Louis Valona: The Rival Colleagues

(1896)

 

 

For about three months, singular items have been appearing in certain French newspapers, and especially foreign papers, from the most powerful dailies to the most timid weeklies, which appear in “Egyptian” characters, sometimes on the third page, between advertisements for a new laxative and an infallible corn-plaster, and sometimes on the first page under the leading article.

This is the exact tenor of these items:

 

Wanted: a person blind from birth, ideally by heredity, who will consent to lend themselves to a surgical experiment of the highest importance. Absolute guarantee. Serious offer and generous recompense.

Contact Dr. Lesécant, Villa Paré, Viroflay (Seine-et-Oise)

 

One or several willing scoundrels sought for an extraordinary experiment. Incorrigible thieves preferred.

Contact Dr. Cordeau, Château Mesmer, Fontenay-aux-Roses (Seine).

N.B. A long criminal record is required.

 

These items might easily have passed for the work of some practical joker if the addressees cited had been imaginary, but in fact, Drs. Lesécant and Cordeau certainly existed, and they were the authors of the advertisements

In the same period of time, two communications had been received by the Académie des Sciences from the individuals in question.

The first was a study on the third eye: “The Possibility of Vision in the Blind: The Development and Exposure of the Pituitary Gland: A Simplification of the Organic System” by Dr. Lesécant.

The other was a brochure, handsomely produced, bearing the signature of Dr. Cordeau and the captivating title: Psychic Serums: Their Influence on Character and Will: The Cure of Social Ills.

A discreet smile had welcomed the reading of these papers. The learned members of the Assembly had looked at one another in surprise, and in these interlocking gazes one could easily divine a common thought: “These men are lunatics.”

Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau were not in the least mad, but they were not much better. Cupid had removed their spectacles and their intelligence for a time. Nourished with the science of others, empiricists hungry for celebrity, they had launched themselves body and lost reason into a contest in which “beauty would be the prize.” It is an old story—an age-old story, but still a story of today—which I shall tell you as rapidly as possible.

 

I. On the Train

 

In the hall of the Gare de Montparnasse, the 8.30 a.m. express was hitched up and ready to depart.

Dominating the whistle of the steam, the rolling of baggage trolleys, and the hubbub of the final preparations, the voice of the stationmaster shouted, monotonously and monotonously: “All aboard for Granville, Dreux, Laigle, Surdon, Argentan, Fiers and Vire. All aboard.”

Like beaters driving game toward the guns, employees were running along the platform, obliging the passengers to get into the carriages, whose doors were closing with dry clicks.

“All aboard, Messieurs, all aboard!”

The bell had rung; the conductor of the train had played the little bagpipe solo that I’ve always found so charming, and the stationmaster had raised his arm to give the signal to depart when….

Here I must employ the present tense in order to give the scene all the rapidity it had.

At the end of the platform a man appears, so lanky as to seem neverending. From one of his immeasurable arms a valise hangs, in the other an enormous white parasol is waving, the green lining of which is faded. The individual’s head, framed with gray hair floating over skimpy shoulders, is covered by a monumental opera hat with a wide flat brim. The fellow is running, breathlessly, and the tails of his interminable frock coat are flapping like the black wings of a gigantic crow.

It really is that bird to which you would have compared him on seeing him bounding on his long thin legs.

Finally, he reaches the train.

“First!” he gasps, to an employee.

Rapidly, the other opens a door. The latecomer does not climb aboard—he plunges into the compartment. Just in time. A brief whistle-blast, and the train pulls away. In the carriage, an entire small-scale drama is enacted. The new arrival, in his precipitation, has stepped on the toes of a bad-tempered gentleman, who utters a cry and shoves the clumsy individual away.

Spinning around, and incapable of maintaining his equilibrium, the latter falls onto the knees of a respectable lady, who retorts indignantly: “Shocking! Shocking impertinence!” (Our perspicacity causes us to conclude that she is English.)

The unwitting impertinent gets up so abruptly that his opera hat is crushed against the ceiling of the carriage. And while the bewildered and blinded unfortunate stammers: “Pardon me, Madame, a thousand apologies,” a jolt of the train as it passes over a set of points projects him into the seat opposite, next to a plump individual plunged in the reading of a copy of La Science Française.

A new disaster: under the weight of the passenger, the reader’s hat, imprudently left on the seat, is transformed into a lamentable pancake. The owner of the ex-hat leaps to his feet, extending his arm, and his magazine flies out of the window—and by the sight of the fellow’s congested face, one divines that something terrible is about to happen.

Suddenly, as the guilty party has finally succeeded in freeing his face from his hat, two cries of joy resound:

“Hypothèse!”

“Bistouri!”

And four hands interlock warmly, to the great amazement of the lady—undoubtedly English—and the gentleman who, while grumbling, is trying to restore to his shoe the polish obscured by Dr. Cordeau’s heel.

For the newcomer was none other than that important and restless individual, as little a physician as possible but a passionate psychologist, the author of convoluted works on atavism and telepathy.

Cordeau’s interlocutor, the man he called by the nickname “Bistouri,” was the illustrious surgeon Lesécant—illustrious above all because he had practiced to excess what the savant Dr. Verneuil9 stigmatized by the euphemism “industrial surgery.”

According to Verneuil’s admirable definition, a surgeon ought not only to be a skillful man but an intelligent and reflective scientist. Lesécant was skillful, but he only had a mediocre intelligence; as for reflection, he did not even have it in embryo, and he was afflicted with an infection that is serious for a doctor: prurigo secandi.10

Without any concern for their neighbors, the psychologist and the surgeon sat down comfortably facing one another and, while doing their best to repair their damaged hats, they chatted.

“My dear Lesécant…it’s three months since anyone’s seen you….”

“Well, yes, my dear Cordeau, it’s a pleasure to see one another again, to such an extent that one forgets decorum and calls one another by the old nicknames, as in the quarter….”

“So long ago! We were twenty…and now….”

“Shh! There’s a lady present.”

“Bah!” said Cordeau, lowering his voice. “She doesn’t understand French, otherwise she’d have understood my apologies….”

“And accepted them, for you did her, my friend, ‘an honor without parallel….’ You’re a trifle petulant yourself! I can still see you, in the quarter, at the head of all the protests….”

“That was my forte—I’m a born pamphleteer. You remember my song about our chief of clinical surgery….” And Cordeau warbled:

 

I am a skillful surgeon

Ardent wielder of the scalpel

I serve the country and the city

And I’m....

 

“It’s certain that you’re a redoubtable polemicist,” interrupted Lesécant, who was not overly fond of music.

“Oh, my friend, I knocked down so many adversaries—and at the moment, I’m preparing a masterstroke, the coronation of my career. Beware anyone who doesn’t believe in my discovery! There are bound to be some, but if they don’t yield to argument, I’ll be able to find an experimental subject, and the result will shut their traps. But how are you, Lesécant?”

The surgeon tried to appear modest. His head bowed, his eyes lowered and his lips pursed, he murmured: “Me…ahem…I’ve had a dream and I’m close to realizing. You know that I don’t practice anymore.”

“You mean that you have no more clients,” the other corrected, with a hint of malice that escaped Lesécant.

“What’s the point? My fortune’s made: fifty thousand livres a year. Then I said to myself: Lesécant, old chap, enough cutting, enough slicing. Raise your scientific sights!”

“Very good, my dear colleague. That’s a noble sentiment. I, too, thank God, am sheltered from need thanks to an inheritance from my uncle….”

“The one who was in the….”

“The very same. The worthy fellow left me a hundred thousand francs.”

“Damn! It’s not just physicians who get rich!”

“So I launched myself fully into my studies. Pasteur’s genius has opened broad perspectives on the future. Some have sought serums to cure terrible diseases of the body: diphtheria, tuberculosis, cancer….”

“Some have found them—Roux,11 for example.”

“And that man who has almost cured the most terrible childhood disease earns….”

“The salary of a petty bureaucrat,” said Lesécant. “So, I’ve made sure of an income before working for humankind…ingrate humankind….”

The conversation continued in that tone as far as Dreux, where the man with the crushed foot and the woman whose kneecaps had briefly had the honor of bearing the psychologist Cordeau got off.

Cordeau and Lesécant passed in review all the illustrious physicians and scientists of the present fin-de-siècle, fecund in marvelous things and prestigious discoveries: Déclat12 and his remarkable works on surgical antisepsis with phenic acid; Péan and the eternally celebrated laryngo-pharyngeal prosthesis; Dr. Michaëls’ metallic throat; and Renaut’s studies on nerve cells.13

Oh, they launched big scientific words at one another, which filled their mouths: alcoholism; tobaccism; morphinism; alkaloidism—everything, I tell you. Those two empiricists seemed to have mutually made a pledge to astound one another. And all their verbiage had but one aim: to avoid a confidence that they feared. Lesécant and Cordeau, although not marching on the same route, having “bifurcated,” as they put it, had been friends since their youth, but they were colleagues and, in consequence, had no shortage of reasons to be suspicious of one another. For them to speak freely it was necessary that self-esteem should be involved, that there should be an audience.

When the train pulled out of Dreux, the dialogue took a different turn.

“By the way,” said Lesécant, “our scientific discussion”—he pronounced the word scientific with comic emphasis—“has led us astray. I forgot to ask you to what I owe the pleasure of our company.”

“I’m going to Laigle. And you?”

“Me, too.”

“It’s a good….”

“Look, read….”

And they each handed one another a piece of white Bristol paper with gilded corners, on which they read:

 

Dear Friend,

If you like surprises, here’s one: By the express that leaves from Paris-Montparnasse at 8.30 on 20 June you’ll arrive at Laigle station at 10.59. A motor-brake will be waiting for you outside the station. I’ve given orders. You’ll be taken directly to the Villa Moderne, which I’ve had constructed for my sojourns in France. I’ll be there with Hélène and another guest—a charming fellow you’ll be glad to meet. We’re having a house-warming part at noon. I’m counting on you absolutely. You can stay at the villa as long as you like.

Yours very affectionately, and much obliged,

Henri Noirmont

 

Anyone observing them could not have failed to notice a certain grimace that both made as they paused on the word obliged. They darted searching glances at one another surreptitiously, but when their eyes met, they were content to smile, not finding anything to say as they handed back the pieces of paper.

“Ah!”

A certain chill, as they say in the theater, followed that interjection. Thoughtfully, Cordeau and Lesécant gazed at the countryside that shuffled before them like an immense plateau of verdure rotating around the carriage.

The psychologist was the first to break the silence.

“That eccentric Noirmont never does things like other people. He gets the trophy for baroque actions.”

“He’s a determined fellow, of remarkable intelligence. There’s one that adversity would have a hard time knocking down. Since leaving the École Centrale while we were still cramming for our examinations, he’s been able to build himself a nice situation in America. He launched himself body and soul into metallurgy out there. A handsome man, full of health and courage—I’ll wager that he’ll soon be a millionaire. I can still see him twelve years ago, when he passed through with his young wife—dead now—and his daughter, who was nearly six years old….”

