Chapter VIII
O stupor! Scarcely had I lost consciousness than the two angels were at my sides. I came round on contact with the gentle caresses they lavished upon me, accompanying them with encouraging words and parading their breath, as fresh as a spring zephyr, over my head. Then they took possession of me, all the more easily because their arrival had rendered me immaterial again. They had each seized me under an armpit, as on the previous occasion.
I soon understood the necessity of their proceeding thus, for scarcely had we quit the earth to engage in space than I felt myself progressively transforming, dilating, recovering my human form and proportions. For the dear angels, who had never been to the cinema, where the screen can produce illusions of that sort, it must have been an original impression, that fragmented metamorphosis of a Zizi-Pollux into Giky Perdunier, his paws becoming legs, his back mutating into a torso, his tail vanishing and his muzzle flattening to take on the noble contours of a freshly-shaven face, lacking nothing but the monocle that I occasionally wedged into my orbit.
The last thing of all to reappear, on my right temple, was the hole circumscribed by bloody colts that the revolver had produced; and my fur was replaced by my indoor garments—with the result that, when I arrived in the region of the Last Refuge, while still being the same soul, I had exactly the same appearance as I had at the moment of my tragic self-suppression.
What followed was the same as on my first arrival. We cleaved through the compact clouds; we were confronted by the fictitious fortress constituted by the same opaque vapors; the drawbridge came down automatically; the row of angelic guards with flaming swords rendered us the honors; we finally reached the room of the Undoomed in the Supreme Tribunal, where the same angelic usher welcomed us.
“St. Peter is busy; you’ll need to be patient for a moment,” he told me, with an apologetic expression. Then he withdrew, in the company of my two transporters.
Consigned to the immense atrium, huddled on a bench, I did not regret my solitude, given the spectacle I had before my eyes, the revelation of a place superficially glimpsed, and the information that I was able to harvest there.
I had in front of me the vast corridor of rooms in which the celestial bureaucracy was at work. I was able to convince myself once again that it put more effort into regulating the final destiny of souls than the budgetivores who occupy themselves with the fates of mortals on earth. An incessant clicking of typewriters reached my ears, discreetly adopting a harmonious cadence, which, the more I listened to it, became a symphony of the most perfect execution. Sometimes, a door opened, and one of the ravishing accountants came out, carrying a dossier which he took into a neighboring office.
At other times, a sound of bells rang out, similar to the angelus in our villages; its purpose was to summon a particular worker, after a certain number of chimes, to a superior on an upper floor—doubtless some seraph, since it is well known that the seraphim are the senior officers of the angelic hierarchy. As there was, naturally enough, no staircase leading upwards, I saw the summoned individual stand on tiptoe, leap up into the air and disappear into the vault, leaving nothing in his wake but a light blue vapor that seem dissipated: a practical short cut, which humans do not have at their disposal.
Of that formidable organization, however, I had already formed an impression during my first voyage. The outside of the palace captivated me even more. Overlooking the high enclosing walls from my elevated station, I was able to perceive the more distant regions of the unknown domain, and what I discovered there confirmed what was advertised at home.
Without even having to decipher the signposts indicating the directions to take once outside I saw, to begin with, straight ahead of me, displayed by a soft light emitted by things themselves, a panorama of inexpressible seductiveness, composed of magnificent palaces, nevertheless discreet in their authority, framed by restful vegetation, protective trees and cheerful lawns, where flowers bloomed on the edges of paths, until the multicolored spray of tall fountains: nothing other, in sum, than the adornment of a terrestrial city, but unreal in its harmonious beauty and limitless in its extent.
That must be Paradise. It would be good to spend one’s eternity there.
More confused, to my right, neutral in the gleam of space, another land appeared, not very distinct, like an unfinished earth devoid of contours, desolate in its platitude, which, from the melancholy impression I received of it, I assumed to be Limbo, the abode of newborns who died before baptism.
I quickly turned my eyes away to look at another region to my left, where the immense brazier was that I had already observed. I could double it this time, in remarking that the flames, sometimes obscured by swirls of smoke, were alimented by two distinct craters. And I had no doubt that it was a matter of Hell and Purgatory.
That distribution in eternity was, in any case, confirmed to me by the arrival in the hall, under the escort of angels armed with symbolic swords, of a hundred souls furnished with a carnal appearance, representing all races, with their different facial bone structure, their variously colored teguments and their particular costumes. They were sorted with regard to their particular judgment, divided into four distinct groups.
The first was composed of infants in swaddling-clothes, some of whom—the savages—were absolutely naked. The second, I believe I remember, comprised five or six individuals at the most, expressed by a satisfied gait that paradisal felicity had just been decreed for them. Then came the Purgatory-bound mass, resigned but nevertheless sustaining some hope. Finally, a terminal group of about ten announced their terror at falling henceforth under the rule of Satan. Contrary to the scorn in which I held my ex-fellows, the insignificance of that last group confirmed the extent to which St. Peter must allow himself to be flexibly influenced by extenuating circumstances.
