Great French Short Stories

by Paul Negri

  August 17. Oh, what a night! What a night! And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I read until one o’clock in the morning! Herestauss, doctor of philosophy and theogony, wrote the history of the manifestation of all those invisible beings which hover around man, or of whom he dreams. He describes their origin, their domain, their power; but none of them resembles the one which haunts me. One might say that man, ever since he began to think, has had a foreboding fear of a new being, stronger than himself, his successor in this world, and that, feeling his presence, and not being able to foresee the nature of that master, he has, in his terror, created the whole race of occult beings, of vague phantoms born of fear.

  Having, therefore, read until one o’clock in the morning, I went and sat down at the open window, in order to cool my forehead and thoughts, in the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm! How I should have enjoyed such a night formerly!

  There was no moon, but the stars darted out their rays in the dark heavens. Who inhabits those worlds? What forms, what living beings, what animals are there yonder? What do the thinkers in those distant worlds know more than we do? What can they do more than we can? What do they see which we do not know? Will not one of them, some day or other, traversing space, appear on our earth to conquer it, just as the Norsemen formerly crossed the sea in order to subjugate nations more feeble than themselves?

  We are so weak, so defenseless, so ignorant, so small, we who live on this particle of mud which revolves in a drop of water.

  I fell asleep, dreaming thus in the cool night air, and when I had slept for about three-quarters of an hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened by I know not what confused and strange sensation. At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared to me as if a page of a book which had remained open on my table turned over of its own accord. Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and I was surprised, and waited. In about four minutes, I saw, I saw, yes, I saw with my own eyes, another page lift itself up and fall down on the others, as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was empty, appeared empty, but I knew that he was there, he, and sitting in my place, and that he was reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an enraged wild beast that springs at its tamer, I crossed my room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him! But before I could reach it, the chair fell over as if somebody had run away from me—my table rocked, my lamp fell and went out, and my window closed as if some thief had been surprised and had fled out into the night, shutting it behind him.

  So he had run away; he had been afraid; he, afraid of me!

  But—but—to-morrow—or later—some day or other—I should be able to hold him in my clutches and crush him against the ground! Do not dogs occasionally bite and strangle their masters?

  August 18. I have been thinking the whole day long. Oh, yes, I will obey him, follow his impulses, fulfill all his wishes, show myself humble, submissive, a coward. He is the stronger; but the hour will come—

  August 19. I know—I know—I know all! I have just read the following in the Revue du Monde Scientifique: “A curious piece of news comes to us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness, an epidemic of madness, which may be compared to that contagious madness which attacked the people of Europe in the Middle Ages, is at this moment raging in the Province of San-Paolo. The terrified inhabitants are leaving their houses, saying that they are pursued, possessed, dominated like human cattle by invisible, though tangible beings, a species of vampire, which feed on their life while they are asleep, and who, besides, drink water and milk without appearing to touch any other nourishment.

  “Professor Don Pedro Henriques, accompanied by several medical savants, has gone to the Province of San-Paolo, in order to study the origin and the manifestations of this surprising madness on the spot, and to propose such measures to the Emperor as may appear to him to be most fitted to restore the mad population to reason.”

  Ah! Ah! I remember now that fine Brazilian three-master which passed in front of my windows as it was going up the Seine, on the 8th day of last May! I thought it looked so pretty, so white and bright! That Being was on board of her, coming from there, where its race originated. And it saw me! It saw my house which was also white, and it sprang from the ship on to the land. Oh, merciful heaven!

  Now I know, I can divine. The reign of man is over, and he has come. He who was feared by primitive man; whom disquieted priests exorcised; whom sorcerers evoked on dark nights, without having seen him appear, to whom the imagination of the transient masters of the world lent all the monstrous or graceful forms of gnomes, spirits, genii, fairies and familiar spirits. After the coarse conceptions of primitive fear, more clear-sighted men foresaw it more clearly. Mesmer divined it, and ten years ago physicians accurately discovered the nature of his power, even before he exercised it himself. They played with this new weapon of the Lord, the sway of a mysterious will over the human soul, which had become a slave. They called it magnetism, hypnotism, suggestion—what do I know? I have seen them amusing themselves like rash children with this horrible power! Woe to us! Woe to man! He has come, the—the—what does he call himself—the—I fancy that he is shouting out his name to me and I do not hear him—the—yes—he is shouting it out—I am listening—I cannot—he repeats it—the—Horla—I hear—the Horla—it is he—the Horla—he has come!