“Ah!” said Cordeau, looking hard at his colleague. “You haven’t seen him for twelve years?”

“No,” Lesécant replied, slightly embarrassed. “No…what about you?”

“Me neither….but I’ll be glad to see him again, to shake his hand after such a long time….”

“Hélène must be grown up now, and pretty.”

“She showed a lot of promise as a child….”

“We’ll see if she’s kept it….”

“Tee hee!” sniggered Cordeau. “Do you, by chance, have….”

“Intentions? Get away—you know very well that I’m a confirmed bachelor.”

“Like me.”

“Women have never turned my head.”

“I can say the same.”

For the second time, the conversation lapsed.

“The weather’s stifling; you’ll permit me, my dear chap, to take a little nap.

“Gladly. Personally, I’m going to smoke a cigar and meditate, while contemplating the view.”

While the stout Lesécant lay back in order to go to sleep, Cordeau lit a cigar, while murmuring: “He must have lent him money, too. After all, it’s no concern of mine. However, I would have liked the fewest people possible to share in the profits of the mine. I can’t complain, though—a fifteen per cent dividend this year!”

And, dwelling on that happy thought, the practical psychologist gazed distractedly at the hills and verdant meadows that the railway was traversing.

Shortly before they arrived at Laigle, he woke his companion, who was fast asleep.

“Come on, Lesécant, we’re here—hurry up.”

“Ooh!” said the sleeper, stretching. “No need to rush—the train stops for five minutes.”

A few moments later, they disembarked on to the station platform.

On seeing them, people stopped, astonished. Embarrassed, albeit flattered, by the curiosity of which he was the object, Lesécant remarked on it to his colleague.

“Bah!” replied Cordeau, swelling up with pride. “You’re forgetting that we’re in the provinces. It’s not every day that one sees prominent scientists on the platform at Laigle….”

Outside the station, a motor-brake of very elegant construction was parked, as Noirmont had promised.

“Messieurs Cordeau and Lesécant?” asked the vehicle’s driver, a young American—who, in spite of his very correct manner, had all the trouble in the world suppressing an impulse to laugh as he spoke to them.

“Yes, my friend; Monsieur Noirmont’s expecting us.”

“P…lease g…get in, Messieurs.”

“What’s the matter with him?” muttered Lesécant. “There’s nothing amusing about us.”

“Doubtless it’s a tic.”

“I can’t see any other explanation.”

 

II. The House-Warming

 

In twenty minutes the brake, which had soft suspension and excellent pneumatic tires, transported the guests to the Villa Moderne.

Beside the entrance gate, Monsieur Noirmont, his daughter Hélène and a young man were waiting to greet them.

At the sight of them, Hélène burst into inextinguishable pearly laughter. Her father and the young man joined in.

Vexed, the two doctors looked at one another. Then they perceived their lamentable hats, creased like Venetian lanterns, and understood the curiosity of the people at Laigle, the contained laughter of the brake-driver and Mademoiselle Noirmont’s mad hilarity.

Preoccupied when they got out of the carriage, they had not thought about their accursed headgear.

“Cordeau is the guilty party—it’s to him that we owe this triumphal entrance.” And Lesécant recounted the adventure of the railway compartment, to the greater pleasure of Mademoiselle Hélène, who was much amused.

“The misfortune is reparable,” Monsieur Noirmont replied. “There are hat-makers in Laigle. We’ll send the accordions to them, and you’ll have hats again tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll lend you caps. I have quite a collection.”

A domestic took the travelers’ valises and umbrellas, and when everyone had become serious again, the host made the introductions.

“Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau, doctors in medicine; Monsieur Rémois, painter, the son of one of my good friends, resident in New York; my daughter, Hélène.”

The surgeon and the psychologist could not believe their eyes. Hélène Noirmont was, indeed, veritably pretty. They remembered her as a little girl, and now had before them a young woman in the full bloom of her beauty.

Slim and elegant, she was clad in a ravishing sky-blue dress, irreproachable in its cut, which brought out the velvety tones of her mat complexion. Her silky black hair, graciously wavy, famed a face of the greatest purity. Her neck, displayed by her slightly V-shaped corsage, was admirably slim. Add to that a vermilion mouth opening over two rows of pearls; large brown eyes, bright and cheerful; dainty and delicately-shaped ears; complete the silhouette with a supple bust and a harmonious figure, the hands of a duchess and feet worthy of Cinderella’s slipper, and you will understand the admiration of Cordeau and Lesécant.

They would have remained in ecstasy, as if hypnotized, if Noirmont, taking each of them by the arm, had not drawn them toward the house, saying in a cheerful tone: “Come on, my friends, let’s get on with the house-warming. It’s noon. After lunch, we’ll visit Mademoiselle Noirmont’s domain, for everything here belongs to her, including her father.”

“Shut up! You know that I’m the most docile of little girls.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, you’d like me to admit that you’re perfection itself.”

“The confession isn’t painful,” stammered Cordeau.

“It’s the truth, with no distortion.”

“A surgeon’s compliment,” Rémois murmured in Mademoiselle Noirmont’s ear.”

As rapidly and softly as he had spoken, his gesture had not escaped the doctors.

While Noirmont, his daughter and the young painter led the way through the carefully-raked pathways of a superb garden, Cordeau leaned toward Lesécant, who had similarly stayed a little way behind.

“I don’t like that dauber.”

“Pooh! A fellow of no importance, doubtless pretentious and stupid.”

“Well, what are you plotting?” asked Noirmont, coming back to join them.

“I was saying to Cordeau that you have a delightful property here.”

“It’s nothing; you’ll soon see it in detail. Oh, my good friends, how glad I am to see you again. It’s very kind of you to have accepted my invitation.”

“Oh, when one hasn’t seen one another for twelve years….”

“Twelve years?”

“Yes…no…that is….”

Noirmont could not help laughing. “You work too hard, Cordeau—you’re losing your memory.” As he saw that they were somewhat embarrassed with regard to one another, he changed the subject abruptly. “How do you like Rémois?”

“Charming.”

“Very distinguished.”

“When you know him better you’ll approve, I’m sure, of the choice I’ve made. Rémois is engaged to Hélène.”

At that moment, Lesécant’s jowls and Cordeau’s parchment complexion passed from vermilion to blue and from blue to apple-green.

“You seem tired?”

“Very…very…it’s hot.”

“Here’s the house. We’ll go to table right away. That will make you feel better. But before going in, look: behold the triumph of iron—or, rather, of steel, for iron has had its day now. Since the Bessemer process, steel is the king of metallurgy.” And Noirmont showed them the house, which rose up before them, light, harmonious in its lines and artistically proportioned.

“It looks nice,” replied Lesécant, recovering a little self-control, “but is it really habitable?”

“It must be cold in winter and hot, too hot, in summer,” added Cordeau.

“No—the wall is hollow. Between the sheets of steel, a ventilator causes a current of air to circulate, cool in summer and warm in winter. Thanks to the distributors placed in every room, equipped with thermometers, one obtains the desired temperature at will. Come in, then, and you can judge for yourselves.”

Beyond the vestibule, entirely carpeted with brightly colored ceramic tiles, there was an entirely original drawing room. Large mirrors, in which rich silk wall hangings were reflected to infinity, occupied the four sides. Over the parquet, made entirely of white porcelain, a soft carpet was laid, depicting, and producing the illusion, of a lawn scattered with daisies and buttercups. On the ceiling there was a blue sky in which brightly colored American birds seemed to be fluttering.

The furniture was simple, its colors matching the ensemble. There were few paintings and no garish trinkets. On the outside wall, a large bay window overlooked the countryside; from there the gaze embraced an immense horizon.

Discreetly perfumed, the air in the room was beneficently fresh.

Forgetting their recent annoyance, Lesécant and Cordeau were won over. They expressed their admiration aloud.

“This drawing room is a masterpiece of taste.”

“A marvel, no more and no less.”

“Don’t blush, Rémois,” joked Monsieur Noirmont. “I haven’t named the author of the décor….”

That reply had the effect of a cold shower on the enthusiasm of the surgeon and the psychologist. They were truly vexed to have addressed a compliment to the “dauber” and “the fellow of no importance.”

“You see,” their host continued, “That’s the path of the future for artists: decorative art….”

“They don’t deserve any merit for it,” said Cordeau, bitterly. “Already, in the time of the Pharaohs….”

He did not have time to conclude his diatribe.

From a corner of the room a metallic voice made itself heard: “Lunch is served, Mademoiselle.”

 At the same time, soundlessly, the mirror opposite the widow disappeared into the wall, unmasking a dining room in which a table correctly set and coquettishly ornamented with flowers awaited the guests.

No domestic put in an appearance; Noirmont explained that from a parlor located in the basement a maître d’hôtel operated events electrically. A keyboard permitted the activation of the phonograph, simultaneously releasing the bolt retaining the mirror, and the latter, under the effect of a counterweight hidden in the wall, slid discreetly into a groove.

Lesécant and Cordeau took their places to either side of Hélène.

On the table next to the young woman there was a minuscule telephone. As soon as the hors-d’oeuvres were finished, she gave an order; the middle of the table disappeared as if by magic and soon rose up again, but with the next course, all sliced and ready to serve.

“That’s modern, at least!” said Lesécant, with a smile that he attempted to render gracious, addressed to Mademoiselle Noirmont.

“It’s convenient,” Hélène replied. “There’s only one slight inconvenience.”

“Nothing’s perfect,” said Cordeau sententiously, and with a sideways glance directed at Hélène he added mentally, convinced that she would understand: Except you, lovely child.

But the young woman did not decipher that mental declaration, and continued: “The inconvenience of serving oneself is compensated by the pleasure of chatting without unwanted listeners.”

“Electricity is decidedly a good fairy,” the surgeon concluded.

“It will be the queen of the world, the mainspring of life, on the day when it can be produced economically, beyond any other force. It’s still in its infancy, and you can see the considerable place it occupies. It’s from the electric furnace that Monsieur Moissan14 has brought forth the marvelous fabrication of calcium carbide that furnishes us with dazzling acetylene, capricious and dangerous at first, then liquefied and, so to speak, domesticated by Raoul Pictet,15 who has been aptly dubbed the apostle of cold. And without mentioning telegraphy and telephony, which are already ancient history, wasn’t it electricity that permitted Goubet16 to realize the Nautilus dreamed up and anticipated by the prolific keenness of Jules Verne?”

“Not to mention,” the psychologist put in, “that the day is imminent when electricity, no longer having any secrets from humankind, will provide the key to great psychic phenomena that will astound reason, casting doubt on the solutions thus far admitted to the colossal problem of life.”

