Mo-kie-thi had two intimate friends in Lutecia: two childhood friends, school friends, friends in social life—lifelong friends, in sum—whom he estimated to be equal in virtue, because they were both of proverbial probity. They were Lord Nirvana and Lord Speos.
An oath linked him to his friend Nirvana: an oath of betrothal. Nirvana had lost his wealth; Mo-kie-thi, who had enough for two, had thought it a good idea to recall fortune to his friend’s home by a gracious means, and had betrothed his child in the cradle to Nirvana’s similarly infant daughter.
Mo-kie-thi’s son’s refuge appeared, therefore, to be there, but Nirvana was indiscreet and the traveler feared his questions. He departed without seeing him; only a letter informed the other of his departure.
It was, therefore, to Speos that Mo-kie-thi addressed himself. “My friend,” he said to him, on the eve of his departure, “I confide my son to you; let him be yours! I’m leaving for a long voyage, perhaps dangerous, but necessary. Don’t ask me where I’m going, and you’ll give me a great proof of friendship. Don’t accuse me, either, of not trusting you, for the secret of the voyage isn’t mine.” Smiling, he added: “Look after my possessions, I beg you, for it’s necessary to anticipate everything in life, and give that property to my son. You may keep them if—may Sylax, Me-nu-tche and Lutetius preserve us from that misfortune—my son should die. That’s my testament.”
At the same time, Mo-kie-thi gave his testament to his friend Speos, who shook his hand effusively, with a heart heavy with sighs.
Mo-kie-thi departed; he left Lutecia, and then Atlantis.
His son soon died.
The days, the months and even the years passed by, and the traveler did not return. Where was he? What had become of him? No one knew. He had perished in a shipwreck, some said, in a deluge, said others, in an encounter with brigands or wars in which he had taken part abroad, suggested others. The point on which there was no disagreement was that he had perished.
Meanwhile, Ludia reached the age of twenty; she married Lord Speos.
The man who held the young mother’s secrets in his hands, the man who had saved her child, followed her there. Ludia Speos could not do without him; she had need of his services, and she had need of his silence.
He was, in any case, a precious man who always knew how to respond to the confidence that was placed in him, a man of genius who never flinched in any mission, no matter how delicate it was. He gave further proof of that in Lord Speos’ house.
If the laws of marriage were severe in Atlantis, one could not say the same about its mores. Everyone only aspired to follow the caprices of his passion, especially the rich, because to the facility of pleasure that fortune gave them.
Lord Speos had coveted Ludia’s hand for several years and had remained a widower in order to await the moment of a favorable decision. His love was immense, he said, and his heart desiccated by languor. One evening, however, a few days after his marriage to the woman after whom he had sighed so ardently, he received a mysterious visit from a young woman.
“Lord,” she had said, throwing herself at his feet, “I’m doomed if you don’t save me. I’ll be thrown into a wretched canoe at the mercy of the waves.”
“Lower your voice and get up, Basilea,” said the lord, trembling that someone might see and hear the conversation. “I’ll save you. What do you want, money?”
“No, lord.”
“Yes, money—lots of money. Find a husband and I’ll give him so much money that he’ll take you as you are.”
“The husband is found; I love him; I’ve always loved him, and I would never have betrayed him if I hadn’t needed your protection to save my father’s life when it was unjustly threatened.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” Speos replied, in a low voice. “How much does he want?”
“He doesn’t want anything, lord, but he doesn’t want to see my child, which is yours, in his bed or in his wife’s arms. He’ll forget my fault at that price: as soon as I give birth, I must give the child to you.”
Speos made no reply. He smiled stupidly; then, nodding his head with determination, he said: “I accept, Basilea. Marry, then, and when your child is born, let me know; I’ll take care of it.”
Ludia’s confidant then became Speos’ confidant. It was him who took charge of collecting the apocryphal child, and he carried out his mission with a skill that earned him numerous gratifications and his master’s gratitude.
From that moment on his importance became immense; it never weakened for an instant. That was because he was perpetually necessary to the two spouses, as the guardian of their reputation, their honor and their life.
In the epoch about which we are speaking, that domestic tyranny had lasted fourteen years. The man’s reign did not appear to be coming to an end soon, however, for he had just been employed again in the matter of a mysterious message, by means of which he was able to prepare very cleverly for new benefits and a new authority.
It was in the year two thousand three hundred and thirty-four that Lord Speos had married Ludia Arimaspes; in the year two thousand three hundred and forty-seven, no child had yet been born to them. Both of them naturally turned their gaze toward the past. In her past Ludia found a son that she had never seen, whom she wanted to see and bring close to her; for his part, Speos only wanted to recover his daughter, the daughter of Basilea.
The problem to be resolved, therefore, was this: to bring back into the bosom of the family a nameless child, and to leave it there without ruffling the sensibility of the spouse to whom it was irrelevant and without awakening anyone’s suspicions.
The difficult was considerable, and worthy of occupying a profound genius. Each spouse entrusted it to the prudence of the usual confidant.
The confidant therefore set out with the promptitude of a man who has an easy solution in reserve, charged with two independent and equally secret messages. His right ear had Ludia’s secret, his left ear that of Speos.
