The Mirror of Present Events

by Brian Stableford

  XII. Baron Isaac sticks his oar in.

  Since the day of the Cup, Baron Isaac de l’Échelle-Jacob had been living in a state of chronic exasperation, continually renewed by further disappointments. Peau-de-Balle, his old horse, had become a veritable enemy so far as he was concerned, always and cruelly victorious.

  Three times, admirably prepared coups had been thwarted; horses specially whetted by Pauwels had run up against the mysterious crack. And that Peau-de-Balle, always the favorite now, won even when he was ten to one on. In the financier’s opinion, that was spoiling the game. Oh, if he had had that admirable instrument, how cleverly he would have been able to play with him!

  So, a few days before the Prix Henri-Rochefort, which was to be run at Maisons-Lafitte—forty thousand francs and a work of art—Baron Isaac declared to himself that things could not go on as they were. He had, in fact, entered in that race his horse Pancreas, whose chance, unsuspected by the public, was of the first order—on condition, of course, that Madame Tafoireau’s horse was left out of account. That was the problem: eliminating that inconvenient factor.

  Now, Baron Isaac had the habit of passing from reflection to action with a marvelous rapidity; that is a condition of existence on the Bourse, where the flair of the financier must be doubled with the swiftness of a conjurer, and where big fish only eat the little ones by courtesy of their greater rapidity in movement.

  The idea came to him at eight o’clock in the evening, while he was dining at Champeaux. At ten o’clock he disembarked at Chantilly with the bookmaker Sem Lévy, who was at all such feasts, and fell upon Ely Pauwels, bewildered by the untimely visit

  The trainer, however, amiably installed his guests in his smoking room and offered them cigars. Baron Isaac accepted without hesitation, although he had a comfortable supply of Havanas in his pocket; he operated on the principle of never refusing what he could take.

  He did not wait to have inspired the first puff of tobacco to get to the heart of the mater.

  “He’s a nuisance, Peau-de-Balle.”

  The enunciation of that truth, recognized by the three individuals, immediately created an atmosphere of cordiality.

  “He’s a nuisance. I give myself a diabolical headache earning four sous on the Bourse, and I lose it all again at the races because that dirty beast is always getting in the way of mine!”

  Sem Lévy and Ely Pauwels let the boss talk, knowing perfectly well what he was getting at, but wanting to leave the responsibility for his conclusions to him.

  “So, I ask myself: isn’t there any means of getting rid of him?”

  Slowly, Pauwels said: “I’ve thought about that.”

  “Well?”

  “There are several means. For one, you could buy the horse. But since Madame Tafoireau doesn’t want to hear of it, it’s necessary not to think of it. Then, I thought perhaps that one might make something of young Gustave Louffe, by paying him the price. I ran into him the other day at the station, and I thought it a good opportunity. I offered him some suggestions regarding the services than an intelligent jockey might render certain wealthy individuals…whose interests weren’t necessarily the same as the interests of his bosses. I made him understand that the jockey in question could considerably augment his income, and, combining action with words, I took out in front of him, in a negligent but ostentatious fashion, a wallet that was, I can assure you, rather well-stuffed. Do you know what young Gustave Louffe did? He pretended to mistake my intention. ‘Oh, Monsieur Pauwels,’ he said, ‘you doubtless want change for a thousand-franc bill?’ and in his turn he took out and opened under my nose a wallet in which there were three times as many blue bills as mine contained. You understand that there’s no means of leverage on a jockey who earns as much as he presently wants.”

  Baron Isaac reflected.

  “But Griffith? Griffith himself? Couldn’t we make him understand that it’s against his own interests to let his horse win so regularly?”

  Sem Lévy’s features took on a fearful expression.

  “No, no, Griffith doesn’t understand anything at all. I tried to have a word with him, in vain, on the subject of the late settlement of a certain debt that he owed me. It was a matter of old and unfortunate bets. I said to him, very mildly, that I’d consent to pass the sponge over his skate if…if Peau-de-Balle wanted to have, from time to time, a little weakness, very excusable in a horse that really is being abused. Griffith threw me the money he owed me and then…then he became even more vulgar.”

  And Sem Lévy rubbed his lower back, which appeared to be the seat of a dolorous memory.