And while the meal continued, everyone put in a word about the discoveries and achievements that are the glory of our century.

Hélène took an active part in the conversation and, when Lesécant and Cordeau were astonished to find her so well versed in matters of science she said: “My God, Messieurs, it’s quite simple; along with scientists and researchers whose language is sometimes necessarily obscure for laymen, don’t we have popularizers whose role is to interest the masses, as well as the idle, in the mysteries of laboratories and the surprises of technology? It’s popularization that renders knowledge universal, and thanks to which, from the depths of his laboratory, the scientist hears the great voice of humanity singing his praises and glorifying his fertile labor for general wellbeing. You don’t have any reason to be surprised; my merit is very slight. Once a week, a few pages to read in the Science Française, and there you are: I’m up to date.”

Only Rémois had not opened his mouth since the commencement of the lunch; attentively, he watched his fiancée’s neighbors. The covetous gazes of Lesécant and Cordeau and the flaring of their nostrils, opening to the subtle perfume of violets that emanated from her gracious person, ended up irritating the young man.

Those two fellows decidedly made his hair prickle; he sensed that they were only waiting for an opportunity to pronounce their praise. He had a fervent desire to tell them what he thought, to say to them: There are scientists, Messieurs, and “scientists”: the true and the false, those who work and those who adorn themselves with the glory of others! But he kept silent, fearful of annoying the worthy Noirmont.

They were now on the coffee.

Discomfited by the penetrating gaze of the artist, and vexed at not having been able to display his merits in Hélène’s eyes, Lesécant decided to attack the painter.

“You haven’t said anything, Monsieur Rémois. Do you, by chance, agree with certain orators who believe, or profess to believe, in the bankruptcy of science? Do you not share our enthusiasm, our faith in and our love for the great benefactress of the human race?

“My dear doctor,” riposted the young man slowly, “would you believe me if I argued for the bankruptcy of commerce? You wouldn’t would you? You’d tell me that as long as there were buyers and sellers….”

“Subtleties! That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can make to your question. Certainly, I have the greatest respect for science…but I’m still fearful of the consequences of its progress.”

“The consequences of progress are all beautiful, Monsieur. All of them you hear, all! Thus, I who am speaking, basing myself on the curious observations made in 1885 by the naturalist Bouvier17 relative to the third eye of vertebrates, am very close to rendering sight to the blind. Oh, if I had been able to find an experimental subject, it would already be done!”

Raising his head, looking into the vague distance, like Napoléon on the eve of Austerlitz, Lesécant was buoyant, very glad to have finally unveiled that sensational project.

He had set light to the powder keg. Standing up on his long legs, Cordeau, his gaze ecstatic, his head held high, gesticulating, proclaimed: “My colleague is right; we scientists, braving the skeptics, crushing them with our sovereign scorn, heedless of sarcasms, go forth toward the goals of which we have dreamed. He wants to restore sight to the blind: a noble aim. Personally, I want to give generosity to the miserly, joy to the morose, strength to the weak, audacity to the timorous, grace to the clumsy, intelligence to the stupid, gentleness to the ferocious, and—the criterium of my sublime psychic sera—honesty to the most inveterate thieves. I’m ready; experimentation will soon confirm my theory, and then, incredulous Monsieur, will you deny the power of the scientist, will you fear the consequences of progress? A child is born with a psychic flaw: no more education, no more correction—hold the whip and deploy the serum!”

Dazed by the vehemence of his improvisation, which he had been chewing over for more than an hour—as our sincerity as a historian obliges us to reveal—and proud of having produced his “effect,” Cordeau sat down, his head tilted backwards, directing a challenging gaze at Rémois.

“Why, Messieurs, what fire! Have I cast doubt on the sincerity of your knowledge? Believe that I admire you. If you hadn’t obliged me to, I wouldn’t have said anything...being, after all, merely a modest artist in love with art. Isn’t art the collaborator of science?”

Immediately, the doctors became irritated.

“Art!”

“It doesn’t exist!”

“What are you praising with your art? Convention! Pure convention!”

“Poets! Nature is more poetic than you!”

“Painters, sculptors…you only give us pale copies of the beauties of nature.”

“Yes, yes, Monsieur…leave us alone with your art. Nature does better than you, always better….”

“Artists!”

“Plagiarists!”

Under the avalanche of interjections, the violence of which might have been attributable to the excellent wine cellar of the Villa Moderne, Rémois contented himself with smiling. “It’s true that Nature is the Mistress of us all, artists and scientists alike. I can only reply that Nature cures more sick people than physicians….”

Red-faced, the surgeon and the psychologist were about to reply hotly, as things were going from bad to worse—to the great alarm of Noirmont, who dared not intervene—when, with admirable composure and a dexterity that only women possess, Hélène cut the polemic short.

“Come on, Messieurs, it’s very bad to argue when there’s good coffee in front of one. You’ll let it go cold…and however artistic our cook might be, I doubt that he possesses enough science to render the aroma to reheated mocha.”

The calm that had been momentarily compromised was re-established as if by magic.

When lunch was over, they went out to visit the property.

Noirmont showed the wonderstruck doctors the stables, the cowshed, the sheepfold and the piggery, where a scrupulous neatness reigned everywhere. Instead of the disagreeable ammoniac emanations of the livestock, the visitors breathed in the vicinity of the Villa Moderne a slight perfume of chlorine, which flattered the nostrils instead.

Cordeau made that observation.

“Another benefit of the fairy electricity,” Noirmont replied. “Everywhere that sanitation is obligatory, or even useful, I make use of electrolyzed seawater. In the vast reservoir that you can see over there, I manufacture my seawater and pass it through the electrolytic apparatus.18

“The cleaning of the stables and animal sheds, and the grooming of the horses and the livestock is carried out exclusively with that water, and I’m absolutely adamant about the health of my animals. Foot-and-mouth disease, sheep-pox, glanders—all those nasty and redoubtable diseases that decimate herds are not to be feared here. It’s the perfect and least costly sanitation. I’ve promised myself on my return to America to make use of it for the township of the mine that will house a thousand workers.”

“But how do you manufacture your electricity?”

“A watercourse runs across my land; I make use of it. Look, over there, at that small building, where my machines are powered by a turbine. If I hadn’t had a natural motor at my disposal, I’d have employed steam, but I prefer water; it’s cleaner and more economical.”

When Noirmont and his guests came back to the villa it was dark. A magical spectacle awaited the visitors. The tall trees in the park, illuminated from below by intense beams of light, gave the eyes a joyous spectrum of greens.

“Acetylene,” said Noirmont. “On days—or, rather, nights—when I have visitors, I switch them on.”

“It’s dazzling,” said Lesécant and Cordeau, in chorus.

“Messieurs, salute the victorious future of gas, and perhaps of electricity. But before dinner I want to show you my cellars. Oh, the curious contest of illumination! The battle of light! I have all the combatants in my home. We do the cooking by gas; I light the villa, the outbuildings and the farm with electricity, and my gardens with liquefied acetylene. In the cellars it’s another matter. Take these little bottles; they’ll provide you with light.”

“Oh, yes,” observed Cordeau. “The method of the American engineer Tesla.”19

“I only use it on a small scale; the discovery isn’t yet perfected.”

In the cellar, following Noirmont’s instructions, the doctors brought their little bottles—in which there was as complete a vacuum as possible—into proximity with coils through which an alternating current was passing at high frequency, and to their great wonderment, they obtained a bright light, which enabled them to admire the perfect order of their friend’s cellar.

When they came back upstairs they begged him to change the villa’s name and call it the Magic Villa.

After an excellent and very calm dinner, during which they only talked about indifferent matters, they made a tour of the gardens, smoking excellent cigars, while an electric organ hidden under the trees by a hornbeam hedge provided the illusion of a brilliant orchestra.

And under the influence of wellbeing, in the midst of beautiful verdant nature, everyone blessed the Science that lavishes its benefits upon us and helps us to enjoy life.

The next day, as they returned to Paris, and in spite of all the marvels that they had admired equally, Cordeau and Lesécant did not have a single word to say to one another.

Sulking in their corners, they closed their eyes, and before them, more beautiful than ever, cheerful and desirable, passed the silhouette of Mademoiselle Noirmont, whom they had bounced on their knees as a little girl twelve years before.

Sometimes, a shadow loomed up in front of the apparition: that of Rémois, the fiancé; and each of the doctors wondered how he could get rid of that spoiler who was getting in the way of his dream.

On arrival in Paris they parted without a friendly word, without even a banal handshake; they felt that they were rivals now, and not far from being enemies; because, it is necessary to say, Lesécant and Cordeau, who had lived until then indifferent to amour, had just been struck by “the thunderbolt.” They were not even giving a thought to the age difference that separated them from the gracious Hélène; they were both telling themselves that, after all, they had not yet passed fifty, and that they had a fortunate situation capable of tempting a spouse. Then again, they thought of themselves as handsome, and they thought of themselves as young.

Does not love make people blind?

Oh, Lesécant, it only requires but the presence of a beautiful child, a frail beauty, to take away your sight, you who are ambitious to render daylight to unfortunates condemned to darkness!

And you, Cordeau, there is no need of a psychic serum to inflame your icy heart!

O power of Cupid! A child, the cherished product of Nature, rules the world. True, the child has arrows!

 

III. The Shareholders

 

A fortnight after the house-warming, Paul Rémois and Hélène were talking about their plans for the future in the shade of the large trees on the grounds of the Villa Moderne.

In front of him, Rémois had a canvas on which he was making a study of the tree, rather distractedly. The young man was not paying much attention to it; his gaze lingered more frequently on his fiancée’s face than on his sketch.

At one moment, he dropped his brush, which picked up a sprinkling of sand, and took the young woman’s hand, which he felt tremble in his.

“Oh, how I love you, Hélène, and how happy I’ve been since the day when, timid and blushing, you confessed to me that you shared that love. I’d like to have you near me always. Whenever I leave you I’m afraid…afraid that you’ll escape me, afraid that our beautiful dream will vanish.”

Mademoiselle Noirmont smiled. “What silly fears, my friend. You know very well that we’ll be married in three months.”

“Three months!” Paul sighed. “That’s a long time!”

“It’s necessary to wait; my father needs the time to liquidate his business; you’re not unaware that between now and then he has to reimburse Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau, from whom he borrowed six hundred thousand francs for the exploitation of the Chittingham copper mine in Pennsylvania, for which he’d obtained the concession two years ago.”

“Yes, I know—those two ugly birds who usurp the consideration of society, sheltering their…unworthy machinations under the mantle of science.”

“That’s a harsh phrase.”

“What? Rather say that I’m putting it mildly. Those two men who claim to be your father’s friends lent him money—which he could certainly have found elsewhere. They simply bet on the luck and talent of the engineer. Then they see you, they want you—oh, my Hélène!—and without knowing whether their ultimatum will mean ruin for Monsieur Noirmont, they demand your hand or the reimbursement of their loan within three months.”

