In A Thousand Years

by Emile Calvet

  “Notary!” he exclaimed, fearfully. “That’s a good one! Let’s go on, I might as well have a good laugh before I die.”

  Husband of ALEXANDRINE-DOROTHÉE DESI-FLARD.

  “Oh! They want to prevent my suicide by making me choke with laughter,” he said, beating the table with his fists and abandoning himself to a fit of joy that lasted for five minutes and must have astonished the severe echoes of the funereal hall he was in. “Dorothée! The only daughter of our neighbor and friend the notary Desiflard,” he went on. “Dorothée, who was always revealing to me mother my most ingenious methods of playing truant, and whose ears I boxed, in revenge, when I found her on her own! Dorothée, who, ten years later, permitted herself to talk about me in front of a schoolfriend in the following terms: ‘That great imbecile has already squandered three quarters of his fortune!’ My God, give me the strength to go on to the end.”

  When he was relatively calm again he continued reading, aloud:

  SYLVAIN-THÉODORE CAHUSAC, son of ACHILLE-GÉDÉON CAHUSAC and ALEXANDRINE-DOROTHÉE DESIFLARD.

  “Dorothée! Théodore!” he thought, aloud. “In Greek, that means the same thing; it’s a logical choice of name.”

  Celebrated geographer and explorer, to whom is owed the first accurate map of the upper reaches of the Congo.

  “An explorer, that’s what I’d have liked to be,” he murmured. “As for the title of geographer, the Academy that conferred that on me would have been giving proof of great benevolence.”

  While the young man continued the minute study, his face sometimes darkened and sometimes lit up; once, he clapped his hands in joy when his eyes fell upon one of his descendants described thus:

  JÉROME-ANDRÉ CAHUSAC, celebrated mariner of the 23rd century. Forced the north-west passage with three ships of heavy tonnage.

  “That’s rather juicy,” said Gédéon. “There’s only one shadow—the name Jérome, which I don’t like, primarily because it belongs to my uncle. Still, the name Cahusac wipes that out. All in all, it’s a worthy conclusion to the series. What’s this footnote?

  “The captain of the vessel Cahusac having only left a daughter, the direct descendancy changes its name. Similar transformations occurred in the 17th, 21st, 25th and 29th generations.

  “All those people don’t matter to me—let’s skip to the last family,” the reader declared, turning the page.

  On reading the name that was at the foot of the column, he uttered a terrible cry and fell backwards, in a faint. One the penultimate line, in large letters, was the name and titles of:

  CONSTANTIN-GUILLAUME DRYON, member of the Institut, celebrated agronomist, opulent proprietor of the central plateau of equatorial Africa, member of the European parliament, founder and honorary president in perpetuity of the Universal Expositions of Ujiji, Zanzibar, Magdala, Kazeh and Timbuktu, administrator of the circular railways of Tanganyika and Bangouelo, creator of the Continental African Bank, etc.

  And below it:

  AURORE-ÉVA DRYON, daughter of CONSTANTIN-GUILLAUME DRYON and LAURE-HENRIETTE BONHEUR.

  XXXI. Expansive Testimonies

  The young man, whose unconsciousness had lasted for twenty minutes, was recalled to life by a particularly disagreeable sensation.

  He opened his eyes and abruptly closed them again—but he had had time to recognize that he had been carried into the courtyard of the mausoleum, and set down near the monumental fountain. There, the curator of the Archives was supporting him with one hand and emptying a carafe of cold water over his face with the other.

  As the benevolent functionary reached out to fill his receptacle from the basin again, the patient leapt to his feet.

  “One ration is sufficient for me, thank you very much,” he said. “How did I get here?”

  “Monsieur,” the hydropath replied, softly, “I found you in my office, fainted, and I carried you here in order to bring you round. Nothing is as efficacious in such cases as cold water.”

  “I agree.” said the resuscitated individual. “But…hang on...” He put his hand to his forehead, and, suddenly recovering his memory, he set off toward the plaza at a run.

