The Exploits of Professor Tornada (Vol. 3)

by André Couvreur

  He addressed himself to Mélanie. “Will you have the strength?”

  “Go on…go on!” the maidservant reassured him. “If it’s him, he’ll still be handsome.”

  At a signal from the magistrate, the usher turned down the sheet.

  A mass appeared, so denatured by stagnation under the water, so formless, so bloated and so discolored that, no longer having anything human about it, it could not even provoke horror. Nothing recognizable remained of what once had been a face, except for shred of tissue retained by hair, cracks in the skull in which the brain was still contained, a single orbit in which an intact eye subsisted, and the jaws, crushed but with a few old teeth. The rest was chaos.

  Gazes focused on Mélanie. She contemplated the abomination without shivering. Nothing: no impact. It resembled her master’s palette when the colors had run together at the end of the sittings in which she had posed as the Nymph...

  “Do you recognize any detail that might assist the law?” the magistrate asked.

  Solemnly, she raised her hand. “I swear that it isn’t him!”

  “What makes you think that?” said the astonished judge.

  “My heart would tell me, if it were him.”

  The watches suppressed a smile, but the medical examiner intervened. “Tell me, worthy lady, what color were Monsieur Lapastille’s eyes?”

  “Blue, Monsieur—as blue as cornflowers.”

  The practitioner raised the lid that still protected a dull eye. “Monsieur, the eye is cornflower blue.

  He turned back to Mélanie. “And your master’s teeth, worthy lady—what were they like?”

  “His teeth? I never looked into his mouth!” replied the maidservant, in an offended tone.

  “That’s understood—but were they his own, or false?”

  “Everything about him was natural.”

  “How many remained? Perhaps you know that?”

  “Yes...he had five at the front, but there were three others at the back. He said to me recently: ‘Mélanie, this is decrepitude: I only have eight teeth left!’”

  The medical examiner, making use of a dilatatory instrument, parted the jaws amid the horrible substance. Everyone leaned forward.

  “Messieurs, eight teeth are attached to these jaws, five of which would have been visible when the subject opened his mouth.”

  “There are strong presumptions…,” murmured the magistrate.

  Marcel Granive followed with increasing joy these observations favorable to his case. He raised his voice in his turn: “Will you permit me, Monsieur le Juge, to point out another detail no less particular?

  “Certainly, Doctor.”

  “I observed, in the course of visiting my cousin, while taking his pulse, that he was afflicted by an arthritis deforming the fingers, but only in the left hand—which is a very rare circumstance, both hands generally being deformed at the same time. Would you care to enquire as to whether this cadaver presents the same symptom…?”

  “That’s correct,” said the medical examiner.

  The magistrate concluded: “Nothing can be absolute in such delicate expertise. Nevertheless, Messieurs, so far as I’m concerned, my conclusion is made.”

  “We’re in the presence of my cousin,” Marcel pronounced, taking off his hat.

  Only then did Mélanie feel an infinite pity for the dead man. She burst into sobs. “It’s him!” she hiccupped, into the large checkered handkerchief with which she was mopping up her tears. “It’s him, and my heart didn’t recognize him!”

  She was led away, gently.

  That evening, the newspapers announced that the body of the painter Théophraste Lapastille had been recognized at the Morgue. The troubling obscurity of his abduction and the action of his kidnappers in throwing him in the Seine subsisted nevertheless—but it was probable that no one would ever know the reason...

  Champagne was drunk in the Rue Pierre-Charron, while tears were shed in the Rue du Montparnasse...

  Chapter III

  “So it was him? Is that possible, God?” Mélanie was still asking herself.

  Under the impact of that frightful certainty, in order to alleviate her distress, she set about a thorough scouring of her saucepans. Then she wrapped them in newspaper, as she had always done before their departures for the country. Poor old saucepans, her pride, her sunlight in the dark corner of the gallery, she was, alas, burying them too, and this time for the great departure! They would never again sing the sweet song of lovely fricassees, while projecting their odorous fumes...