  Ely Pauwels burst into coarse laughter.

  “Yes, you returned with an injury after the race.”

  Baron Isaac pursued his idea.

  “What about the lads? Griffith’s lads?”

  “I’ve also made enquiries of Griffith’s lads,” replied Ely Pauwels. “That’s easy, with a glass of whisky one can find out many things. And indeed, I received extraordinary information. This is it: Peau-de-Balle isn’t lodged in Griffith’s stable with the other horses. He’s been installed in an isolated pavilion, of which Gustave Louffe occupies the first floor, and which has a separate exit to the road, a short distance from here. The lads don’t have the right to go near that building. No one has ever seen any forage go in, or any dung come out. Finally, none of my neighbor’s stable lads, nor any other inhabitant of Chantilly, has ever seen Peau-de-Balle at exercise, coming or going from the training grounds.”

  Pauwels fell silent momentarily, and then continued in an overly indifferent tone, without appearing to be paying any heed to the effect of his words on the Baron.

  “All that, in sum, is very mysterious…but those circumstances render it very easy to carry out the project of anyone who wanted to pay Peau-de-Balle a visit by night...and take him, at the same time...oh, a mere supposition...some little delicacy. That might give a few chances of victory to Pancreas, tomorrow, in the Prix Henri-Rochefort.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Isaac—who was, on the contrary, beginning to understand very well indeed.

  “Pardon me!” Lévy put in. “I’m not very sure either of having understood very well the thought of the very honorable opponent, but, if the occasion were to arise, I’d permit myself to table a little amendment to the project he’s sketched. Certainly, it would be interesting for us to prevent Peau-de-Balle from running tomorrow. But what would be more interesting still would be to let him run, while being sure that he wasn’t in a state of win. That would permit us, firstly, to get a jolly good price on Pancreas, and afterwards to cut up a dead horse piecemeal—and what a dead horse! The unbeatable Peau-de-Balle!”

  “Not to mention the pleasure of giving La Tafoireau a slap in the eye,” said Isaac, rubbing his hands together.

  “And Griffith,” added Sem Lévy, in a rancorous tone, rubbing his kidneys again.

  “Supposing…supposing that one could get near Peau-de-Balle,” observed the Baron, in a meditative tone. “I don’t see very clearly the means of doing that...”

  Ely Pauwels smiled. “Monsieur le Baron, you know very well that every trainer is something of a veterinarian, and even a little of a chemist. I’ve always had around the house a few little preparations destined, either to stimulate the weakening ardor of one of our champions, or, on the contrary, to moderate their enthusiasm...”

  He went out briefly and came back with a little canvas bag, which he placed on the table, between Baron Isaac’s hat and gloves.

  “Look, here’s a measure of oats that has been…perfumed with the aid of a concentrated solution of caffeine. Suppose that a horse ate those oats. I’ll go further…suppose that....”

  He interrupted himself, took an enormous key out of his pocket, and dropped it into the bag.

  “Suppose that someone took that key, which is marvelously adapted—oh, purely by coincidence—to the door of Griffith’s little pavilion. Suppose that once inside the pavilion—tonight, for example
—the person in question approaches Peau-de-Balle’s box, puts that measure of oats in the manger, and then withdraws discreetly. What would happen? The horse, after having had a light supper, feels joyful, excited. He won’t sleep, and prevents young Gustave Louffe from sleeping. Good…it’s still a supposition, isn’t it?

  “After that short period of excitement, comes a period of depression. The horse’s muscles become numb, his heart beats irregularly, he gets out of breath. And tomorrow, without his trainer suspecting anything, because, in normal times, the beast’s gait is a trifle stiff, the crack Peau-de-Balle won’t be able to overtake a cab-horse. Naturally, it will be Griffith that the stewards haul in to explain the thing, and I’d certainly like to know how he’ll explain it...”

  Silence fell. Baron Isaac de l’Échelle-Jacob put his foot firmly forward. “It’s amusing, your supposition. But it would be more amusing if you made the experiment.”