  “There’s a fellow who’s very ill, and whom we’ll soon be bringing back,” murmured the curator, shaking his head.

  To the great amazement of the strollers, Gédéon increased his speed with every stride. When he arrived at the central pyramid he was out of breath. Seven o’clock was chiming at that moment on the side of the monolith.

  He stopped.

  “Let’s moderate our pace a little,” he said, “for two reasons. Firstly, I have plenty of time to get there before my two companions get up, whose existence is regulated like a compensating pendulum, and who will get out of bed today, as on every other day, at eight o’clock precisely. Secondly, and more importantly, things have changed henceforth. I’m incontestably the great-grandparent on Éva’s great-grandparents, and the gambols of a hind in the woods are scarcely appropriate to that unexpected dignity. From now on, the graces of the suitor must give way to the gravity of the arch-ancestor.”

  And he resumed walking at a measured pace.

  Having arrived at the school, he thought he ought to climb the great staircase at a heavy and weary pace. He went alone the balustrade, leaning on it, in order to conform to the attitude that was now appropriate to him. Before the steps that led to the apartment of the two scientists, however, the old man recovered his strength, and hurtled up to the upper floor at top speed.

  Scarcely had he reached the corridor than he stretched out his arms and swiftly detached the two testamentary formulas. He folded them in four and slipped them into his pocket. Then, launching himself toward the physicist’s door, he started knocking furiously.

  “Monsieur Terrier!” he shouted. “Come and open up! I have something prodigious to tell you. If you don’t want to fall over, gather up your self-composure.”

  The professor, rudely snatched from his slumber, sat up on his elbow and, recognizing the voice of his former pupil, murmured: “What’s the meaning of all this racket? Has Antius’ prognosis been realized?”

  Meanwhile, the doctor, woken up with a start, said, for his part: “That’s it. I’ll have to ask Herber where the nearest sanitarium is.” Leaping out of bed, he put on his slippers, threw his dressing-gown over his shoulders, and headed for the door, which he flung open.

  At the sight of his uncle, coiffed in his sumptuous cotton bonnet, which had already attracted the physicist’s admiration, the young man, gripped by a bizarre idea, leapt upon the respectable scientist and, seizing him in his arms, forced him to participate, reluctantly, in a most extraordinary choreographical exercise.

  Antius, dragged away in a rapid whirl, uttered loud cries, in which anger and terror alternated their dominance.

  “Terrier!” he shouted. “Come and get me out of this madman’s hands! He’s doubtless trying to kill me. Arm yourself with whatever comes to hand.”

  The physicist suddenly appeared, in his shirt-sleeves, waving an enormous water-jug in a threatening manner

  At the sight of that, Gédéon stopped, propping his uncle up against the wall. “Thanks,” he said, “But I’ve already had one rather energetic shower this morning—that’s sufficient for me.

  “What are you shaking me like that for, savage?” the doctor complained.

  “Savage? Moderate your expressions, if you please. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “This is too much!” cried Antius. “He’s completely mad, and I’ll get him a padded cell of exceptional solidity.”

  “Uncle,” the young man riposted, coldly, “you and your colleagues would gladly lock up half the human race. I tell you that I’m not mad, and that, if I’ve cut a few capers in your company—which, after all, has nothing condemnable about it—it’s because, this very day, I’ve made a discovery that might well cause you to lose your reason yourself when I reveal it to you. But let’s all go back into your room, in order that we can talk calmly, if
you please.”

  “If you come into my room,” Antius declared, “I’ll slice your jugular with one of my razors.”

  “Let’s go into Monsieur Terrier’s, then.”

  “Thanks,” said the physicist. “I received my room in good condition, and I want to return it the same way.”

  “Messieurs,” said Gédéon, with an earnest expression, “I have something extremely serious to tell you. Since you don’t want to receive me, come into my room for ten minutes—and after receiving my confidences, you’ll cover me with blessings.”

  And he opened the door.

  This objurgation had been uttered with such solemnity that the two scientists looked at one another indecisively for a moment.