  So it was really him, that bloated monstrosity out there on the stone slab! It was him, and his cornflower eyes, and his teeth, which showed when he made jokes, and the gnarled fingers of his left hand, which he deplored because it made it difficult to hold the palette while his right hand still bore the brush delicately over the canvas, putting delightful final touches to the shoulders of a bathing nymph…?

  It was him, that unspeakable, crushed, corroded relic, icy in the black blood! It was his dear face, which had laughed so much, sung so much, charmed so much! He was still so handsome while dying! How could it be that men were so wicked as to have taken possession of his last sigh, to have delivered him to such a frightful destruction? And God permitted that!

  Why had they thrown him in the water? For what reason? Since he was dying…since he must already have been dead when they put the stone around his neck...

  She did not understand. It was him, since the Messieurs had certified it, and they had, indeed, in support of their affirmation, the testimony of the eye, the jaws and the hand. But it was him with a modification, an upheaval so total that she still had difficulty believing in it. And the cruel controversy of the heart and the reason was amplified in that primitive soul—to the eventual advantage of the reason, since men in high places had decided thus, and Mélanie bowed her head when men in his places spoke.

  Go on! It was him. And, merciful God, she was not about to leave him out there, lying there like a vagabond, like someone devoid of family, like a dead dog, all alone, without the aid of religion! Oh no, she would not leave him there, for him to reproach her when she found him again in the blissful beyond. He did not practice; he had even seemed to heave no faith; but he was a better man than the best of Christians and his place was reserved in advance among the noblest and the purest.

  So, he needed a funeral, and a beautiful funeral.

  She spent an atrocious night, restless in all that torment, already organizing her master’s return in her methodical brain, planning to polish up the studio, in order that it would be neat and tidy when his remains came back.

  And the next day, as soon as it was light, no longer feeling the insomnia and clad in her beautiful black dress, she set off for the Morgue. The doors were still closed. She wandered around the neighborhood, sat down on a bench, was mocked by carters, and bought a bread roll which she did not eat. Eventually, the building opened. She was received by an employee, who gave her all the requisite information. She could have the body collected by the funeral directors in two days, the time necessary to obtain the authorization to conclude the formalities. The Messieurs in question were accustomed to the procedures; one could leave it to them.

  Quickly, to the funeral directors. She ordered a catafalque in the studio, carriages, a mass and music. It was expensive; it would require all her savings, but what did it matter? What was the money for, now?

  She returned to the apartment to look for the money. There was, in her poverty, one relief: her hiding place, the third jam-pot from the right on the kitchen shelf, contained her savings, six thousand francs resulting from the liquidation of bonds bought during the war, like the good Frenchwoman she was. She stuffed them in her shopping-basket and went to the nearest funeral directors.

  Three days later, a beautiful catafalque, trimmed with silver, occupied the place in the middle of the studio where Théophraste Lapastille had positioned himself to paint. Kneeling before it, Mélanie prayed for the soul
of the poor dear master asleep within in. She no longer saw the frightful physiognomy, or, at least, only remembered the eyes as blue as cornflowers, the five teeth revealed by laughter, and the gnarled fingers clenched on the palette.

  She prayed…but she was astonished not to feel sufficient despair, only to have shed distracted tears since the morning, and not to be sufficiently overwhelmed by grief.

  In spite of its organization, an absence of mind had even caused her to neglect to invite Théophraste’s friends and acquaintances to that regal funeral, the gulf of all her wealth. No one—she had not informed anyone, after having replied to the funeral directors, who had offered to send out bereavement notices, that people would come without that, and that in any case, she did not know their addresses. No one, not even the family—the Granives, in fact, were scarcely missed—or even the people in the house.

  In half an hour, the clergy would arrive. Who, then, would follow him? Who would climb into those luxurious carriages. Who would be present at the ceremony in the church, where there would be three officiants, six choirboys, two beadles, twenty-four candles, an assistant choirmaster and a baritone from the chorus of the Opéra-Comique to sing the Dies Irae? To all that, paid for in advance, she was committed.