Those henceforth-immortals, their fate settled, went down the steps of the Palais. Once in the courtyard, a seraph lined them up, and then, following a list, called out their names, in order to confide them one by one to the angels who transported them to their ultimate fatherland.
If we can trust in statistics, we know that a human being dies every second. So I was not surprised to see, almost immediately after those souls had drawn away, a second troop similarly divided, with only a few units at the head and the tail, while the middle categories were very numerous. I was astonished to note that the majority of the latter subjects, promised to Purgatory, had faced stigmatized by wounds, like me. Even more extraordinary was that some of them were advancing holding their heads in their hands.
“What’s happened on earth, then?” I asked the angelic usher who came to fetch me.
He shrugged his shoulders pityingly. “An assassination attempt committed in Shocoslavia, against the person of the sovereign Nicolas XII, at the moment when, in front of his people, he was reviewing of a regiment of machine-gunners. His predecessor in power, ex-king Pierre IV, dethroned by him, had arranged for a bomb to be thrown at him. Clumsily set up, the device exploded in the hands of the partisan charged with the task, thus killing thirty spectators occupied in cheering frantically.”
“Without the king being injured?”
“No—neither he nor anyone in his escort.”
“Is the criminal the man that I see at the head of the platoon destined for Hell?”
“No, he’s among those who will benefit later from celestial clemency. Look, he’s the big bearded fellow with the curly beard, a head taller than all the rest.”
“Get away! And those who no longer have heads?”
“Guillotined—the victims of an immediate repression, carried out in public.”
“I’ve just arrived from Earth. I didn’t hear anything about that drama.”
“Censorship prevented its divulgence. There was only mention of a skirmish.”
“For what reason?”
“We don’t get mixed up in international politics.”
I could not get over it. I permitted myself a further com
ment. “That overturns all my ideas about Justice. What! That murderer’s only punishment will be temporary? He’ll enjoy Paradise eventually?”
“Our justice,” the angel told me, “has nothing in common with the human conception. We go into the depths of consciences. Whereas Down Below, that fellow would have been sent to perdition, perhaps even tortured, we have discovered that that he believed he was serving a generous cause, obedient to an ideal. That attenuates his culpability. So...”
“So that monstrous crime will pass without expiation?”
“Pardon me. It will be punished later, on the death of the instigator.”
“Ex-king Pierre IV, you mean?”
“No, not him. Pierre IV is also a kind of visionary, not even led by ambition. The true guilty party, who will pay for everything when his time comes, is his former minister Ravitch. That one, without the excuse of working for the good of his country, filled the head of the exiled Pierre IV and, from a corner of your Boulevard Montparnasse, where he lived luxuriously on ancient prebends, armed the revolutionaries in the hope of being able to resume his former privileges, once his puppet is restored to the throne. But I can’t be telling you anything new, can I? You don’t have any shortage of politicians down there?”
The angelic usher informed me in his invariable gracious and tranquil tone, without a syllable of indignation. He had seen so much! He would see a great deal yet, emerging from the cattle-shed...
Encouraged by his impassivity, I observed: “You’re decidedly magnificent in your forbearance. As little as I can plumb the depths of souls, I could not show myself so compassionate. In the troop that just fled past I only counted three destined for the eternal flames. That’s really not very many.”
He laughed softly. “You believe in the eternal flames, then?”
“Well, what I can see over there, to the left—that furnace—leads me to think...”
“Décor, Monsieur Giky! Pure décor, to strike minds. In reality, no physical torture punishes the condemned, but a moral fire, the torture of remorse...and believe me, the penitents suffer as much thereby as if they were afflicted in their flesh…the flesh that, in any case, no longer exists, since it returns, after death, to despicable matter.”
“May I ask you, then, for one more item of information?”
“Go on—although St. Peter...”
“I’ll be brief. What, then, have the three condemned to the torture of Repentance done?”
“The first, the one wearing and impermeable white garment with mother-of-pearl buttons, marinated his spouse in sulfuric acid to obtain her inheritance.”
“Bravo for your justice! And the second?”
“He tortured domestic animals for the pleasure of watching their suffering.”
“Your interest extends to animals, then?”
“Why not? They have souls, generally better intentioned than those of the so-called superior species. Their cruelty only derives from instinct; it’s not reflective, like that of humans.”
“And the woman following them, groaning?”
“Oh, don’t ask me about that one,” said the angel, blushing scarlet—which led me to suppose that immorality was mixed up in her story.
For the first time, my cicerone manifested a slight impatience. More firmly, he said: “But we’re chatting, and St. Peter must be waiting for us. Would you care to follow me?
As for my first appearance, we went through the labyrinth of corridors. This time, the angel introduced me without having knocked first, with the result that I fell into the midst of a conversation that I should not have interrupted, and which distracted me from the pleasure of finding my judge so sympathetic.
He had before him a well-to-do individual, freshly shaven and bald-headed, who was listening to him while plunging toward the floor a nose like a raptor’s beak and penetrating eyes. With his deep voice, he was scolding him roundly.
“Know, Monsieur Zavisky, that here, you are no longer before one of the tribunals of your sphere, where your bargaining, favored by political influences that you water copiously, has so frequently saved you from handcuffs and permitted you to continue your abominable profession. Our justice is immanence itself, and consequently without appeal.”
