“I was burning with the desire to be useful to him—but what, alas, could I actually do? I was intelligent, though—he knew that, since he had opened up my skull in order to destroy there, by fire, the initial lesions of a bout of meningitis, so he was familiar with my brain; he had had it beneath his fingers. He decided, in his infallible wisdom, that I would be the captain of this airplane. Devoid of limbs and sex organs, I would have my intelligence entirely at my command.
“That new situation necessitated, as you can imagine, other modifications in my anatomy, other adaptations of my senses. Sight first: he improved it by means of an apparatus of his invention, which is now an integral part of my nose, sealed on to its bridge, and which I can open, by means of a little window, in order to rub my eyes.
“Then he lengthened my ears, grafting on to them the funnels of a young Siberian wolf, which ensured that I had no need of acoustic aids to perceive the most distant sounds. You can imagine that, from then on, one of my arms because unnecessary—I had, in any case, a chronic rheumatism in my left elbow that gave me stabbing pains during aerial fogs. The Superman was generous enough to cut off that arm.
“Then, as it was necessary for me to issue commands intelligibly—I had a weak voice, alas—the Master had the idea of endowing my mouth with an apparatus that served as a resonator. He composed it ingeniously, and you can still see on my cheeks the two seams that resulted from the grafting operation. Unfortunately, the apparatus didn’t work very well, and I had great difficulty swallowing the little balls of the complete aliment of which my nourishment consists. In consequence, Caresco preferred not to employ his instrument. He removed it, and at the same time, opened my throat, scraped my vocal cords and retuned them in such a way that the waves of my voice are now perceptible over a radius of two kilometers.
“In the meantime, he made the acquaintance of my abdomen several times; he removed a poorly-functioning kidney, the appendix and the stomach—which were unnecessary and sometimes dangerous—and a section of the intestines that was dilated. Then he suspected the ulterior possibility of calculi in the liver, and resected a part of it thanks to an operation known as hepatovesiculocholedotomy. That was admirable!
“I emerged from each of these interventions lighter, and nearer to the beautiful simplicity of the cell—which is, as you know, the primal organic element. I blessed his smile when, on bringing me out of the sleep provoked by a hilarant fluid, which gave me joyful ideas, he said to me: ‘Captain, you’re my masterpiece! You’re approaching the perfection that is the human monad!’ He addresses me in the familiar manner, the divine Superman—yes, Messieurs, he deigns to address me as tu!
“But that’s not all. One evening, by an inexplicable negligence on my part, one of the iron cords that support the hull of the airplane broke, and, suddenly released, like a broken violin-string, struck me in the middle of the chest and also the back. That fortunate event put an end to one of my troubles. I was transported, breathless to the Palace of Surgery—you’ll be able to see the palace in due course, Messieurs, and tell me what you think of it.
“The Superman examined me. I had five broken ribs, a perforated lung and a crushed coccyx. I was dying. He took out my five ribs, made me a brand new immutable lung with only one lobe, and leveled the bones of my pelvis, with the result that I was not longer just legless but hipless. Look—this is his masterpiece!”
“It’s admirable,” said Choumaque, who was experiencing the anxiety of talking to an ironist—an opinion corroborated by the captain’s perpetual smile—“but it seems to me that you no longer possess a jaw?”
“Indeed, Monsieur Neophyte. Mastication not being necessary to my mode of nutrition, and on, the other hand, my teeth starting to ache one day, Caresco removed my lower jaw—which gives my face, as you can see an acanthopteran appearance of which I’m very proud.”7
“You’re proud of resembling a fish?”
“I’m proud of it, Monsieur, and I wonder what structure my descendants might have had if I’d been able to reproduce...”
“Yes, but you can’t, any more,” said Choumaque addressing a wink to Marcel.
The half-man had noticed that mockery, but did not manifest any anger. On the contrary; the pleats of his smile became more emphatic. He was radiant. “Well, Messieurs, you see me delighted by it. Hasn’t one of you suffered bitterly from amour? And perhaps even you, Monsieur Choumaque, if you interrogate your memory carefully...”
“You know about my past life, then?”
“We know everything!” the strange individual affirmed, calmly. “As for me, I repeat to you, and I shall proclaim it loudly forever, I’m perfectly happy, firstly because I’m Caresco’s masterpiece, and secondly because, no longer possessing many of my organs—no legs, no left arm, no right kidney, no stomach, no cecum, no colon, no inferior part of the liver, no right lung, no maxilla and no reproductive organs—I’ve greatly diminished the chances of physical suffering and the mental disappointments inevitably attached to their functioning or their desires.”
“Would it not have been more complete, in that case, to suppress your existence totally?” said Choumaque, with a malice that made his mischievous little eyes sparkle in the tangle of his hair.
“When the Superman wishes to take me!” affirmed the half-man, with pious respect.
“To what marvelous being do I have the honor of speaking? Will you tell me your name?” the professor asked, taking off his hat.
He was surprised to hear the reply, delivered with equal politeness: “I have no name, Monsieur. That too has been removed; I am called ‘the captain.’”