  Who, then? The concierge? Neighbors? The dairywoman? But all those people were at work at this hour.

  She resumed praying. She forced her distress. She contrived a few sobs. She observed that the hands of the Norman clock were moving faster than guests were arriving. Only another quarter of an hour...

  No one.

  But yes—finally, someone!

  Through the open door to the stairway she can hear someone coming up. It’s a step she knows, and which makes her tremble. But it’s a step of days gone by, firmer and younger than the one localized in her memory. So she does not raise her head when it stops at the door. She prays...

  But a sonorous, joyful voice—a voice of days gone by, too—says: “Bonjour, beautiful Nymph. It’s me!”

  Go on! Is she going to have hallucinations now? All the same, she risks a glance toward the entrance, and perceives a man in the prime of life, slim, harmonious, planted on large feet, with luminous blue eyes, abundant hair and a pale brown beard with two points, such as artists wore forty years ago. He leans forward, braces his legs and accomplishes, with his soft hat, the flourish of lords at the court of a great king.

  Oh, that musical timbre! Oh, that fantastic salute! Oh, that elegant silhouette in the door-frame! But it’s him! It’s him, when he was thirty-five years old, when she had almost not entered into his service!

  And Mélanie, whom a sage equilibrium has turned away from belief in ghosts, plunges her head toward the catafalque again, taking refuge in prayer.

  “What, Nymph—don’t you recognize me?”

  “Who are you?

  “Who? Why, me! Me, Théophraste Lapastille!”

  “Did he have a son, then?” she stammers, getting to her feet.

  “A son—and never acknowledged him? Did I hide anything from you, Nymph? A son, it’s true, I lacked. But I had my chances, I can assure you.”

  “If you’re not his son, then who are you?”

  “Me, damn it! Me, Théophraste Lapastille. Me, the madman, the failure, whose duenna you’ve been for more than thirty-five years...which scarcely makes you illustrious, old girl! Come on—kiss me!”

  This time, Mélanie judges herself irredeemably demented. She exorcises the demon possessing her with the sign of the cross. She retreats to the back of the studio before the individual who is holding out his arms to her. She covers her eyes and blocks her ears.

  “It’s impossible, by God!”

  “Yes, it’s possible, since it is! Open your acoustics—you’re going to hear something good.”

  Before telling his story, however, the phantom makes a tour of the studio, in the manner of a connoisseur. He looks at the pictures. He mutters approving remarks and criticisms. He accompanies his impressions with zigzag gestures of his thumb in the air, as painters do when appreciating a work. They are his gestures.

  Mélanie has also noticed, when he laughed, that he has all his teeth. She takes note now that his fingers are not gnarled. His clothes are new and, in truth, bear the imprints of a good tailor. By way of a cravat, a lavaliere, and in the gap of his collar, the overly short gold chain is visible to which the cross is attached that she gave her master to protect him from the gothas.8

  But he stopped in front of the catafalque.

  “I’m in there, then? Mazette! You’ve bought me a beautiful burial.” And, in tone full of emotion: “Silly old thing—all your savings!”

  And then, suddenly—oh, how typical of him!—he starts to dance in front of the catafalque. It’s not a dance: it’s a disorderly mime, consisting of contortions of his entire body, the projection of his limbs to the right and the left, forwards and backwards: the clownish delirium by which he manifested his joy, before age stiffened his articulations. He called that epilepsy “doing the boiling crab.” How typical of him!

  She would burst out laughing, as she used to do, if laughter were not a sacrilege before that funereal décor—if it were not also, for her, proof of the error of her senses.

  He has divined that.

  “You’d be writhing, eh, if you dared? So you’re beginning to believe that it’s me? Come on, then, my old dear—I can tell you the story. But hush, you know! You must swear to keep the secret. Raise your hand and spit on the floor! You refuse to do that? No matter—I trust you. It’s as if it were done. We still have ten minutes before they come to take me away…the other one, I mean. Sit on that stool in order not to fall over with surprise, and listen.”