  Terrier made up his mind first and followed the young man. Antius advanced in his turn, with precaution. The professor threw himself into an armchair. The doctor took up a position at the foot of the divan, near the door, in case he needed to beat a rapid retreat. Then, without saying a word, he directed his nephew to the most distant chair.

  Without raising any opposition, the latter obeyed, and, after a few seconds’ reflection, started to speak.

  “Messieurs, I shall begin at the beginning.”

  Terrier approved with a nod of the head.

  “This morning, I had resolved to reach the somber limits, and here’s the proof,” said the orator, taking out his pieces of paper and handing each one to the person to whom it was addressed.

  After reading his, the professor smiled. Antius shrugged his shoulders.

  “But before dying,” the young man went on, moving his chair two meters closer, “I wanted, for private reasons, to visit in advance the place where my ashes would be placed. While you were asleep, I traced that last adieu to each of you, and, after having attached the two documents to your doors, I went down to the courtyard. From there I went into the square, which I crossed without hesitation, heading for the Necropolis. I ought to ad that throughout the funereal drama, the stoic courage of Regulus did not abandon me for a single instant.

  “As I expected, the building was empty. Having arrived in the vestibule, I don’t know what bizarre idea took hold of me to visit the dead of the 20th century, to find out whether I might find myself in the company of some former comrade.

  “So, I go up to the fourth floor, with the familiarity of a sitting tenant. I go into the hall, and after five minutes of attentive examination I suddenly perceive my own name on a massive gold urn. I’m bowled over—metaphorically, of course—but I nearly fall over literally when I see a note on my vessel, which says: The genealogy of the Cahusacs is in the Archives, some register or other, page 1237.

  “I start running, come down the stairs like an avalanche and go into the office we visited together yesterday afternoon. I snatch the volume, find page 1237 and I see…what? A Plateau.”

  The doctor slowly got to his feet, looking at Terrier.

  Convinced, rightly, that his uncle suspected once again that he had lost his mind, Gédéon resumed, calmly: “I mean to say that in my rightful place I find a certain Nicolas Plateau, jurisconsultant. I throw away the register angrily, which fortunately shows me its back. I was mistaken; I needed K2!” The narrator came to his feet abruptly.

  “Wretch!” cried Antius, thinking it a further fit and tightening the cord of his dressing-gown as if preparing for a fight.

  “My God, Uncle, what a bad mood you’re in,” the young man continued, without getting excited. “In the presence of a dozen listeners like you, the most phlegmatic lecturer would certainly become rabid. Since it’s necessary, for you, to dot the is, I’ll tell you that K2 signifies volume 2 of register K. That was how the volume was described by the inscription. If you still don’t understand, though...”

  “Go on,” the physicist interjected.

  “I leap on the veritable folio and I set it before me. I start riffling through it with a feverish hand, and I finally find page 1237.

  “O miracle! My name occupies the place of honor. The genealogist has even framed me with a certain artistry.

  “Now, what will seem prodigious to you is that I was designated under the rubric former notary. And to think that the history of nations that we teach to schoolchildren might be no more authentic than mine! But you’ll writhe with laughter when you hear that—according to my historiographer, of course—I was the son-in-law of Maître Desiflard, our family notary.”

  The narrator’s prognostication was not realized in the slightest, for the doctor remained pensive and the physicist contented himself with replying: “That hangs together well enough.”

  “You mean it hangs me by the neck well enough,” the young man riposted. “In spite of everything, I didn’t fail to bless Providence, which had given me a quarter of an hour of mad gaiety before quitting the earth for a second time.

  “I carried on reading, and found myself the father of a certain Sylvain-Théodore Cahusac, famous geographer, who discovered the sources of the Congo. It wasn’t an occasion to say talis pater, talis filius,40 for I have no idea myself whether the river in question is in Cochin-China or Andalusia.