“If I may, Great Saint...”
“You may not. You cannot tempt my pity, nor find any justification for your ravages. I’ve already wasted too much time with a blackguard of your sort. I should never have had the weakness to let you appear before me. Your case was regulated in advance.”
“Hell, for peccadilloes!”
“Your speculations on the Bourse, peccadilloes! All the dubious affairs into which you dragged the imbeciles who trusted you, to lead them to ruin and poverty, peccadilloes! Oh, you can’t be serious! Here, we consider the thieves of savings as the worst of criminals. Savings represent effort, difficulty, privation. It’s monstrous to mount assaults on them. For you, as for those who operate under the mantle of a mandate or a function, there is no pity. A notorious bandit, yes, I admit that he should be examined. There is, at least, some risk, some courage in the actions of a bandit, sometimes motivated by hunger. While you...”
He spat in disgust. Then, to the angels supervising the accused: “Go on, gee up! To Satan!” He threw a piece of paper after his spittle. “And pick up his form to feed the furnace.”
The crook was briskly lifted up. His last protests, to declare that he had not imagined that St. Peter was so reactionary, and that he would have treated Israel better, were lost in the corridor.
And it was my turn. I expected a favorable welcome from the Saint. He recognized me immediately. A mild gaiety illuminated him.
“Oh, there you are! It’s you, the metamorphosed…the dog, Floriane’s husband…my experiment, in sum, my guinea-pig. Well, let’s have a little chat. Wait until I light my puffer.”
What! Him too, the terrestrial intoxication! I was amazed. But the odor that spread through the room at the first spiral from his pipe, although of terrestrial matter, told me that he had not yielded to the appeal of nicotine. His tobacco was incense.
“So, what do you have to say that’s new? Are you reassured now about the little Floriane?”
“Less than ever, St. Peter. Your experiment only ended up convincing me even more. I witnessed a peremptory conversation just now.”
“You think so?”
“Do I think so! When a gentleman comes to propose to a lady that they meet in a discreet house, kept by a landlady who offers cocktails and disposes of irreproachable bed-linen...”
“Sheets, the linen in question?”
“Exactly. Well, St. Peter, one would truly have to have your innocence to believe that they’re going there just to twiddle their thumbs!”
I perceived at that moment that my listener was also twiddling his thumbs, but in a manifestation of amusement.
“Are you sure of having really heard what was exchanged in the course of the conversation?”
“Of course I’m sure! You’ve equipped me with keen enough ears, I think.”
“I’m expressing myself badly. What I mean is, have you really understood?”
“Have I not conserved all my human intelligence?”
“Oh, you’re boasting about that!” the Saint proclaimed, joyously. He sucked at his pipe more avidly. “Jealousy,” he preached, “is one of the forms of dementia when not motivated, and even when it is. The jealous man, who appropriates to his obsession the slightest words and gestures of another, is a derivative of psychiatry. Let’s see, my friend, remember your sojourn in the country, with your in-laws, the Pastels. Did you suffer in your new form? Were you not happy, cosseted by Floriane?”
“I confess that at that moment, I deemed myself fulfilled.”
“Ah! You see.”
“Yes, although still having reasons for suspicion.”
“What reasons?”
“The letters she received from Georges.”
“Have you read them?”
“She hast
ened to destroy them, which I consider as a basis of accusation as solid as her precipitate return to Paris and the conversation I overheard.”
“He won’t let go!” groaned the divine instructor, surrounding himself with a cloud of incense, which his him momentarily.
When he reappeared, I saw that he was more serious. He muttered to himself: “It’s enough to put you off transmutation. That attempt’s enough for me. Let’s send him back to his vile essence. So much the worse for him.”
They were the last words pronounced by his august mouth. Already, the two conveyors were seizing me.
Chapter IX
And I found myself once again, with my human texture, in my nuptial bed. The external daylight, filtering through the large curtains of the window, permitted me to observe that Floriane was still asleep, her adorable head buried in the somber gold of her hair. Her even respiration attested that she had escaped the dream that had pursued me so relentlessly all night long. Her small warm body sent me the same calming effluvia as when I had been a little dog in her arms. It was not possible that a sleep so tranquil, so peaceful, so chaste, could hide a troubled conscience.
And yet, that accursed telegram, the origin of my obsession, was there on the nearby table to reanimate my horrible suspicions of the previous day.
Then, no longer able to hold back, scorning the respect that we accorded to our correspondence, I took possession of the blue paper and read it from the first line to the last.
Well, St. Peter was right. I could no longer doubt the fidelity of my wife, on learning that the rendezvous with Georges was determined by the purchase of fabric for a low-cut dress for a general reception at the Théâtre de l’Athenée. In communication with the manageress of a large silk factory, Georges—the good, worthy and obliging Georges—offered to introduce my wife to the lady in question in order that she could obtain a forty per cent discount on the retail price. And I had accused Floriane of being wasteful! I had accused her of worse!
The Exploits of Professor Tornada (Vol. 3) Page 29