At the same time, the captain, reaching down to his pedestal, opened a tab fitted to a rubber tube. A little stream of lemon-yellow liquid ran out and snaked across the deck, proving that not all his functions had been suppressed. He uttered an inarticulate cry, and the pretty cabin boy who had been pirouetting in front of his comrades a little while before came to mop up the digestive excess, laughing.
That simple act of relief was about to inspire further repartee on the part of the philosopher, when an emotion suddenly manifested by his pupil caused him to look in the direction of the object that had produced it. He then perceived a woman of remarkable beauty advancing toward them.
Above average height, holding up her head boldly, she had the appearance of strength and serene grace that is the prerogative of races not yet touched by an over-refined civilization. Everything about her was supremely harmonious, and beneath the long garment that covered her entirely, one could divine the fullness of a flesh that was both powerful and delicate. What was most seductive of all was the majestic rhythm of her stride, and her natural manner of thrusting her bosom proudly forward.
On seeing her appear, Marcel, thought about antique statues, scorning the artificial forms of Parisiennes by the same token. When she came closer, the two friends were able to admire her more completely, and to observe that the perfection of her face entirely corroborated the promise of her silhouette. Her complexion was pale pink; the somber enamel of her large eyes, brilliant with youth, contrasted with the blonde reflections in her abundant sunlit hair; the ridge of her nose was delicate and straight; the moist softness of the lips was constructed on the design of four precise arcs, which one might have thought enlivened by fresh blood. Finally, two ears, delicately terminating the sinewy line of the neck, with the two most delightful lobes that one cold ever hold in a kiss combined with everything else to give the stranger the face of a noble, more refined, Amazon: a striking example of strength and human purity, inspiring at first glance the presentiment that love was about to be born from her radiance.
Marcel could not repress an exclamation of surprise, such as he might have uttered on seeing a splendid work of art. He recognized her as the woman he had glimpsed fleetingly the previous evening, by the indirect light of the beacons, who had made such an impression on his night.
“Tee hee!” murmured the half-man. “Here’s our new recruit. She
’s truly delightful, and I wouldn’t have judged her as superb yesterday evening. It’s only honest to admit the Africa is still the land of election for beautiful humans. Our realm possesses many such creatures, and Caresco, concerned for the race, has made fecund mothers of them.”
The unknown woman having reached them, he introduced her. “Miss Mary Hardisson, the sister of General Hardisson, who fought so valiantly for the independence of his country.”
The heroic history of the woman in question, whose adventures had been celebrated in twenty books and twenty novels in the last year, returned to Marcel’s memory, and he was astonished to find her above her reputation, even more regally beautiful than the newspapers had proclaimed.
England, faithful to its politics of invasion, had fortified her navy fifty years before and bluffed diplomatically to the point of absorbing all the regions of South Africa. It had only encountered resistance, as it once had in the Transvaal, in one other corner of land, located to the south of Mozambique, where a new people, recently created by emigrants of French, German and, especially, American origin, had wanted, after buying the land from Portugal, to conserve their autonomy and fight to defend their new homeland, which they called the Red Land.
The ogress nation initially threw against the coveted region a few hundred thousand men, who were rapidly defeated by the bravery of the Redlanders and the natural defenses of the country. In order not to succumb to the ridicule of her abortive attempt, and also not to allow the weakness of her army to be deduced, England had sent in motion an entire diplomatic machine, involved in the threads of that political intrigue a number of other nations interested in the enterprise, to which she promised a slice of the cake. Ferocious Turkey, valiant Ethiopia, Japan, rich in soldiers indifferent to death, and Portugal—which, since being anglicized had acquired a veritable folly of domination—easily found humanitarian pretexts for launching themselves against the little nation, to which they wanted to sell the right to exist.
The Red Land, decimated by three years of conflict, greeted the new invasion with savage resistance. Two events marked the new phase of the struggle. Firstly, the court of arbitration at The Hague protested, and Europe took no notice—but when Miss Mary Hardisson stood up in her turn, there was a delirium of enthusiasm. She was admired, for arranging field hospitals and food supplies; even, it was claimed, braving fire like a common soldier and caring for the wounded.
Then, one day, her homeland being at the end of its tether, she has escaped, by means of a perilous flight, in order to move the indifference of the old countries of Europe, to preach the defense of her soil there and to beg various governments to intervene, to put a stop to the abominable invasion of the coalition. Her father’s renown had served that cause no less that her great beauty. In Paris the boulevards had welcomed her with splendid fêtes and songs; in Berlin, the students emptied tankards to her; in St. Petersburg, a Grand Duke wanted to marry her; in New York, a showman had offered her a contract to perform in Music Halls, which would have given her ten per cent of the receipts.
She had been at that time, the pretext for the greatest success of the publishing industry. One novel written by an attaché at the War Office in London, which slandered her, was translated into all languages and sold millions of copies. A French lyrical drama, played on all the operatic stages then in existence and transmitted to the remotest corners of every country by all the improved phonographs of the epoch, provided a counterblast to the English masterpiece.
Miss Mary’s success was, however, limited to these manifestations of art and publicity. Energy no longer existed, except in her. The bastardized races remained, in sum, indifferent, after being briefly amused by the legend, of which they soon wearied, which became old in a matter of months. Governments had not received her. She had collected just enough to pay for her voyage, and had gone home, with distress in her heart.