It was in the middle of that mission that we met him in the suburb of Sylacea, where we found him cutting the Gordian knot of his affair so briskly, by laying his hands on Atlas and Chemnis, even though he was quite convinced that they were not the two orphans desired...
That rare man was Nimrod, who passed for a simple and generous man, devoting his life to the interests of his friend Speos; he was the just and disinterested man with whom public opinion adorned with its most florid crowns.
Evidently, Nimrod was a clever man.
It was him for whom Ludia was waiting on the terrace of her house; it was him who had frightened her at that moment by his sudden appearance; it was him that she wanted to interrogate about his journey to Sylacea.
She did so, but what did she learn?
Nothing, for Nimrod lied in telling her that her son was handsome, but uncouth, like all children raised in small provincial towards; that he had thought that he ought to see to the development of his education in order to bring him closer to her more easily, and that he had plans in that regard; that in the meantime, he had placed him in a school not far from Lutecia, in the village of Me-nu-tche.
Ludia was so glad to hear this news that she poured the entire contents of her purse into Ninrod’s hands, and then, raising her eyes to the heavens, thanked the three divine friends for the protection to which she had recommended her son in his cradle.
IV. The Me-nu-tcheans
Ludia’s hopes were obliged to become somewhat dormant in the turbulent days that followed Nimrod’s journey to Sylacea.
Atrimachis died; his worm-eaten throne collapsed; his only son was exiled; the Altlantean Republic was proclaimed, and seemed to want to build solid foundations in the midst of the enthusiasm of the early days.
But grave differences of opinion on behalf of the pretenders to the reins of power suddenly surged forth. Speos and Nimrod had not been slow to pose as glorious vanquishers of the past, nor were they slow to raise their voices in the midst of the republican conflict.
> Petty domestic affairs were, therefore, postponed until tomorrow; the day was devoted to serious affairs of State. Nimrod was not sorry about that; Ludia moaned about it; and Lord Speos was more thoughtful than usual.
In those days, a riotous mob roamed the streets of the village of Me-nu-tche, where all the houses, their inhabitants trembling with anxiety, gave no sign of life—except one. One house in the village did not change its appearance; the windows remained open, as on fine and calm days; the coaching entrance never closed for a moment.
The seditious troop looked at it with an irritated gaze, circled its walls several times, measuring them with their menacing paces, but dared not go in.
That was the present habitation of Lord Nirvana, a modest habitation but which nevertheless enclosed an unreformed rich man, a noble of the old regime—in sum, a reactionary.
“Well, by Sylax!” said one of the boldest of the gang, finally, bravely extending a foot over the threshold of the coaching entrance, “What are we afraid of?”
And they all followed him, howling to give themselves more confidence, and hurtled into the middle of the courtyard. A robust young man with and energetic gaze came to meet them, with the sleeves of his smock rolled up like those of a laborer, and his trousers—or, at least, the garment that served the same function, although it seemed unusually wide—were retained at the waist by a strips of red cloth wound around his body.
“Well,” he said, stopping in front of them, with his arms folded, his expression impassive and his thick hair thrown back from his head like a lion’s mane, “what’s new?”
“Nothing,” said one of them, in a hoarse voice, “except the death of the tyrant, the flight of his cub and the reestablishment of the democratic and fraternal republic.” Sniggering, he added: “Didn’t you know?”
“Is that all?” responded the newcomer.
“No, that’s just the beginning,” retorted a mocking voice from the center of the group, “but it’s enough, for the moment.”
“Oh,” replied the young man, “it’s just that I thought, seeing you in this gang, that you’d come to tell me about yet another government—that of looters, subversives and people paid to terrify honest people and honest democracy.”
That riposte provoked inarticulate and terrible cries that announced a tempest. No one, however, dared to budge yet, for the mass only had energy in its compactness, and facing it was a redoubtable wrestler. They knew that.
“I thought you were courageous men,” continued the intrepid interlocutor, “generous patriots on whom one could count for the glory and honor of democracy, for I know you all—but I fear that someone, an enemy of the fatherland, an enemy of order, perhaps a enemy of Nirvana, has deceived you by insinuating principles to you that are not good ones.”
The tempest, which had been on the point of bursting, suddenly calmed down. The oratorical worker had scored a point. Everyone murmured words of approval, and the rabble-rouser with the hoarse voice, the leader of the mob, probably a hireling of the enemy of Nirvana of whom mention had just been made, lowered his head, blushing to the ears beneath the gazes of his followers, and hid himself at the back in order to avoid his adversary’s searching gaze.
That adversary, whose energetic responses revealed a strong and profoundly inspired soul, still seemed to be young, although the broadness of his shoulders and the expression on his face indicated great vigor. He was only eighteen or nineteen years old. He was, however, one of the presidents of the Club of Me-nu-tche. It was Atlas.
Me-nu-tche, as we have said, was one of the numerous villages in the vicinity of Lutecia. As it was one of the nearest, it was also one of the most populous, with a very mixed and very active population. It had been one of the first to found a club in its bosom where the most exalted and influential men of the suburbs met, and from which emerged the boldest proposals, the most advanced wishes and the most impetuous projects.