  “I scanned the innumerable list of my descendants. There were, among others, a rich collection of notaries, two consuls, a judge, for rentiers, an aeronaut and—alas!—two shopkeepers, an orchestra conductor and an inspector of weights and measures.

  “At the fourteenth generation, the name of Cahusac fell definitively into oblivion with the most glorious of the troop, a ship’s captain who forced the north-west passage, said the note, admiringly. I agree, although, to tell the truth, I have no idea what it means. Until the end, nothing remarkable—but on reading the last name, I received a shock that nearly advanced the hour of my death.”

  The young man’s voice intensified. “Guess,” he said, “whose ancestor I am.”

  The two scientists looked at one another anxiously.

  “Of Guillame Dryon!” said Gédéon, in a low voice, emphasizing every syllable of their protector’s name.

  “That’s truly marvelous,” Antius added, reluctantly impressed.

  “And now, Uncle, can you understand the reason for the waltz that I just made you execute against your will?”

  “I understand it, without approving of it,” the doctor retorted. “But it’s important for us to make sure that your story, which exceeds all plausibility, is true.”

  “Thank you for your confidence. Go and look.”

  “That’s what we’ll do,” Terrier concluded. “In the meantime, you get some rest. Do you agree, Antius?”

  “Certainly. Let’s get dressed. We’ll be back in an hour.”

  As soon as his companions had left, the young man threw himself on his bed and, exhausted by fatigue and emotion, fell into a profound slumber.

  He was soon visited by a gigantic dream.

  His descendancy multiplied infinitely. The father of several flourishing nations, he saw his own statue in solid gold in the plazas of great cities.

  Every year, on his birthday, he received visits from all sorts of societies, who came in a body to salute his image. He was forced to hear cantatas composed in his honor and executed by formidable choirs. A contest of floral games had been instituted for that memorable day, and he listened with satisfaction to academic speeches in which his virtues and merits were praised.

  Finally, just as a temperance society was claiming him as its true founder, the young man was woken up by Terrier’s voice, saying: “For myself I only left two descendants, properly bound in calfskin, which, it appears, ornament public libraries.”

  The young men leapt out of bed and ran to the door.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Everything you said is scrupulously accurate,” declared Antius, “And we can accept the benefits of your descendant without scruple. Of, course, it will be necessary not to claim your title of parentage in his presence.”

  “Don’t worry—I’ve already had enough cold showers.”

  “Now, my friends,”
said the doctor, “we ought to go and thank the generous schoolmaster for the benefits that he has heaped upon us.”

  XXXII. In a Balloon

  A quarter of an hour later, the Herber family, gathered in the drawing room, received the grateful thanks of the strangers. The latter had to promise formally to return to the school every time they came back to Paris, their place being eternally reserved at their friend’s hearth.

  The schoolmaster accompanied them as far as the palace, and did not leave them until the arrival of the master of the house, who held out his hands to them and tried in vain to retain Herber at his table. The latter objected that he had work to do, and left after bidding his guests a last adieu.

  A majordomo came to announce that the meal was served, and the guests went into the dining room.

  Éva, who was supervising the final preparations, smiled graciously at the guests. They all took their places at the table, which was as sumptuously served as the day before.

  Gédéon, whose paternal instincts were stimulated by the presence of his multi-great-grandchildren, was visibly emotional. He had struck a grave and majestic attitude, and only spoke in sentences, while his companions maintained their freedom of intellect and their habitual calm.

  The two scientists ate with a hearty appetite, but the young man, fearful of gastritis for the first time in his life, by reason of his great age, officiated with extreme prudence.

  As the cups were being filled with an exquisitely perfumed coffee, Guillaume Dryon took the floor. “Messieurs,” he said, “We’re leaving in two hours in one of my airships, the Arago. We’ll arrive at eight o’clock this evening in the city of Livingstone, which is the most animated and most elegant seaside resort on the Algerian Sea. Tomorrow morning, we’ll set forth across the African continent, and the day after, we’ll set foot on my estates on the banks of the Tanganyika. If you have any preparations to make for the voyage, my people are at your disposal.”