“Each of them is armed with the contract that he made with Papa, because—don’t you know?—they don’t know that they’re co-partners.”

“That’s funny.”

“Yes, they’ve both demanded simultaneously that my father doesn’t address himself to the other.”

“They have very particular views about camaraderie. And your father has gone above and beyond?”

“Of course; he wanted the two friends to get a good return.”

“Good! Indeed—last year they received fifteen per cent interest, and in ten years, their shares would have increased in value by a third without them opening their purse.”

“Unless he reimburses them before then, in accordance with their wishes. My father insisted on introducing that clause into the contract in anticipation of possibilities. If things had gone badly, he would have paid off the shareholders with his own capital….”

“Monsieur Noirmont is the most honest of men; Hélène, you have the right to be proud of him….” After a pause, Paul added: “Well, it’s tomorrow that they’re coming to obtain the answer. I confess to you that, without being malevolent. I’d like to see the faces of those Messieurs….”

He did not have time to finish; a domestic ran up fearfully. “M’sieu, mam’zelle, come quickly! M’sieur Noirmont has fallen….”

The young people ran to the villa at top speed. The engineer was lying on the floor in his study, unconscious. His clenched right hand was clutching a telegram, and blood was running from a wound on his head, inflicted when he had fallen against the corner of his desk.

Hélène, frightened and tearful, fearing for the life of the father she adored, ran to the garage.

“William, take the brake, go to Laigle and come back as fast as you can with a doctor. Quickly, quickly, my good William!”

Without asking for any explanation, the American got in the car, and a few minutes later he was traveling at top speed along the road to Laigle.

In the meantime, Rémois, greatly affected but conserving his presence of mind nevertheless, aided by the domestics, carried Monsieur Noirmont to his bed; then, left alone beside the injured man, he bandaged the wound, which was close to the temple.

At that moment when Hélène came back the injured man opened his eyes, but he did not appear to have any consciousness of the people who were with him; his gaze was vague, his respiration painful.

The young woman ran to him and covered him with caresses. “Come round, Father…speak, speak….”

Rémois tried to reassure her, but she did not listen.

“Papa, dear Papa, it’s me, your little Hélène. Oh, I beg you, tell me that you recognize me….”

Noirmont raised himself up slightly, and, surrounding his child with his arms, had a violent crisis of tears. Then, as the sobs eased, he murmured a few words.

“Finished!... Ruined!... Cataclysm…oh! Poor darling…!”

And he continued to weep abundantly.

The young couple remained silent, allowing the salutary crisis to continue its course.

When the crisis had passed, Monsieur Noirmont handed Rémois the telegram that he was still holding, crumpled between his fingers.

“Read it, my friend.”

Paul obeyed, his voice hesitant with emotion: “Chittingham, third July. Lightning struck dynamite store. Thirty dead. Factory in ashes, Barrage collapsed. Workyard flooded. Materiel destroyed. Details by letter. John Fester.”

“Well?” queried the engineer, shaking his head dolorously.

The artist understood that his response might be a sovereign balm; with a great force of will, he made his voice firm. “Why so desolate? Apart from the thirty unfortunate victims, everything can be repaired. You still have the concession…it’s a case of force majeure, there can’t be a forfeiture. Come on, Monsieur Noirmont. I have two hundred thousand francs that came to me from my mother’s inheritance; they’re yours. It’s a nucleus. You’ll find bankers out there who won’t hesitate to support you with their credit. No weakness! Come on! We’re here—Hélène and I—to help you in the struggle.”

“Kind heart!” murmured Noirmont. “Your devotion is, alas, futile. I owe six hundred thousand francs to Lesécant and Cordeau. I had to supply six hundred tons of minerals to a foundry in Chicago by the end of August, under a penalty of two hundred thousand francs plus fifty dollars per week of delay. And everything is destroyed—everything! You can see…”

“You can oblige your shareholders to be patient. With my two hundred thousand francs to ward off immediate necessities, fulfill your contract with the Chicago factory…and who knows? But this isn’t the moment to talk business. You need rest.”

“Rest!”

“Yes, yes. The doctor who’s coming will demand that of you, at all costs.”

Brought at great haste by the motor-brake, the doctor soon arrived. He was a very observant old practitioner, modest but talkative. He examined his client attentively.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s trivial. There’s been an emotional shock, followed by a nervous crisis.”

He looked at the head wound. “A scratch…a bad scratch. If the blood hadn’t flowed, it might have been serious. Anyway, it will all be all right. You’ll be on your feet tomorrow, Monsieur Noirmont—but you need to rest.”

“I can’t sleep, Doctor…my head’s on fire…if you knew….”

“Calm down, calm down. You need sleep; if necessary, I’ll help you with that. Do you have lime, a little laudanum?”

“I have all that in my traveling medical kit,” Hélène replied.

“A wise precaution, Mademoiselle. One should never go traveling without a first aid kit.  I’d wish that in every château, the Mairie of every village, even the humblest hamlet, a doctor could have the saving cordial to hand. How many deaths or serious illnesses could be avoided thus. I’ve written a pamphlet about it…but I’m not here to boast about my merits…I beg your pardon. Alas, the simplest things are often difficult to get adopted.  So we were saying, then: a dilute infusion of lime, into which you’ll pour, at the moment of drinking, four drops of laudanum. Then I’ll answer for the sleep, and I hope that tomorrow morning, there’ll be nothing to worry about…physically, at least. Bear up, Monsieur Noirmont. Goodbye, Monsieur, Mademoiselle…. In any event, I’m at your disposal.”

“The brake will take you back to Laigle, Doctor.”

“Very kind Mademoiselle; I accept gratefully, for my legs are like me…no longer young. Your servant, Messieurs…keep calm, and all will be well.”

And the good doctor left, murmuring: “Solid as an oak…otherwise he’d be finished. Elasticity…hmm…I believe some good news would do more good than all the potions in the world. Nine times out of ten the best medicine is mental!”

An hour later, under the effect of the narcotic, Monsieur Noirmont was sleeping like a log.

Hélène, comforted by the hopeful words that her fiancé had lavished upon her, completely reassured with regard to her father’s health, consented, on Paul’s urgent insistence, to get some rest.

The young man installed himself, alone, in the engineer’s room.

“I’ll spend the night with him. He might wake up, and…one never knows. It’s more prudent for me to be there.”

 

The next morning, at eight-thirty, Cordeau and Lesécant, in their best clothes, took the train to Laigle from the Gare de Montparnasse. Hazard—often malicious—had lodged them once again in the same compartment. Before the departure they both had the same thought, of changing carriage, but as they had got to their feet simultaneously, they sat down again the same way.

Why should I run away from him? Cordeau thought.

To go because he’s there, Lesécant said to himself, would be a weakness.

And they stayed.

During the first few kilometers they limited themselves to looking at one another “like china dogs.” But when the train had gone past Dreux, Lesécant, no longer containing himself, planted himself on the banquette opposite, and said in a hissing tone: “It’s doubtless to Laigle that you’re going, Monsieur?”

“I surely am, Monsieur,” Cordeau riposted, “unless you have the power to stop me.”

“I’m very glad, on the contrary, for I’ll enjoy seeing your defeat.”

“As for me, with what joy I shall salute yours!”

“You’re wrong to persist in your folly, Cordeau; I have weapons that you don’t possess. Hélène will be my wife.”

“Mine—I love her and I shall have her. Noirmont owes me three hundred thousand francs.”

“You’ll be reimbursed, wretch. I, too, am the engineer’s shareholder….”

“False brother!”

“Tartuffe!”

“Pork butcher!”

“Old fool!”

It would not have taken much for the two friends to seize one another by the throat; but they contained themselves, fearful of disturbing the harmony of their costume.”

“Ah!” muttered Lesécant. “If I weren’t obliged to be polite…!”

“Believe me, it’s only for that reason that I’m holding myself back.”

A little before the arrival in Laigle, Cordeau, his face up against the stout Lesécant’s nose, grated through clenched teeth: “If she chooses you. I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll have your hide if you marry her!” Lesécant vociferated, beside himself.

It was the first time that they had ever addressed one another as tu.

At Laigle, they each took a cab and gave orders to their driver to get there ahead of the other. Arriving at the same time, they ran to the gate. Their gazes met, furiously, but the terror of a crumpled shirt front tamed them.

“Let’s make peace.”

“Call a truce, rather.”

“So be it.”

Together, they rang the electric doorbell. Together, they handed their cards to the domestic. Together, they presented themselves at the door of the drawing room where Noirmont was waiting for them.

The engineer was pale; the blow he had received the day before had contracted his features; only his eyes remained brilliant, and energy could be read therein: the determination to fight, no matter what, until the end.

The surgeon and the psychologist, struck by the change on the physiognomy of the villa’s owner, enquired as to the state of his health. He smiled and apologized for a slight fatigue. And, as they were astonished not to see Mademoiselle Noirmont, he said: “She’s not feeling well.”

“Ah! But I’m a physician….”

“We’re physicians,” Cordeau rectified.

“Oh, you do so little,” Lesécant chaffed.

Noirmont stifled the nascent quarrel. “Hélène has no need of the aid of science. A slightly excessive irritation obliges her to stay in her room; I hope you’ll forgive her for not coming to greet you.”

“Willingly…”

“Beauty has the right to our indulgence.”

After a silence, Cordeau attacked first. “You received my letter, my dear friend?”

“Mine too?”

“Yes, Messieurs, and I confess that I was unpleasantly surprised. I’m no longer in a position today to repay your loans. This is what has happened.” Noirmont held out the telegram informing him of the catastrophe at Chittingham. He was expecting recriminations, but, to his great astonishment, he saw Cordeau smiling and Lesécant radiant.

After returning the telegram to him, they sat down, and their voices overlapped:

“So you’re….”

“Ruined….”

“So much the better….”

“You need us more than ever….”

“You’re aware of the love….”

“The passion that I feel for….”

“Mademoiselle….”

“Your daughter….”

“Give her to me….”

“Grant me….”

“For my wife….”

“Her hand…”

“And I’ll give you a release….”

“Quits….”

“And I’ll reimburse….”

“I’ll buy out….”

“Cordeau.”

“Lesécant.”

The engineer was astounded. In spite of the gravity of the situation, he could not suppress a smile.

“Messieurs,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “You’re forgetting one thing. I don’t have the right to dispose of my child in this way, to sacrifice her.”

“You’re scarcely polite to us, my dear chap.”

“Oh, I’m far from wanting to offend you, believe me. I’m struggling with a frightful crisis; you know that Hélène is engaged.”

“Oh, it’s very probable that the catastrophe will change the face of things. An artist….”

“Adieu the dowry, adieu the suitor!” Lesécant advanced, brutally.

Noirmont had got to his feet, ready to defend Paul, when a domestic announced: “Monsieur Rémois.”