  “Oh, pardon me!” said Pauwels, who, in the vein of suppositions, could see himself being driven back to the road with a pitchfork by his neighbor. “I’m a trainer, me. I occupy myself with horses, and that’s sufficient for me; I don’t have anything to do with the occupations of others. If the affair interests some owner or bookmaker, it’s up to them to get themselves out of trouble.”

  “Well then, bonsoir,” said Baron Isaac, rising to his feet. “Are you coming, Lévy?”

  And, doubtless by virtue of distraction, Baron Isaac stuffed the little bag of hay containing the big key into the capacious pocket of his coat.

  He went out, followed by Sem Lévy.

  The moon was casting a silvery sheet over the forest; the June night was exquisite, embalmed by sylvan perfumes conveyed by a light breeze. The clock on the old bell-tower of Chantilly—is there still an old bell-tower at Chantilly?—gently sounded eleven chimes, the last of which expired in the nocturnal silence. Everything was asleep. Peau-de-Balle too, no doubt...

  After taking fifty paces, Baron Isaac de l’Échelle-Jacob stopped resolutely.

  “Here’s Griffith’s pavilion. It seems very tranquil. You don’t want to go in, Lévy?”

  “I’d like nothing better, Monsieur le Baron,” Sem Lévy replied, patting his lower back for the third time, “but I wouldn’t want to miss the eleven-oh-eight train. I need to be in Paris by midnight...”

  Then, as Isaac remained motionless on the road, the bookmaker politely took his leave of him.

  The financier was furious.

  “That’s disgusting! One can no longer count on anyone! Oh, damn it, I’ll take care of my affairs myself!”

  He approached Griffith’s pavilion and, without any scruple, if not without fear, put the key in the lock. In his youth, he had successfully carried out analogous operations, and had even had occasion to open doors without having keys to put in the locks.

  At that moment, there was a sound of footsteps on the road. The Baron remained in suspense momentarily, assuming that it was Sem Lévy coming back for some reason.

  It was not Lévy. It was the boy who brought the dispatches from the telegraph office at Chantilly at night.

  “For Monsieur Griffith!” he said holding out a telegram to the Baron, whom he could see at the door, and whom, in the dark, he mistook for someone from the house.

  “Thank you, young man,” said the Baron.

  And as the young man seemed to be waiting for a tip, he put his hand in his pocket…in order to put the telegram into it. Benevolently, he added: “Monsieur Griffith will give you something tomorrow morning.”

  When the porter had drawn away, Isaac decided to act.

  Ely Pauwels’ key did, indeed, fit the lock perfectly.

  The Baron crossed the threshold and found himself in a dark vestibule. He struck a match, regretting not having brought a lantern, and saw facing him a large exterior door that had to give access to Peau-de-Balle’s stable.

  He opened it, pushed it, and stood there petrified, while the match, burning down, burned his fingertips.

  On a large table placed in the center of a brightly lit room, Peau-de-Balle was standing motionless and staring at him. The trainer Griffith, perched on a stool, was grooming the horse with a clothes-brush, and young Gustave Louffe was passing a paint-brush dipped in varnish over the hooves.

  On seeing the Baron, Griffith leapt to the ground and advanced toward him with a menacing smile.

  “Ah! Monsieur le Baron Isaac! My horse’ toilette interests you, then? And you’ve got up at night for that? Very kind…I didn’t hear you ring the doorbell, Monsieur le Baron.”

  Isaac had recoiled and found himself in the antechamber. He saw Griffith’s jaw contracting and his fist clenching. The financier sensed that his nose, so pure in its curvature, was really in peril. But he was a resourceful man; his composure did not abandon him.

  “Monsieur Griffith,” he said, “I’ve come out of Pauwels’ house. I came out of my way I order to bring you a telegram that was on sufferance at the Post Office. Here it is...”

  It was Griffith’s turn to be surprised. While he stammered confused thanks, the financier fled through the open door. His expedition had failed, but, in sum, he had got away with it. He did not understand anything of what he had seen, but he was far from having penetrated the secret of the equine automaton.

  After his departure, the trainer opened the dispatch that had arrived in such a singular fashion and read it.

  “God damn it!” he howled.

  XIII. Announcement

  The telegram read as follows:

  Madame Tafoireau suddenly deceased. Declare forfeit everywhere. Comte Jérôme Thomas.