  Ah! the vulture has eaten the pigeon; the wolf has eaten the lamb; the lion has devoured the sharp-horned buffalo; man has killed the lion with an arrow, with a sword, with gunpowder; but the Horla will make of man what we have made of the horse and of the ox; his chattel, his slave and his food, by the mere power of his will. Woe to us!

  But, nevertheless, the animal sometimes revolts and kills the man who has subjugated it. I should also like—I shall be able to—but I must know him, touch him, see him! Scientists say that animals’ eyes, being different from ours, do not distinguish objects as ours do. And my eye cannot distinguish this newcomer who is oppressing me.

  Why? Oh, now I remember the words of the monk at Mont Saint-Michel : “Can we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? See here; there is the wind, which is the strongest force in nature, which knocks down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships on the breakers ; the wind which kills, which whistles, which sighs, which roars—have you ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all that however!”

  And I went on thinking; my eyes are so weak, so imperfect, that they do not even distinguish hard bodies, if they are as transparent as glass! If a glass without tinfoil behind it were to bar my way, I should run into it, just as a bird which has flown into a room breaks its head against the window-panes. A thousand things, moreover, deceive man and lead him astray. Why should it then be surprising that he cannot perceive an unknown body through which the light passes?

  A new being! Why not? It was assuredly bound to come! Why should we be the last? We do not distinguish it any more than all the others created before us! The reason is, that its nature is more perfect, its body finer and more finished than ours, that ours is so weak, so awkwardly constructed, encumbered with organs that are always tired, always on the strain like machinery that is too complicated, which lives like a plant and like a beast, nourishing itself with difficulty on air, herbs and flesh, an animal machine which is a prey to maladies, to malformations, to decay; broken-winded, badly regulated, simple and eccentric, ingeniously badly made, at once a coarse and a delicate piece of workmanship, the rough sketch of a being that might become intelligent and grand.

  We are only a few, so few in this world, from the oyster up to man. Why should there not be one more, once that period is passed which separates the successive apparitions from all the different species?

  Why not one more? Why not, also, other trees with immense, splendid flowers, perfuming whole regions? Why not other elements besides fire, air, earth and water? There are four, only four, those nursing fathers of various beings! What a pity! W
hy are there not forty, four hundred, four thousand? How poor everything is, how mean and wretched! grudgingly produced, roughly constructed, clumsily made! Ah, the elephant and the hippopotamus, what grace! And the camel, what elegance!

  But the butterfly, you will say, a flying flower! I dream of one that should be as large as a hundred worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty, colors and motion I cannot even express. But I see it—it flutters from star to star, refreshing them and perfuming them with the light and harmonious breath of its flight! And the people up there look at it as it passes in an ecstasy of delight!

  What is the matter with me? It is he, the Horla, who haunts me, and who makes me think of these foolish things! He is within me, he is becoming my soul; I shall kill him!

  August 19. I shall kill him. I have seen him! Yesterday I sat down at my table and pretended to write very assiduously. I knew quite well that he would come prowling round me, quite close to me, so close that I might perhaps be able to touch him, to seize him. And then—then I should have the strength of desperation; I should have my hands, my knees, my chest, my forehead, my teeth to strangle him, to crush him, to bite him, to tear him to pieces. And I watched for him with all my over-excited senses.

  I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax candles on my mantelpiece, as if with this light I could discover him.

  My bedstead, my old oak post bedstead, stood opposite to me; on my right was the fireplace; on my left, the door which was carefully closed, after I had left it open for some time in order to attract him; behind me was a very high wardrobe with a looking-glass in it, before which I stood to shave and dress every day, and in which I was in the habit of glancing at myself from head to foot every time I passed it.

  I pretended to be writing in order to deceive him, for he also was watching me, and suddenly I felt—I was certain that he was reading over my shoulder, that he was there, touching my ear.