The painter had seen the two colleagues arrive. The open window of the drawing room, directly below the room he occupied at the villa, had permitted him to follow the conversation closely. Since the previous evening he had been thinking hard, looking at the situation from every angle, and had concluded that the only thing to do was to gain time, making use of the shareholders. The letters written a few days earlier by the two “suitors” had enlightened the young man as to their character. Monsieur Noirmont was faint-hearted; he took scrupulousness too far. Well, he would be saved in spite of himself!

The alternation of raised voices had indicated to the young man the moment to make his entrance.

His face calm, with a hint of melancholy, he bowed to the engineer and saluted Lesécant and Cordeau very ceremoniously.

“I beg your pardon, Messieurs; perhaps I’m interrupting a very serious conversation.”

“You’re not superfluous, Rémois; we were discussing Hélène’s marriage.”

“And these Messieurs were doubtless telling you that my duty, in the circumstances, is to release you from your promise….”

While Lesécant and Cordeau, suffocating, red-faced to the extent of crimson, opened their mouths to protest, the painter had the time to make a sign of intelligence to Hélène’s father.

“The Messieurs are right.”

“But….”

“Let me speak, I beg you. A ruinous catastrophe, compromising Mademoiselle Noirmont’s future, has perhaps put you in an awkward position relative to…ferocious shareholders.”

“We won’t permit….!” Cordeau howled.

“Such impertinence!” finished Lesécant.

“Well, Messieurs, have I spoken for you?”

“Perhaps you don’t know, Rémois, that my friends each have three hundred thousand francs in the enterprise that is going under,” Noirmont put in, fearing that the young man was going too far. “They’re proposing to me, if I grant one of them Hélène’s hand, to cancel their credit and to reimburse, in my stead, the one rejected by my daughter….”

“That’s noble. It’s relief for you, happiness for your child.”

Noirmont considered Rémois admiringly.

Persuasively, seductively, the young man had soon “enveloped”—almost hypnotized—the two doctors.

After some hesitations and wrangling, they came to an agreement. Lesécant and Cordeau were talking about nothing less than a duel, after which only one of them would remain. It was Rémois who had brought them into agreement.

“The weapon for men like you, Messieurs, is science. Whichever of you, within a year, has made the more sublime discovery and has supported it with an indubitable experiment—that’s the duel you require.”

Lesécant and Cordeau, doubtless to their great joy, approved the idea, and it was concluded, providing for all eventualities that if, within an interval of one year, Monsieur Noirmont had been unable to reimburse Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau the sum of 300,000 francs each, plus interest at 5%, Mademoiselle Hélène Noirmont would marry whichever of the aforementioned Lesécant and Cordeau had revealed the discovery most useful to the wellbeing of humankind. A communication to a learned assembly, which would judge the respective merits of the competitors, would be made by the aforementioned contenders, with supportive experiments, if any had taken place.

The engagement having been written in triplicate, in due form, and duly signed by the three interested parties—although there were really five—they went their separate ways.

Lesécant and Cordeau, after having asked Noirmont to present their affectionate salutations to Hélène, took their leave and, launching a last challenging glance at one another as they emerged from the Villa Moderne, climbed back into their cabs in order to return to the Laigle railway station.

On the way, Cordeau sang joyfully: “She’s mine, she’s my wife! Oh extreme joy…Noirmont will never get out of the mire, and I’ll be damned if I don’t have my psychic sera ready within a year. It’s all a matter of finding a case study, an extraordinary specimen who’ll consent to treatment.”

For his part, Lesécant, who was less musical, was following an analogous reasoning. “I’ll have the trophy, and the child with the velvet eyes. Papa won’t get out of it without me. Cordeau’s nothing but a donkey. Me, I’ll excavate my third eye, damn it! I’ll unearth a docile subject. I have the money…the sinews of war…and the science!”

Then a common reflection occurred to them, with regard to Rémois.

It’s wrong to judge on first impressions. That’s a fellow I misunderstood. Either he’s employed an adroit fashion of taking his leave for reasons of misfortune, or he has the bump of devotion...and he’s an imbecile.

Let us, reader, leave our two “lovers” to return to Paris, hearts on fire and heads full of dreams, and return to the Villa Moderne.

Noirmont, Hélène and Rémois were in conference.

While the engineer and his daughter expressed their dreads for the future, the young man strove to reassure them, and to give them the vigor necessary to emerge victorious from the struggle.

“We’ve gained time,” he said. “That’s the essential thing. In a year, one has the time to do a great deal. Within three weeks, I’ll have the funds necessary to get the Chittingham enterprise going again.”

“And if I fail….”

“We’ll think again. I assume, Monsieur Noirmont, that you only have one desire: to reimburse your shareholders….”

“Yes, my friend; however, if, for their part, they put me under an obligation to execute…the contract…”

“Oh!” murmured Hélène, fearfully.

“Don’t worry about that. For great evils, small remedies….”

“I’m afraid,” said the young woman. “Afraid for us, Monsieur Rémois. Although they’re ridiculous, their science….”

“You haven’t observed them then,” the painter interjected. “Scientists, those two! They believe they know a host of things they’ve seen in other people’s books. Like mirrors, they reflect—but as for creating, that’s another matter. If they were true scientists, they wouldn’t have acted as they have. The sincere man of science works with a vision of the goal to be attained, but he’s careful not to fix a date for the completion of his endeavor, the coronation of his achievement.”

“Which signifies, my dear Monsieur, that you consider Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau to be….”

“Charlatans,” concluded the young woman.

“All well and good,” Rémois continued, “but hazard might aid them…how can one tell?”

“Oh, I’d never have had the courage to call Monsieur Lesécant or Monsieur Cordeau….”

“Sursum Cordeau…not Corda!” declared Rémois, joking. “If those Messieurs are working for their greater glory, and very little for that of science, I’m free—the contract doesn’t bind me—and I promise you that I won’t be inactive…for love and for mercy….”

“Thank you,” Hélène murmured, extending a little trembling hand to her fiancé, on which he deposited a very delicate kiss.

“They still have to succeed! But what are you thinking, Monsieur Noirmont?”

“I think, my dear boy, that you’re my savior, and that I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

“Come what may,” said the painter, looking at Hélène, “I’ll still be your debtor.”

Three weeks later, after having left his daughter with distant relatives he had in Paris, whom Rémois was authorized to visit, Monsieur Noirmont, armed with a check for two hundred thousand francs, set off for America.

 

IV. The Third Eye

 

In his study at the Villa Paré, Dr. Lesécant was stamping his feet, his fists clenched, his eyes ablaze, his cheeks red and his garments in disorder. He circled like a beast in a cage, trampling the books and papers with which the parquet was strewn. One might have thought that the small room, ordinarily so well ordered, had just been the theater of a combat and that the adversaries had employed the books on the shelves and the papers in the writing desk as ammunition. And indeed, Lesécant had been battling, battling against his hopes, which he saw disappearing.

In his impotent rage he had first taken it out on his devoted and patient manservant, old Jérôme, a former laboratory assistant, who had fled under the avalanche of reproaches, abandoning his feather duster. Armed with that machine, with whose manipulation he was unfamiliar, the surgeon, at the height of his wrath, had struck out in all directions, breaking his inkwell and scattering pieces of paper; then the turn of the volumes had come, innocent victims, which he trod underfoot in his frenzy.

“Three months!” he muttered. “Three months…and nothing. Nothing! What use are all these journals? Advertising? Humbug! I’m not asking for the moon, though! One blind man…to whom I’m assuring a comfortable existence…and sight! Everything’s ready, though. I have marvelous carbo-pepto-ferro-azotic tablets…the ideal nourishment, no impediments…and not so much as a cat presents itself. Time’s passing. Of course! I see them here, the others, the academicians…they’re laughing at me…and all because I don’t have a subject.”

Then, after a further crisis, which cost half a dozen octavo volumes their binding, he went on: “And Cordeau, out there, where is he in his idiocies? That charlatan’s capable of…of, but no! No, no! He shan’t have her! It’s me—me, Lesécant—who will earn the glory and….”

The sound of the doorbell cut off his virulent monologue.

“Should I answer it, M’sieu le docteur?”

“No!” howled Lesécant. “I’m not in! You know that very well...blockhead….”

As Jérôme escaped, having no desire to suffer the terrible anger of his employer, the doorbell rang violently, without interruption. Lesécant called his servant back.

“Jérôme!”

“M’sieu le docteur?”

“Have you seen the people who are ringing?”

“Yes—there’s a young monsieur and another monsieur…also young…that the first one is leading by the arm….”

“My God! A blind man! What are you waiting for, imbecile? Open the door. I gave you orders an hour ago….”

“M’sieu…told me to….”

“M’sieu! Hurry up, then! What if they leave? Show the gentlemen into the drawing room. I’ll be there directly…just time to tidy myself up a bit…a blind man! Finally!”

And Lesécant hurtled into his dressing room like a whirlwind, where he repaired the disorder of his attire feverishly.

Jérôme, not understanding anything, went to open up. While going toward the garden gate, the worthy servant muttered: “True as true, if m’sieu isn’t going mad! I’ve got to leave…for three months it’s been Hell here.”

Ten minutes later, the doctor, fresh and smiling, clad in an elegant indoor jacket, came into the drawing room where the visitors introduced by Jérôme were waiting.

“Monsieur Rémois!” he said, surprised by the sight of the artist.

“Doctor, I have the honor of saluting you, and I’ve brought you an experimental subject.”

“Please, sit down….and you too, my friend….”

While speaking, without paying any more heed to Rémoir, Lesécant examined the painter’s companion. With an entirely paternal tenderness, he sat him down in the best armchair in the room “There, my friend—are you quite comfortable?”

“Not bad,” said the other, in a hoarse voice.

“Oh…oh!” murmured Lesécant. “Terrible voice…burned by alcohol….”

Indeed, the individual’s luminous face, the nose crimson and horribly shiny, completed by an entirely characteristic breath, supported the surgeon’s observation.

Rémois did not leave him time to ask questions. “I read the advertisement that you inserted in the newspapers,” he said.

“Three months ago, alas….”

“It’s just that…people are afraid….”

“Afraid of what? I’ll answer for everything. My operations always succeed.”

Of course, thought the painter. The patients are dead…but cured. Aloud, he said: “It’s because your skill and science are universally known that I’ve succeeded in bringing you my friend, Arthur Vésigout—blind for ten years.”

“Excess of alcohol, no doubt….”

“If one can call six absinthes a day excessive,” Vésigout grumbled, taking offence. “But then, when I’m drunk…”

“Let’s not worry about that,” replied Lesécant, softly. “A little preliminary treatment will quickly reckon with that inconvenience. So, my friend, you have confidence in me…and you’re not mistaken. I’ll render you, not sight….”

“What!” said the other. “I was told that….”

