.”
XII. Dawn Light
Five o’clock in the morning. The doctor and his daughter went back up to the belvedere in order to offer their burning faces to the fresh breeze.
“Oh,” said Jeanne, as she arrived on the platform. “Look at that splendid dawn rising on the horizon! Wouldn’t one think that nature is celebrating?”
The countryside was, indeed, colored by the first gleams announcing the sun. Above Paris, from one end of the horizon to the other, in the landscapes divided by the sun, a light mist was floating, gray and transparent. Red and gilded sunbeams plunged into it, making curious long streaks in which the nascent brightness of the star quivered. Then the mists dissipated, as if melted by the ever-increasing irruption of daylight in the sky and over the earth.
Thoughtfully, Jeanne murmured: “It’s a dawn of future times. Thanks to us, the sun will henceforth illuminate a life triumphant over death.”
But the doctor bowed his head. “I’m afraid, Jeanne, of our foolish presumption. Before this grandeur of nature, in this minute when the victorious daylight is chasing away the shadows, I’m thinking about the power of a sublime harmony that nothing can destroy. The sun is rising in the sky, as if in triumph, but this evening, night will reclaim its rights. Everything has to take its turn, and whatever we do, we can no more defeat death than the sun can defeat darkness. Have you thought, Jeanne, that our ambition is trying to correct and remake the work of the Unknowable, whose name signifies the sum of mysteries?”
“It only completes it, Father,” she said, in a soft voice, “for if I resuscitate a dead adolescent, full of vigorous sap, created to accomplish a role assigned by nature, I won’t be going against the laws that had regulated the young man’s life in advance. I’ll only be repairing an accident.”
“It doesn’t matter; I’m afraid of usurping a power that might turn against us.”
They fell silent, emotional. Outlined in the enchantment of the sky, now pink and blue after that fantastic night, was the red disk of the ascendant sun.
BOOK TWO: A TWENTIETH CENTURY SORCERER
I. The Absolution of the Dream
Ten o’clock had just chimed when the lovely Comtesse d’Armez woke up in her elegant blue and white Louis XV bedroom. One of the vanities of the family, the bed, made by Boulle and decorated with exquisite panels by Watteau, caused the privileged to marvel. Simone stretched her limbs, rolled this way and that, seeking the freshness of the fine fabric, and then, making an effort, rang.
Rose, the chambermaid, who was waiting for her mistress to wake up, came in immediately and went to open the blinds and curtains. Ardent May sunlight irrupted into the apartment, illuminating everything with a jarring glare.
“You’re blinding me!” Simone exclaimed. “Close the curtains. What time is it, then?”
“Ten o’clock, Madame.”
“Already! Very well! Leave me alone—I’ll call you shortly.”
Lying back on the pillows, Simone d’Armez meditated. She recalled the strange night that she had just spent. What a bizarre dream! Was it really a dream? She felt physically weary, and her flesh was still quivering at the memory of throbbing caresses. Was it possible for a dream to leave such precise memories? She darted a glance over the strangely disturbed bed. She got up, took off her nightdress and stood naked in front of a mirror with three panels.
Oh, how pretty she was, the young Comtesse, before the mirror, which reflected three Comtesses in slender silhouette—worthy of the brush of Fragonard! How pretty she was, blushing slightly as she inspected her lush body. A sudden anger turned her cheeks crimson: traces of the storm on her genteel and fleecy blonde Flower, changing that dream into a reality. So, a male had dared, and she, in the unconsciousness of her voluptuous dream, had submitted, without resistance, to intoxicating caresses whose gentleness still troubled her flesh on awakening.
She thought at first of accusing Rose, but th
e introduction by her of some gallant into her room was inconceivable. The words of the strange magician returned to her memory. Was it he, Marc Vanel, Homo-Deus? But by what means had he been able to succeed in reaching her? She was no longer her own mistress, then? She was that man’s—that god’s—“thing.” She showed her fist angrily, and, throwing herself face down on the bed, wept for a long time, without taking account of whether she was suffering in her pride as a woman, or whether it was the shame of desiring a cyclone like the one that had just passed.
If he loves me—and he told me that he loved me—that type can’t love like other people. He told me that: for him, time is precious, and he couldn’t ever undertake a courtship that threatened to last a long time. Because, not for anything in the world would I have given in to his advances, He understood that, and that’s the explanation of his conduct. She could not help smiling. In any case, it’s not my fault.
She repaired the disorder of the bed somewhat, and rang for Rose.
Serene again, she began her toilette, took a bath and dressed in order to go down to the dining room, where her husband was waiting. They ate lunch when noon chimed; that was the custom.
After the meal, Monsieur d’Armez took his leave of his wife and left. Immediately, Simone had herself taken to the church of Sainte-Clotilde. The senior curate, her spiritual adviser, unable to admit a suggestion at a distance, concluded that it was a dream in which concupiscence had been awakened by unhealthy conversations. After a few indulgent pieces of advice, he obtained a thousand-franc bill for his good works and gave absolution, his fingers raised, smiling in the penumbra of the confessional.
II. The Erection of the Reality
Her spirit lightened, the young woman went to see her couturier, and then reflected that she might as well finish her day, recalling that Mademoiselle Alexane had invited her to tea at her house. The celebrated dancer’s “five-to-sevens” in the Place Malesherbes were highly reputed for the elite individuals one encountered there. It was one of the places where the Parisian spirit sparkled in all its verve.
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