  I got up, my hands extended, and turned round so quickly that I almost fell. Eh! well? It was as bright as at midday, but I did not see my reflection in the mirror! It was empty, clear, profound, full of light! But my figure was not reflected in it—and I, I was opposite to it! I saw the large, clear glass from top to bottom, and I looked at it with unsteady eyes; and I did not dare to advance; I did not venture to make a movement, feeling that he was there, but that he would escape me again, he whose imperceptible body had absorbed my reflection.

  How frightened I was! And then, suddenly, I began to see myself in a mist in the depths of the looking-glass, in a mist as it were a sheet of water; and it seemed to me as if this water were flowing clearer every moment. It was like the end of an eclipse. Whatever it was that hid me did not appear to possess any clearly defined outlines, but a sort of opaque transparency which gradually grew clearer.

  At last I was able to distinguish myself completely, as I do every day when I look at myself.

  I had seen it! And the horror of it remained with me, and makes me shudder even now.

  August 20. How could I kill it, as I could not get hold of it? Poison? But it would see me mix it with the water; and then, would our poisons have any effect on its impalpable body? No—no—no doubt about the matter——Then—then?—

  August 21. I sent for a blacksmith from Rouen, and ordered iron shutters for my room, such as some private hotels in Paris have on the ground floor, for fear of burglars, and he is going to make me an iron door as well. I have made myself out a coward, but I do not care about that!

  September 10.—Rouen, Hotel Continental. It is done—it is done—but is he dead? My mind is thoroughly upset by what I have seen.

  Well then, yesterday, the locksmith having put on the iron shutters and door, I left everything open until midnight, although it was getting cold.

  Suddenly I felt that he was there, and joy, mad joy, took possession of me. I got up softly, and walked up and down for some time, so that he might not suspect anything; then I took off my boots and put on my slippers carelessly; then I fastened the iron shutters, and, going back to the door, quickly double-locked it with a padlock, putting the key into my pocket.

  Suddenly I noticed that he was moving restlessly round me, that in his turn he was frightened and was ordering me to let him out. I nearly yielded; I did not, however, but, putting my back to the door, I half opened it, just enough to allow me to go out backward, and as I am very tall my head touched the casing. I was sure that he had not been able to escape, and I shut him up quite alone, quite alone. What happiness! I had him fast. Then I ran downstairs; in the drawing-room, which was under my bedroom, I took the two lamps and I poured all the oil on the carpet, the furniture, everywhere; then I set fire to it and made my escape, after having carefully double-locked the door.

  I went and hid myself at the bottom of the garden, in a clamp of laurel bushes. How long it seemed! How long it seemed! Everything was dark, silent, motionless, not a breath of air and not a star, but heavy banks of clouds which one could not see, but which weighed, oh, so heavily on my soul.

  I looked at my house and waited. How long it was! I already began to think that the fire had gone out of its own accord, or that he had extinguished it, when one of the lower windows gave way under the violence of the flames, and a long, soft, caressing sheet of red flame mounted up the white wall, and enveloped it as far as the roof. The light fell on the trees, the branches, and the leaves, and a shiver of fear pervaded them also! The birds awoke, a dog began to howl, and it seemed to me as if the day were breaking! Almost immediately two other windows flew into fragments, and I saw that the whole of the lower part of my house was nothing but a terrible furnace. But a cry, a horrible, shrill, heartrending cry, a woman’s cry, sounded through the night, and two garret windows were opened! I had forgotten the servants ! I saw their terror-stricken faces, and their arms waving frantically.

  Then, overwhelmed with horror, I set off to run to the village, shouting: “Help! help! fire! fire!” I met some people who were already coming to the scene, and I returned with them.

  By this time the house was nothing but a horrible and magnificent funeral pile, a monstrous funeral pile which lit up the whole country, a funeral pile where men were burning, and where he was burning also, He, He, my prisoner, that new Being, the new master, the Horla!

  Suddenly the whole roof fell in between the walls, and a volcano of flames darted up to the sky. Through all the windows which opened on that furnace, I saw the flames darting, and I thought that he was there, in that kiln, dead.

  Dead? Perhaps?——His body? Was not his body, which was transparent, indestructible by such means as would kill ours?