“I’ll give you something better than sight. A perfect organ, which I’ve allowed to be named the third eye, but which is nothing other than a nervous center of marvelous sensibility. Oh, my lad, when you’ve passed through my hands you won’t be an ordinary man, I give you my word. First of all, you’ll lack nothing here…the best room…a first-rate bed…nourishment….”

Vésigout’s face lit up with a broad smile. “Suits me…suits me, Doctor. You can do what you like with me by taking me by the….”

“Mouth,” interrupted Rémois, who was having difficulty remaining serious. “Vésigout is a little…how shall I put it?...a little….”

“Realistic,” said Lesécant, laughing. “That doesn’t matter. Here, all whims are tolerated, except with regard to the treatment. This is the deal: I’ll pay twenty thousand francs after the operation, and ten thousand that the subject will soon acquire—they’ll be deposited in his name with my notary, with a delay of a fortnight—in case of accidents. It’s necessary to anticipate….”

“That’s right!” declared Vésigout. “Well, that suits me, anyway. Then again, there isn’t going to be any accident….”

“No, my friend, no! From now on, you’re at home here,” continued the radiant Lesécant. “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

Rémois stood up to take his leave. “So, my dear Master, I can confide my poor friend to your science.”

“He won’t have cause to regret it.”

Indeed, thought Vésigout. Ten thousand bullets guaranteed…. Aloud, he said: “Au revoir, Rémois…you’re a pal….”

 “I’ll show you out, my dear artist.”

“No, need, my dear Master.”

“Yes, yes…I want to talk to you.”

In the garden, Lesécant took the painter’s arm. “I think you’re admirable, you know.”

“No…I’m impressed by your Herculean labor, and I’m only too happy to give you what help I can.”

“Finally, I have a subject—thanks to you.”

“Hazard…”

“Allow me to thank you…oh, my dear chap, before long, everyone will be talking about it. I’ll have glory…and….”

“And beauty,” Rémois completed, smiling.

“Tell me,” said the doctor, in a low voice, red with emotion. “Hélène…Mademoiselle Hélène…how is she?”

“Well, I suppose—for you must realize that I dare not see her any longer….”

“Why? Go on my behalf, then, to the relatives she’s staying with….”

“Oh!”

“I’d be so happy if she came here to see me, to encourage me with her divine presence…the sight of her would multiply the resources of my genius tenfold….”

“I can’t promise you anything…but for you, I’ll do…the impossible.”

“Good man! I’ll never be able to repay you….”

Scarcely had Rémois left the villa than Lesécant said to himself: “I was definitely right about him. He’s an idiot.”

For his part, as the artist went away with a spring in his step, humming a tune, he told himself that he had not wasted his time, and that Vésigout was going to give the “illustrious” doctor quite a headache.

As soon as the doctor and Rémois had left the drawing room, Vésigout got up and looked around the room.

“It’s not at all chic, Père Bistouri’s place, but it’ll be a soft existence—like a oasis in the desert of my destitution. Ten thousand francs…plus the thousand Rémois promised me if the trick comes off. No-o…not so hard up. Enough of playing the ventriloquist at Trône, Neuilly and wherever...at least friendship’s good for something…as long as I make sure I don’t get butchered…pffft! None of that, now! Get on with it…it’s a good job I was once an art student….”

Sprawling in his armchair Lesécant’s future “subject” relaxed into his pleasant dream of comfort and greed. A few days before, he had seen himself plunged forever into the blackest misery, when hazard had put him in the presence of Rémois on the Boul’Mich, were he was dragging his worn-out shoes. Afflicted by a pronounced keratitis that veiled his porcelain-blue eyes, he had not seen his old studio buddy, but Hélène’s fiancé had understood right away, what he might do with such an individual and had hailed him—and between courses, in a nice restaurant, he had had no difficulty deciding to render him the service of entering the house of Dr. Lesécant as an experimental subject.

One shadow obscured the cheerful landscape glimpsed by Vésigout. What if the other were to perceive the deception too soon? Adieu fortune, adieu meal ticket…it was necessary to keep up the role for at least a month, the time necessary for the surgeon’s ten thousand francs to be duly acquired….

As the pseudo-blind man was reflecting, Lesécant came back into the drawing room.

“Well, my lad?”

“What time does one eat, Monsieur le docteur?”

“Hungry already?”

“Thirsty, especially….”

“Good, good… a little patience. First, my dear chap, I ought to warn you that you won’t get a drop of alcohol here.”

In spite of the painful impression caused by this prohibition, Vésigout found the strength to smile. He thought about his ten thousand francs, and promised himself ample future compensation.

“And also,” said the surgeon, “no more meat, bread, vegetable or fruit—nothing, any longer, except my tablets…two every three hours….”

The shock nearly caused the subject to open his eyes and give himself away.

What! he thought. That’s what you call comfortable? Oho! We shall see, old fellow.

The other, following his train of thought, did not notice the Bohemian’s discomfited physiognomy.

“You understand that my first concern, before endowing you with the marvelous organ that no other known individual has possessed until now, must be to prepare you. First of all, I’ll remove your eyes…”

“Oh!”

“Well, what use can they be to you? Those vitreous bodies you have there are wasting your nervous substance. Afterwards, we’ll see about getting rid of your hair….”

“I shave every day.”

“You shave…yes, get rid of it…all those hairs, nails….”

“Oi!”

“Those teeth…objects that will be useless to you henceforth. What good are teeth, since my tablets dissolve in the esophagus of their own accord? Fingernails? What for? Beard, hair…useless things. Onerous work for the brain….”

“But I’ll be ugly!”

“Ugly? First of all, what’s ugliness? A matter of convention, like beauty. Anyway, if you insist, you can have false teeth, fingernails of celluloid or horn….”

Aieee! thought the unfortunate Vésigout. My God, where will it end?

“Afterwards, I’ll shorten the intestine….”

“Oh! Sir…!”

“Don’t scream in advance—you won’t feel anything. Come on, my lad, what’s the point of seven meters of intestine when you won’t have to digest anymore? My tablets will be absorbed into your blood of their own accord. You’ll be a rational organism, without a flaw, without any excess labor. Your muscles will atrophy—thus, everything for the brain, the motor of life. Then, when you’re perfect, I’ll finally be able to cultivate your third eye, bring it to the light. And then, my friend, it will be glory for me, happiness—ecstasy—for you. Unknown sensations will be reserved for you. You won’t see like vulgar and miserable human machines. Better than that! You’ll sense there, on your forehead, the form of objects, the smallest and the greatest, the nearest and the most distant. Mysterious effluvia will enable you to penetrate the secrets of all individualities. Nothing—nothing!—will escape you when I’ve reduced your gross carnal envelope to its simplest expression; you’ll no longer be a man but a human quintessence: a brain…nothing but a brain!”

The surgeon mopped his brow after this tirade, borrowed from the preface of his paper at the Académie. Then he took Vésigout in his arms, and, braving the strong odor of pipe-tobacco and alcohol that emanated from his overly imperfect person, he embraced him cordially, moved to tears, murmuring; “Oh, my boy, you’ll bless Dr. Lesécant.”

Zut! thought the unhappy Bohemian. There’s a picture! First things first…look at the menu! Tablets? Ugh….

When Lesécant had relaxed his grip, he said: “Oh yes, Monsieur le docteur, I’ll bless you….”

“Finally!” the surgeon exclaimed. “I’m certain of success, now. All right!”

That evening, Vésigout learned with enormous relief and intense joy that Lesécant would not be staying overnight at his villa.

“I go back to Paris; until we commence the operation, I’ll leave you here alone. Jérôme has his orders. So, my dear boy, sleep, have a good time…and in a month, you’ll be ready….”

When the “boss” had gone, Vésigout declared that he liked to go to bed early.

“Ah—so much the better,” said Jérôme. “At my age, one needs one’s sleep.”

When the old servant had gone to sleep, Vésigout went into the study, sat down at the writing desk and wrote, with a nervous pen:

 

My dear Rémois,

Your illustrious master has reserved for me—if I let him do it—tortures such as the Chinese have not yet imagined. I don’t know whether I’ll have the courage to struggle against that frightful butcher…especially if I don’t have a well-filled stomach. Can you imagine, my dear chap, that he’s giving me for soup, hors-d’oeuvre, entrée, roast, salad and dessert, a frightful chemical mixture…a true remedy…tablets of carbo-pepto-etc. etc. I don’t like it. Just now, I stole a crust and a bit of cheese from the kitchen, which is meager. Help me, or I’ll jack it in. One thing will sort me out: open me an ‘eye’20 at a café nearby. Since the illustrious doctor has a monopoly on the third, that’ll be my fourth, and not the worst. I promise to be reasonable.

Your devoted

Vésigout

 

P.S. The doctor has only forgotten one thing—to verify my blindness. He didn’t think of it. So I have a fortnight ahead of me.

 

A moment later, with the agility of an acrobat, the “blind man” had scaled the garden wall. After having posted the letter in the box, he came back in to get some sleep. He lay down in a bed that he thought delightful, and was soon sleeping the sleep of the just.

When Rémois received Vésigout’s letter, he hastened to the villa.

In the garden, the “subject,” playing his role conscientiously, was taking a stroll, his arm supported by Jérôme, to whom he was telling a story that was obviously very funny, for the manservant was laughing wholeheartedly.

While Jérôme went to fetch his master, Vésigout questioned Rémois. “You got my letter?”

“Yes—I’ve done the necessary. Your bill’s paid for a month at the Quatre-Chemins restaurant.”

“Good. Thanks. At least, that way I’ll be able to fight. Oh, I can string the old pruner along for three months….”

“Monsieur le docteur is waiting for you, Monsieur,” said Jérôme, coming back. “I’ll show you the way.”

The painter followed the domestic to the Master’s study. “Pardon me for the informality, my dear friend…I’m working….”

“Oh, between us, Monsieur Lesécant…well, are you satisfied?”

“A pearl, my friend a pearl…everything will go marvelously.” After an embarrassed pause, he added: “You went to see Mademoiselle Noirmont on my behalf?”

“Yes, my dear Master.”

“And?”

“She will come…fortunate victor.”

Lesécant welcomed the flattery with a discreet smile; then, in a low voice, as if he were afraid of being overheard, he asked: “Do you know what’s become of Cordeau?”

“No.”

“Oh! You’re so very kind that, if I dared, I’d ask you to go see how he’s doing.”

“That can be arranged.”

“And then….” Lesécant hesitated. “And then…why not?...you’re devoted to me….”

“I’ve give you proof of that.”

“Well, if…if Cordeau hasn’t found a subject yet, one could…furnish him with one….”

“Oh, no! Of course not….”

Is he naïve! thought Lesécant. “You haven’t understood me, my dear boy. It would be easy to deceive Cordeau. He isn’t very bright.”

“That’s rather Machiavellian.”