Since then, for two months, nothing more had been heard of her. The British press had spread the rumor that she had died, an alcoholic, a morphine addict and an etheromaniac. in a Chicago brothel, but everyone knew what those affirmations were worth.
And now, Marcel Girard and Zépherin Choumaque had found her on their airplane, so haloed with glory, so divinely proud, that they could not retain an exclamation of admiration. She was not astonished by that; she came toward them, cordially holding out her hand, as soon as the captain had made the introductions from the height of his pedestal.
“I knew that I would be traveling with you, Messieurs,” she said, in a voice in which a thousand harmonious hints of a slight exotic accent sang, “and I rejoiced in advance, for certainly, of all the nations through which I traveled inefficaciously, France is still the one that remains most faithful to the old traditions of chivalric generosity. Know that, in addition, I am of French origin, since my ancestors were expatriated in consequence of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Their name, which was then Hardi, became Hardisson in America, and was conserved as such in the Red Land.”
“I disowned my country on the day when I found that it remained deaf to your appeal,” said Choumaque, gallantly, hitching up his trousers, the leather belt of which was not maintaining them sufficiently.
“Thank you, Monsieur, but hearts are not extinct in my homeland. They still beat there; they are unable to die. Yesterday, did not the cinematograph show me the most recent battle? Have I not seen the heroism of the peasants, led by my brother, launching a terrible attack on the coalition front? Have I not heard, thanks to the phonograph, the cries of vengeance uttered by those who rendered their souls? There are great resources in our national energy.”
“Very great resources, to be sure,” affirmed the philosopher, who was thinking about something else and wondering why, after so many protests, Miss Hardisson now seemed resolved to allow herself to be taken to a country from which no one returned. He made his observations silently, however, as much out of sympathy for the beautiful young woman as surprise on seeing Marcel’s increasing disturbance.
The latter was unable to detach his dazzled eyes from the stranger. He was obedient to an immediate seduction. He was immediately engaged in tender protestations; he was determined on the slavery of his entire life. The image of Hélène, his former mistress, had vanished at a stroke, in a new light, and he remained stunned by it.
And as if the accord of their sadnesses had been produced instantaneously, both of them looked toward the unknown at which the airplane’s prow was pointing. The island could not be far away, for the balloon, although still flying very high, had just traversed a layer of light clouds, the friction of which had allowed them to feel, beneath the thickness of their garments, an impression of muffled humidity.
Yes, toward what enigmatic solutions were their two sufferings heading, so different in origin but so concordant in their denouement? Life finished there, at the curtain of the clouds, but it was about to recommence down below, on the almost invisible patch of land that was gradually becoming less confused, and enlarging in the sunlight.
CHAPTER III
The captain’s voice emitted a strident clamor. Crewmen, with the pretty young cabin boy at their head, ran in response to his command. They were seen, remarkably agile and athletic, racing through the aluminum rigging toward the carapace of red fabric strewn with golden vibrions, and accomplishing a maneuver there necessitated by the loss of gas, escaping through huge valve.
On a forward-set bridge, a silk-clad helmsman was gazing into space with the aid of a huge telescope. It sufficed for him to adjust a control lever for the balloon to modify its direction. At the same time, in an unknown language composed entirely of vowels, he transmitted the half-man’s orders through a megaphone.
The latter, on his support, went back and forth and around, stimulating the efforts of his crew. His machine, activated by a fluid force, moved with all the ease in the world, under the direction of a lever similar to the helmsman’s, protected from shocks by a shiny metal frame. The voltameter indicated th
at the supply of energy was almost exhausted, and the half-man was obliged to go and procure more from a contact emerging from the deck. He came back to the passengers, satisfied and happy, the smiling pleat of his cheeks even more emphatic, as if he had been gorging on beneficent life himself.
The airplane, supported by denser air, was flapping its wings more broadly, at greater intervals. As the cold eased, Miss Mary took off her long garment, which had become too warm. The splendor of her bust, held by a tight-fitting corsage, became evident.
Choumaque began to take off his fur, under which he was beginning to sweat, but scarcely had he opened it than he closed it again abruptly, in order to hide his worn jacket and the section of his undershirt that his poorly-attached trousers left visible at the waist.
Marcel had also taken off his heliotrope-colored overcoat, and the elegance of his vestment, close-fitting at the waist and falling in fine pleats over his beige trousers, was revealed. At the same time, the breadth of his shoulders and the grace of his stature attracted the eyes of the young woman, who secretly reproached him for not having the warrior appearance of the children of the Red Land, and disdained the caresses that his eyes had already sent her.
The captain rolled around silently. After a final inspection of his vessel, his voice, half-human and half-mechanical, like his entire being, piped up: “Since the three of you are together, permit me to give you some useful information. In reality, I have no orders to do so, and the agreeable privilege really belongs to the Chief Representative, but Zadochbach is an idler who is late getting up today, and who has a backlog of accounts to put in order—for, as you doubtless know, he’s in charge of all the State’s financial affairs.
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