  If he were not dead?——Perhaps time alone has power over that Invisible and Redoubtable Being. Why this transparent, unrecognizable body, this body belonging to a spirit, if it also has to fear ills, infirmities and premature destruction?

  Premature destruction? All human terror springs from that! After man, the Horla. After him who can die every day, at any hour, at any moment, by any accident, came the one who would die only at his own proper hour, day, and minute, because he had touched the limits of his existence!

  No—no—without any doubt—he is not dead——Then—then—I suppose I must kill myself! . . .

  Honoré de Balzac

  THE UNKNOWN MASTERPIECE

  Le Chef-d’Oeuvre Inconnu

  TO A LORD. 1845.

  1. Gillette

  Toward the end of the year 1612, on a cold December morning, a young man whose clothing looked very thin was walking to and fro in front of the door to a house located on the Rue des Grands-Augustins in Paris. After walking on that street for quite some time with the indecision of a lover who lacks the courage to visit his first mistress, no matter how easy her virtue, he finally crossed the threshold of that door and asked whether master François Pourbus was at home. On the affirmative reply made by an old woman busy sweeping a downstairs room, the young man slowly climbed the steps, stopping from stair to stair like some recently appointed courtier w
orried about how the king will receive him. When he reached the top of the spiral staircase, he remained on the landing for a while, unsure about seizing the grotesque knocker that decorated the door to the studio in which Henri IV’s painter, abandoned by Marie de Médicis in favor of Rubens, was no doubt working. The young man was experiencing that profound emotion that must have stirred the heart of all the great artists when, at the height of their youth and love of art, they approached a man of genius or some masterpiece. There exists in all human feelings a pristine purity, engendered by a noble enthusiasm, that gradually grows weaker until happiness is only a memory, and glory a lie. Among these delicate emotions, the one most resembling love is the youthful ardor of an artist beginning the delicious torture of his destiny of glory and misfortune, an ardor full of audacity and shyness, of vague beliefs and inevitable discouragements. The man who, short of money but of budding genius, has never felt a sharp thrill when introducing himself to a master, will always be lacking a string in his heart, some stroke of the brush, a certain feeling in his work, some poetic expressiveness. If a few braggarts, puffed up with themselves, believe in their future too soon, only fools consider them wise. Judging by this, the young stranger seemed to possess real merit, if talent can be measured by that initial shyness, by that indefinable modesty that men slated for glory are prone to lose during the practice of their art, just as pretty women lose theirs in the habits of coquetry. Being accustomed to triumph lessens one’s self-doubt, and modesty may be a form of doubt.

  Overwhelmed with poverty and, at that moment, surprised at his own presumptuousness, the poor novice wouldn’t have entered the studio of the painter to whom we owe the admirable portrait of Henri IV if it hadn’t been for an unusual helping hand sent his way by chance. An old man came up the stairs. From the oddness of his clothes, from the magnificence of his lace collar, from the exceptional self-assurance of his gait, the young man guessed that this person must be the painter’s protector or friend; he moved back on the landing to give him room and studied him with curiosity, hoping to find in him the good nature of an artist or the helpful disposition of an art lover; but he discerned something diabolical in that face, and especially that indefinable something which attracts artists. Imagine a bald, convex, jutting forehead, sloping down to a small, flat nose turned up at the end like Rabelais’s or Socrates’; a smiling, wrinkled mouth; a short chin, lifted proudly and adorned with a gray beard cut in a point; sea-green eyes apparently dimmed by age but which, through the contrast of the pearly white in which the irises swam, must sometimes cast hypnotic looks at the height of anger or enthusiasm. In addition, his face was singularly withered by the labors of old age, and still more by the kind of thoughts that hollow out both the soul and the body. His eyes had no more lashes, and only a few traces of eyebrows could be made out above their protruding ridges. Place this head on a thin, weak body, encircle it with sparkling-white lace of openwork like that of a fish slice, throw onto the old man’s black doublet a heavy gold chain, and you will have an imperfect picture of that character, whom the feeble daylight of the staircase lent an additional tinge of the fantastic. You would have thought him a Rembrandt painting, walking silently without a frame in the dark atmosphere which that great painter made all his own. The old man cast a glance imbued with wisdom at the young man, knocked three times at the door, and said to the sickly man of about forty, who opened it: “Good day, master.”