“Well, I want to win. So, it’s agreed—you’ll try to find him a fake subject.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good man! I’ll never be able to thank you….”

“Don’t worry about that. Your triumph will be my recompense.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I’m only doing my duty.”

A few moments later, going back to Viroflay railway station, Rémois was overtaken by a fit of hectic laughter.

What idiots they are! he thought. One might think that they were suffering a bout of insanity….

The previous evening, the young man had gone to visit his fiancée and had made her party to Lesécant’s desire. “I’m charged with the greatest compliments for you, my dear Hélène. You have no idea how much you’re loved. It’s not me who is speaking, but the messenger.”

“Miscreant!”

“One cannot do without your divine presence. And I confess that the word ‘divine’ is still too feeble—that’s me speaking.”

“I’ll give instructions not to let you through the door….”

“I’ll come in through the window, like Romeo. The illustrious Master desires to be honored by your visit. Will you come?”

“No, no—I hate the frightful fellow too much.”

“If you knew how hard he’s working! What an intoxication it would be for him to give you a lecture on the prosthesis of the third eye. You wouldn’t want to deprive me of that pleasure, Hélène.”

“All right, my friend.”

“By the way, I’m better than he is—I’ve opened Vésigout’s fourth eye…and I can guarantee that he’s happy.”

“Poor fellow.”

“Rather feel sorry for Monsieur Lesécant…but let’s talk seriously. Has your father written?”

“No—and I think it’s been a long time. Three weeks.”

“His last letter was optimistic. Why worry?”

“It gave me hope, but nothing affirmative. I’m afraid, my friend, very afraid...for us.”

“Why? What’s the worst than can happen? Ruin….”

“You know how badly my father would be affected. I’d have to renounce marrying you…”

“Chase away the dark thoughts. And to distract you, let’s go to Fontenay. Dr. Cordeau has been expecting your visit for days. He too is dreaming about giving you a lecture on his sera. It will interest you. We ought to go.”

“I don’t have the courage at the moment. I’m too anxious.”

“You’re wrong, Hélène. Within a month, if Monsieur Noirmont hasn’t succeeded, I’ll have covered the two suitors in ridicule…and they won’t dare show their faces again.”

 

V. The Psychic Sera

 

A week later, Hélène received news from her father. Thanks to the capital lent by Rémois, he had been able to fulfill a part of his engagements. Assistance generously given to the victims of the disaster had rendered the engineer popular, and that had helped him get his operation back on its feet. Negotiations had begun with bankers in Chicago, and it was possible that within two months everything would be in place. Then, with a little luck, within the deadline of a year, Lesécant and Cordeau would be reimbursed and Hélène’s happiness could finally be assured.

Radiant, the young woman had written to her fiancé. The horizon now seemed clearer; she consented to accompany Rémois to see the doctors.

“Let’s amuse ourselves with them,” said the painter. “Why should we have any scruples? Did the two old egotists have any pity on our love? And then, I adore vengeance—it’s a pleasure of gods…and lovers.”

When they arrived at Cordeau’s residence, they found the psychologist prey to an extraordinary emotion. With his short-sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, he was examining his arms, peppered with puncture marks.

Stammering anxiously, he apologized for the state of his attire.

“Science has its immunities,” replied Rémois, roguishly.

“It’s strange, Monsieur; supernatural, Mademoiselle…look at my arms. It’s incredible! Incredible….I’ll refer it to the Académie….”

As his visitors looked at him in astonishment, he added: “That’s true, you don’t understand. Please pay attention for a minute…do sit down…pardon me…but I’m amazed…suffocated…. Oh, it’s too curious, you know! I can only explain it as a phenomenon of autosuggestion. I inject myself without being aware of it. But when? Where? And the most curious thing is that the sera doesn’t have any effect on me.”

“I’ll make the observation that you’ve taken on a thief as an experimental case study,” said Rémois.

“Yes, I’ve cultivated his microbe, and injected it into a refractory animal…a guard dog. And I….”

“How do you expect such a serum to act on you? It would be wrong to judge you.”

“Yes, of course!” Cordeau exclaimed. “Am I stupid! But then, there’s good reason to be amazed. Where and when have I injected myself?”

“You’ll figure it out, Doctor,” Rémois indicated Hélène, who was very amused. “Mademoiselle Noirmont, in response to the amiable invitation that I extended to her in your name.…”

Cordeau pulled himself together. “Mademoiselle, believe me, I’m touched…deeply touched. I’m entirely at your disposal. My method is, in any case, easily understood. It’s elementary. Let’s take the hypothesis of a case of drunkenness, for example. I take the microbe of a confirmed drunkard, supposedly incorrigible, on the brink of delirium…I cultivate it…I inoc…I…sapristi! It’s so singular….”

And Cordeau, his eyes immeasurably wide, beside himself, examined his arms again.

Rémois recalled him to the demonstration.

“You inoculate….”

“What do you mean?”

“The drunkard’s microbe.”

Oh. yes…excuse me. So, I inoculate a refractory animal. And therein lies all the observation, all the science of my method. It’s necessary to appropriate the refractory animal….years of observation. I’ve been aided somewhat by the studies of naturalists…and also by the worthy La Fontaine…. Therein, as I say, is the criterium of the Cordeau method. By the way, they smiled the other day at the Académie….”

“They always laugh a little at pioneers.”

“They mistake them for lunatics, don’t they? So, I inoculate a refractory, and hence sober, animal.”

“A donkey.”

“No,” said Cordeau, with a patronizing smile, “a camel. Then I extract the serum of the immunized camel and I inoculate the drunkard.”

“And he doesn’t hit the booze anymore.”21

“Never! It’s infallible. But as an experiment I preferred to choose a thief. I had some difficulty finding one, in spite of my reiterated advertisements in the press.”

“You were hard to please.”

“Well, I had to be—but thanks to you, my dear friend, I finally got the man I wanted.”

“Indeed. He is, I believe, thirty-five years old, with thirty-five convictions already—a recidivist given amnesty….”

“If he’d been made to order, I couldn’t have been better served. If I cure that one—and I guarantee it—who will dare to deny my discovery? I’ve only had my subject for two weeks, and already he hardly ever steals from me. I deliberately leave money within his reach. In the first few days, I didn’t find anything there. Now, if I leave a hundred sous, I get six francs back. Gradually, he’ll give me back all that he’s stolen. Then I’ll be able to attempt the supreme experiment. And with what accomplishments my experiment is already endowed! What fortunate consequences will it not have for the human species, made virtuous, returned to the Golden Age? And what could be simpler? It’s Columbus and the egg! Nature, the good mother, always places the remedy beside the evil. The animals that civilization hasn’t spoiled have conserved their own character. Therein lies salvation, therein is the solution to…to….”

And as the psychologist, waving his long arms, searched for the word, like a club orator, he experienced a sharp sensation of thirst.

There was a glass on his side table, half-full of cold toddy. Cordeau drank it in a single draught, and refreshed, continued: “I shall have the glory of having endowed humankind with the panacea for which alchemists searched long and hard in blood and diabolical formulae. Have I said that it’s the solution to the great problem of social equilibrium?”

In the matter of equilibrium, the doctor was losing his own. He tottered like a drunken man, and started babbling fragments of sentences in which scientific terms recurred: cerebral force…atavism…reflex causes…. Then, in a hoarse voice, he waxed indignant against his adversary Lesécant.

“No, pork butcher, it isn’t you who’ll have the glory…not you…not you…me….”

Finally, he was obliged to sit down, complaining of a headache, and went to sleep.

Rémois and Hélène contemplated him, not understanding what was happening before their eyes.

Then the young man rang a bell. A man came into the drawing room.

“Oh, it’s you, Fléchard. Look—Monsieur Corbeau has suddenly gone to sleep.”

The newcomer darted a glance at the side table and saw the empty glass.

“He’s drunk his toddy. That doesn’t surprise me. I doctored it. Well, I wanted to take full advantage of the leave that the head of the Sûreté granted me, at your request. I’d like nothing better than to earn my daily bread honestly, but there are limits. He’d have injected me too often if I’d let him—I’d be nothing but a pincushion. So, as he has a habit, while…working, of drinking a toddy, I put a few drops of laudanum in his eau d’aff.22 That calms him down a little…except that, every time, while he’s asleep, he rolls up his sleeves and he’s off…another prick…he’d be full of holes if I let him…but one’s only human…one isn’t a brute….”

A double burst of laughter greeted Fléchard’s revelation. The thing was, in fact, well planned. The detective, accustomed to the guile of his difficult trade, had found a means to escape Cordeau’s hair-raising operations.

“Look, he’s starting again….”

Indeed, the psychologist, mechanically, rolled up his sleeves and, as if he had had a lancet in his hand, administered a series of punctures….

The young couple took their leave of Fléchard. As they departed, Rémois said to his fiancé: “I haven’t remained inactive, you see. I’ve avenged myself. I have them both. I can do what I like with them, by virtue of the fear of ridicule.

On the way to Fontenay station, he gave the young woman the key to the enigma. “I was at college with the secretary of the Head of the Sûreté. I made use of our acquaintance. A phenomenal criminal record was assembled for agent Fléchard—one of the worst in the Prefecture, from which he obtained a leave of absence. He presented himself to the incredible Cordeau, who welcomed him with open arms, and eyes closed: ‘Oh, my friend! Thirty-five convictions! You’re a frightful scoundrel!’ You can imagine the worthy agent’s face. And Cordeau added: ‘But I esteem you all the more for it; you’re the man I’ve dreamed of….’”

The painter concluded: “Now, let’s get the train, and since we’re in a good mood, let’s go see your other suitor.”

 

VI. A Recalcitrant Subject

 

“You’ve come at a good time! I’m swimming in joy!”

So said Lesécant as he introduced Rémois and Hélène into the drawing room of the Villa Paré.

“We’re glad to hear it, my dear Master.”

“Extraordinary!” the other continued. “Beyond my hopes! Can you imagine that my carbo-pepto-azotic tablets really are the ideal nourishment? Vésigout, who’s been consuming nothing else for a fortnight, is doing marvelously. He’s putting on weight!”

Rémois had difficulty suppressing wild laughter, thinking about the excellent cuisine in which Vésigout was indulging at the Quatre-Chemins restaurant.

The surgeon continued: “The puffiness due to alcohol has disappeared. He looks superb. This morning, I set aside the promised ten thousand francs on account, and I’m going to start preparing him for the surgery today. First I’ll take out his teeth…but pardon me, Mademoiselle Noirmont would perhaps rather not hear such details….”

“Oh, no, Doctor—I’m strong….”

“Good…no sensitivity, at least….” As Hélène laughed, frankly amused, he went on: “What an admirable little wife you’ll make for a surgeon. Oh, if you marry me—and I’m certain of it, for Cordeau is nothing but a donkey—I’ll initiate you into my art.