  Griffith communicated the news to Gustave Louffe, and they looked at one another in consternation. The death of Madame Tafoireau could, and probably would, save for a providential stroke of luck, have disastrous consequences for them.

  It seemed inevitable that Peau-de-Balle would be sold at auction with the rest of the stable; he would not go to auction without being examined closely, and it would then be inevitable that the colossal deception of which the entire racing world had been the victim would be discovered.

  In any case, Madame Tafoireau’ heirs or the purchaser of her crack, whoever it might be, would not be as obligingly disposed as the deceased. They would not give carte blanche to the trainer for him to do as he wished with the horse, so carefully sequestered until now. They would at least want to look at him closely, and that would be the least of his troubles, if one gave the matter some thought.

  Griffith conserved one last hope, and that was to persuade Comte Jérôme Thomas to buy the horse from the unknown heirs. Jérôme Thomas, fortunately, he could already play like a flute; he would only have to carry on doing so. But Jérôme Thomas, full Comte as he was74—and he did not have to fear any comparison with the night star—had already spent a million to buy Peau-de-Balle for his lover, and certainly would not shell out the same vast sum again to buy him for himself.

  At any rate, Griffith could not bear the uncertainty.

  “Listen,” he said to Gustave Louffe. “Tomorrow, you’ll take the first train to Paris, and bring me back some information.”

  A few hours later, Gustave Louffe had returned, and summarize the results of his enquiries thus:

  Madame Tafoireau had succumbed to an attack of appendicitis. That malady was then making its debut, and was thus very fashionable; it was all the rage among the All Paris of the premières. Comte Jérôme Thomas, in the midst of his very sincere grief, poor fellow, was extremely flattered that his lover had succumbed in such a distinguished fashion. It is necessary to say that he was as yet unacquainted with the automobile.

  As regards the inheritance, Gustave Louffe brought stupefying news, of which he had been in search in the establishment of Maître Dessumeaux, notary.

  Madame Tafoireau had only one relative close enough to qualify for the succession. And that heir—unexpectedly, to say the least—was Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes, the Archbishop of Caudebec-en-Caux!

&nb
sp; PART TWO: THE MONSEIGNEUR’S STABLE

  I. Conversation in the Antechamber.

  In the antechamber of the archiepiscopal palace of Caudebec-en-Caux, three visitors were waiting in turn for an audience.

  One of them had the aspect of a man of law, including the spectacles, the side-whiskers, the briefcase and the frock-coat, the whole sculpted in old oak. Rigid and impassive, he was sitting in a corner.

  The other two, much younger, were visibly journalists and were making no secret of it. They had arrived together and were continuing an animated conversation.

  “It’s amazing that I didn’t run into you on the train. You weren’t in first class?”

  “No, no, the boss doesn’t permit us to travel like princes, and we don’t have permits to circulate at will, as in your filthy rag, stuffed with favors by our filthy government!”

  (In that epoch the Affair was in full swing.)75

  “And you’ve come to interview Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes about Cardinal Capello’s letter?”

  “Don’t play the idiot, my lad. It’s not a matter of that. You’ve got a good tip, but I’ve got it too. It’s a matter of the Tafoireau inheritance, and you’ve come, as I have, to interview the bishop about his racing stable.”

  “Damn! We thought we were the only ones who knew about it. It’ll be a fine thing, if Le Crépuscule publishes an interview at the same time as us.”

  “On the contrary, old chap. You’re going to publish authentic tips in L’Aube. In Le Crépuscule I shall publish tips no less authentic, but contradictory. The day after, we get to grips: polemics, admonitions…in sum, copy for the season!”

  “Tell me, first: what’s this archbishop like?”

  “Oh, my dear, one doesn’t joke about that! Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes is a saint, a saint of the kind that isn’t seen any more. He’s not one of those ultramontane prelates, devoured by ambition, such as one sees in all the corners of articles by Jean de Bonnefon.76 It isn’t him who spends his life in the editorial offices of La Libre Parole, nor in the offices of the Minister of Religion. He’s a saint, I tell you, and also a worthy man…because there are some saints who aren’t sympathetic at all. Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes is a saint in the genre of...let’s see, do you remember Bishop Myriel in Les Misérables?”