  And with a sudden gravity, mingled with dread, admiration and enthusiasm, he continued: “There was, among those who carried out the coup the other night, a man…yes, there was one…only one, because the others…well, in sum, there was a marvelous man! It’s Tornada. Professor Tornada, you know, the surgeon, that sorcerer of sorts? Well, he was there...he was there. The one who came to my bed and who was cracking the whip—that was him. In brief, I knew him a long time ago. He was even my friend. Can you imagine that he’s found a serum that resuscitates the dead? Better than that—a means, by virtue of operations, of the substitution of organs, grafts and a tralala of other tricks, of completely repairing the old, of giving them back strength, youth, health! With him, one no longer needs to die; life can be prolonged indefinitely! Don’t you find that wonderful?

  “So, when he found out…how, I’m still wondering…that I was about to die, he came running to resuscitate me. He loves me, that man—and then again, he didn’t want the inheritance... That’s true, you don’t know the story of Uncle Louis. No matter, I’ll tell you that later. So, he wanted me to still be alive, and he had me taken to his clinic. What he did to me I don’t know, since I was quasi-dead and couldn’t feel anything. Anyway, you don’t feel anything…but when I woke up, I was as you see me. Look at me, then, silly! Raise your peepers! You can, now that you know what’s what. Look at this face! My beard, as shiny as before! And these biceps…feel that, how strong it is! Amazing, eh? Your old boss, who’d gone to present his complements to the Eternal Father…or to Beelzebub—one never knows...”

  At the name of Beelzebub, or perhaps to perform another exorcism, Mélanie made the sign of the cross again.

  Desperate, on observing the lack of success of his confidence—for the Norman clock was chiming eleven, and a bustle was audible on the stairs—Lapastille got carried away.

  “Pull yourself together, Nymph. You don’t believe me? Your choice. But if you march with those who are marching against me—and they will be; it’s impossible that it should be otherwise; I expect that—well, I warn you, I’ll kick you out and find someone else to fry my grub and polish my fancy boots!”

  No threat could shake Mélanie more forcefully. From bewilderment, and confused doubt regarding her master’s explanations regarding the scientist’s ji
ggery-pokery, she passed abruptly to persuasion. The “grub” and the “fancy boots” were pure Lapastille. When he got dressed to go out in the morning he shouted from his roost: “Nymph, see to my fancy boots!” and she would hurry up and polish them. When he came back at midday, his first words from the door way were: “Is the grub ready?” and she would turn up the gas.

  So, as much to declare that she was convinced as to ensure her future, she raised her hand in the air—but she did not spit. It was, therefore, only half a victory for Lapastille.

  He was content with that. Supported by his old dear, he felt armed to confront he confusion that was bound to follow his extraordinary metamorphosis

  In fact, difficulties began to emerge as soon as four dourly dressed gentlemen in shiny top hats arrived. They were escorted by the concierge and a number of reporters and a photographer. While the latter set up his apparatus and the undertakers also got to work, the reporters saluted the old woman clad in black and the Monsieur with the floating cravat, who could only be a family member. Then they took out their notebooks

  “Messieurs,” Lapastille said to them, “I am happy to be able to give you a statement. The citizen that the toilers of the dead are preparing to take away is not Théophraste Lapastille, on account of the fact that Théophraste Lapastille is standing before you and talking to you via my mouth.”

  The pencil-pushers stepped back anxiously.

  “Yes, I can see, you too…but ask my maid. Come forward, Nymph.”

  Mélanie drew nearer and attested to the two mannerisms that she thought most persuasive—but she did not convince them. They whispered to one another, and began to write. Then, as one of them smiled, noting down the title of his article, which he intended for a humorous periodical, the painter snatched his notebook and read: One of the guests protests against the taking of Lapastille.