Atlas’ imposing stature, his proudly-held head, his sparkling eyes and his fluent although uncultivated speech, his keenly progressive although unferocious opinions, and his often-good advice, always generous to the children of his caste, had put him in evidence from the first day, and had created an absolute empire for him among the clubmen, in spite of his precarious position and dependency in the employment of a supposed aristocrat.
The Club of the Me-nu-tcheans made a great deal of noise in the capital; its reputation became colossal in a very short space of time. Moderate men, who thought that it is always wise to march slowly along the social path, feared it more than all the rest. Even the provisional government sensed that it was a dangerous and powerful adversary. Everyone thought the same, with the result that those who wanted to arrive at their goal through the waves of the torment affiliated themselves to it, for it was evident to everyone that popularity could not be found more reliably elsewhere.
“How long has it been since you set foot in the club?” asked one of the most impetuous rioters, after a pause.
“Oh, by Sylax!” the criticized individual replied, humbly. “It’s been nearly three days—but there’s been a great deal of work to do here, and I have for a social principle, personally, that when a man is paid a wage from dawn till dusk, he ought to employ his arms from dawn till dusk.”
“Yes, but it’s been said that one of the leaders of the club ought not to miss a single meeting under any pretext, and you’re going to be declared a bad Me-nu-tchean.”
“Who would dare?” replied Atlas, in a dull voice, choked by a convulsive movement of the mouth that revealed a sharp indignation. “Who would dare? A coward, a liar—a man, in sum, who is unaware of the necessity of work and the sanctity of engagements.”
Then he calmed down, lowered his head onto his breast and began to reflect profoundly. His pensive attitude gave new courage to his interlocutor, who had retired into the midst of his companions in order to speak with more assurance.
“It’s also been said,” he added, “that the servant and protector of an aristocrat can’t be an honest Me-nu-tchean.”
“Enough, fine orator, enough,” Atlas replied, raising his head again, his face no longer glowing with indignation. “Tell me, do you believe that Speos is a pure democrat? Do you believe that Nimrod is a pure and generous democrat? Well, Speos, the illustrious Speos, is Nirvana’s friend today, as he was yesterday, because that man is a loyal man who does not change the noble passions of his heart at the whim of the wind of public passion. Nimrod is also Nirvana’s friend, and it was him who begged him, on the death of my adoptive father Song, to take me into his house in Me-nu-tche, in order to supervise the work on his lands. And I, who am under an obligation to him, who eat his bread, who sleep under his roof, to whom he provides a living—why should I hate him? Because he does not think like me?” He burst into laughter. “Oh, what a beautiful democracy!” His terrible eyes glaring, he added: “If I see him betray the republic, however, if I see him hindering the work of society, then I shall place myself before him in order to block his way.”
Atlas softened his tone. “But enough talk,” he said. “The misunderstanding is over; peace for all, and let’s drink to the prosperity of the democratic and fraternal republic, and to the shame—or rather the appeasement—of its enemies.”
The invitation did not need to be repeated. Atlas set himself at the head of the satisfied mob, and in the blink of an eye, the courtyard was deserted; no one any longer had any doubt abut the loyalty of the man who proposed to pay for an hour’s joyous pastime. The atmosphere was, in any case, very hot; they drank a great deal, therefore, and dank until the state of bliss that encourages the most delicate confidences.
“Look, truly, I want to talk to you as a friend,” said one of the drinkers, pouring himself the last drop of wine. “Believe me, leave your proud lord, your miserable so-called aristocrat…who’ll be thrown into the sea within a fortnight, you’ll see.”
“Bah! They wouldn’t dare,” the host replied.
“Wouldn’t da
re, by Sylax! And why not?”
“Because I don’t want it.”
There was a moment’s silence then, while everyone emptied his earthenware mug, in order not to have to reply to a determination so vigorously expressed.
“Listen friend,” the same rioter—the one with the hoarse voice—went on, “what’s said is said, and I won’t hold it against you; but remember this, for you’re my friend and I want to tell you everything: it’s said that you’re holding on to your Nirvana not because of his opinion, because, in the final count, perhaps yours can’t reasonably be suspected, but because of his daughter, the beautiful Ormuzda, whom you love, it seems, ardently.”
“So?”
“So…so…well, it’s said that a handsome fop from Lutecia has more luck than you with her. So there.”
The unfortunate lover did not reply. His expression became dark, and his unsteady hand seized the little jug that had just been emptied, and banged it on the table, as much out of anger as by way of a summons. He paid silently and started to leave the same way.
“Good night,” he said, finally, shaking the hands of his friends as he went. To himself alone, he added: “Oh, if I were noble or powerful, perhaps she wouldn’t disdain me.”
He said that in a horribly grave voice. His eyebrows furrowed hideously, and the muscles of his arms twisted over his breast like irritated snakes.
“Aha!” said his friends, at the sound of the intoxicated voice. “We did well to have a little chat; he won’t have any more to say on his own account. It’s true, though, that he’s a good lad.”
Paris Before the Deluge Page 12