“So, tomorrow, I’ll take out Vésigout’s teeth, a week later, the hair and nails…after that I’ll removed the intestines, which have become useless. And finally, we’ll come to the admirable cultivation of the pituitary gland—the third eye.23 I’ll make a window in the forehead, here, a little above the top of the nose. I can say without fear that it will all go well…it’s a window on infinity that I’ll be opening up for that man….”

After having repeated the tirade that he had already declaimed to Vésigout, Lesécant concluded: “It mustn’t be thought, in fact, that the pituitary gland, even though it appears to present the embryo of the organs of the eye, can be transformed to the point of performing the same banal function as the ocular orb. Perhaps complacent observers, deceived by appearances, find in that vegetating gland a failed organ imprisoned between the mass of the cerebrum and the cerebellum, but what do I make of it? Although the pituitary gland contains all the elements of the eye, although one finds therein the sclerotic, the fibrous and opaque exterior envelope, the transparent cornea—which is, in my opinion, merely a modification of the primary envelope—the choroid, the crystalline lens, the retina; when all that exists in the miniature cerebrum that I want to cultivate, what do you think I’ll have made?

“It’s not an eye that I’m rendering but a nervous center, a point of strange sensibility. And when people see the prodigious faculties of my subject, after the operation, perhaps they’ll want to understand the theory that I’m defending, and will defend to the death; and see that the explanation of abnormal phenomena—spiritism, hypnosis, magnetism, troubling problems before which even the princes of science go pale without any certain result—resides in the existence of that organ, perhaps failed, but far from being useless. Nature has never created anything useless. Life is for all, and all is for Life….”

Launched on that terrain, Lesécant, in a vibrant voice, constructed a metaphysics so confused that he ended up unable to find a way out of it. He no longer knew how to conclude; finally, turning to Hélène with a bow as graceful as was possible for him, he said: “Well, Mademoiselle, that’s the theory. If you want to witness the practice—in brief, if you want to follow the birth of the colossal endeavor that I’m undertaking, Dr. Lesécant will be only too happy to place himself entirely at your disposal.”

“Very kind of you, Doctor.”

“And now, permit me to introduce you to my subject. When you arrived, I left him in my study. Come on. We’ll go quietly, to surprise him. The dear boy! Do you know, I love him already.”

“Vésigout is a good fellow,” said Rémois. “Perhaps a trifle…irregular—fond of the bottle.”

“Pfft!” retorted Lesécant, with a gesture of the hand. “Cured…better than by the Cordeau method…..”

“Good food is sometimes a remedy.”

“Good food…but I’ve told you that my subject has been nourished exclusively on my tables for a fortnight. Ex-clu-sively! And I confess that the result has exceeded my hopes. He’s put on weight…here…look….”

With infinite precaution, the surgeon opened the door of the study. His back turned, very preoccupied, Vésigout did not hear them come in. Lesécant advanced on tiptoe, and then suddenly, nailed to the floor by amazement, his arms folded, at first he could only utter guttural exclamations: “Oh!... Oh!....”

Vésigout tried to hide his work, but Lesécant bounded forward and seized the piece of paper.

“My portrait! In caricature! He’s drawing!”

Rémois and Hélène were very embarrassed. Redder than a tomato, trembling like a schoolboy caught doing something naughty, Vésigout, with tears in his eyes, distressed by the thought that the dream was about to vanish, of the ten thousand francs that he was not going to see, stammered: “I…I can explain…”

But Lesécant cut him off. “That’s not your business, it’s mine. The explanation belongs to science. This is a curious case of mental vision. His brain has perceived my image; his hand has executed it. And there’s a resemblance. A seer couldn’t do any better.”

Driven by his mania for explaining everything scientifically, and his unreflective nature, Lesécant had just got Vésigout out of trouble. With aplomb, the Bohemian went on: “My father knew you well, Doctor.”

“There—what did I tell you? The transmission of the image….”

Rémois and Hélène were leaning out of the window. They could no longer contain themselves; laughter was choking them.

“You have a marvelous view from your villa,” said Mademoiselle Noirmont, in order to say something.

“Isn’t it? That’s admirable.”

In fact, the view was limited to a garden fifty meters long, in which Lesécant cultivated absolutely nothing but medicinal herbs. The doctor’s “admirable” was, of course, extended to Vésigout’s drawing.

“Oh, my friend, since you already draw so well, what will you do when you have the third eye?”

Before they left, and while Lesécant, dissolving in amiabilities addressed to Hélène, gave her a tour of the villa and cut the most beautiful flowers in his greenhouse in her honor, Rémois took Vésigout to one side.

“That wasn’t very prudent.”’

“Well, old chap, I distract myself as best I can. If you knew how boring it is here. He wants to pull out all my teeth tomorrow. I’m giving up on your scheme, you know….”

“It’s up to you to find a means of escape.”

“For tomorrow—yes, it’s arranged. Last night, at the risk of breaking my neck, I got into the doctor’s operating room through the window on the first floor….”

“Why didn’t you get a key made?”

“Secret lock, old chap. It’s the only room that no one goes into except the man himself.”

“Ah!”

“Then I played the burglar, cutting a windowpane with a diamond all around the rim and putting it back in place from the outside with hooks of my own invention, after filching all the instruments of torture he’d got ready to fix my jaws. So, for tomorrow I’m all right, but afterwards….”

“Find something else.”

“And after that.

“After that, you can blow your cover, if necessary—but warn me first; I want to have witnesses there.”

“And the cash?”

“You’ll get the money, whatever happens.”

 

The next day, Dr. Lesécant nearly fell over, struck down by apoplexy, when he went into his operating room and found the instrument cupboard absolutely empty. The door was locked. There were no panes missing from the window. Then again, why had the robbery been committed? With what aim? He called Jérôme and scolded him so harshly that the old servant handed in his notice.

He asked Vésigout whether he had heard anything abnormal, the blind having sensitive hearing.

“No, Doctor, nothing.”

“Well, someone’s stolen my instruments.”

“Ah!” The Bohemian’s astonishment was so utterly natural that Lesécant was taken in.

“That astonishes you, eh…and annoys me. I was counting on getting rid of your teeth today….”

“That’s unfortunate, Doctor, because I was ready.”

Two days later, the surgeon came back with a new set of instruments. He found his subject in bed, moaning.

“Ah, Aiee! It’s my back that’s hurting…and I have a fever…aiee! If you knew, Doctor!”

“No luck at all,” Lesécant said to himself, dejected. “It’s as if nothing’s going my way.” With great generosity, he added: “Don’t worry, my dear Vésigout. A week’s rest and you’ll be fine…”

A week’s respite, thought the other. That’ll keep Rémois happy.

At the end of the week, during which Vésigout did honor to the kitchens and the cellar at his restaurant, Lesécant, on arriving at the Villa, found him lying on the lawn in the garden, dead drunk. Beside him was a bottle of old rum.

The surgeon cursed and raged, reproaching himself bitterly for having chased away old Jérôme.

“When he was here, at least he watched him. I’m an idiot, to be sure—but in the future, I’ll stay here and watch him myself. At least I got here in time—he might have died.”

Vésigout, we ought to say, was not drunk at all. It was a stratagem intended to delay the fatal operation yet again. But he paid dearly for that stratagem; without him being able to prevent it, Lesécant, with an entirely professional vigor, picked him up, carried him to his bed and, without further delay, administered an emetic whose effect was disastrous.

“Damn it! The animal’s been eating!” cried the doctor, furiously. “Oh, I was wrong to send Jérôme packing. Oh, my lad, sleep it off—and tomorrow afternoon, I’ll deprive you of your lower jaw, and I certainly hope you won’t do it again!”

Poor Vésigout! In spite of the nausea induced by the emetic, he wondered what he was going to do to get rid of the terrible guardian whom his unfortunate idea of playing drunk had imposed on him for the future.

A day without eating! Reduced to the boss’s horrible tablets!

A fine idea! the Bohemian said to himself. It’s a lot of trouble to earn ten thousand francs!

At any rate, there was no way to get out of it now. Seated in a leather armchair, bound hand and foot, the patient was going to see his molars, incisors and canine’s extracted, one by one…or it would be necessary to confess that he wasn’t blind…and Rémois hadn’t been warned.

Imperturbably, Lesécant made his preparations for the operation.

“Don’t be afraid, my boy, you won’t feel a thing. I’ll anesthetize you. Cocaine…good….”

While Lesécant was searching for poisons in his cupboard, however, a cavernous voice, seemingly emerging from the wall, made itself heard.

“No, no, pork butcher…you shan’t have her…it’s me…me….”

Nonplussed, the surgeon dropped the bottle he was holding, which broke. “Did you hear that?”

“Yesss,” hissed Vésigout, his face imprinted with terror.

“Oh, that’s bizarre!”

“Me…me…,” repeated the mysterious voice.

“Damn! But that’s Cordeau speaking. Damn it! I’ll clear this up. Two o’clock in the afternoon! I’ll go to see him.”

Putting off the operation once again, he untied Vésigout, scarcely took the time to change clothes, and set off at top speed—not without having carefully locked the gate of the Villa.

“Oof!” sighed Vésigout. “I can still get out, thanks to my professional talents…but afterwards? Zut! I’ve had my fill of this—I prefer my penury…and as I don’t want to face the fire of Monsieur le docteur Lesécant’s reproaches, I’ll take my leave of him by climbing over the gate. But politeness before all….”

And, taking a piece of paper, he traced a few words in a magisterial calligraphy:

 

The undersigned, Vésigout, thanks Dr. Lesécant for his kind concern, but doesn’t have the courage to continue the experiments. He has the honor of saluting Monsieur le docteur and, if it might be useful to him, testifies here to the value of his succulent tablets.

 

He signed the note, placed it on the table in plain sight, went to his room to get his things, and set about climbing over the gate.

Finally, as poor as before, he was free. But he had an obligation to fulfill. Rémois had to be informed. He went to the painter’s home. The other was not at home. Then he remembered the address of Mademoiselle Noirmont’s relatives.

I’ll surely find him there, he said to himself.

 

VII. In Full Settlement

 

A story ought to follow the pace of events. Ours must, therefore, accelerate.

The psychologist Cordeau had just returned home, and was standing, like a body without a soul, in front of his empty strong-box, ashamed, like a fox taken by a chicken. The supreme experiment had—is there any need to say it?—turned to confusion.

On the advice of Rémois, agent Fléchard had played a good trick—the last—on his injector.

That morning, negligently, Cordeau had allowed a glimpse of a wad of bonds to the value of fifty thousand francs. He had locked them in his strong-box within the sight the “subject,” and, without seeming to suspect his presence, had pronounced alone the secret word of the combination lock: “Psychology.” And he had gone out, announcing his intention of being absent until the afternoon.

Faithful to his instructions, Fléchard tried to open the safe. Alas, it did not work, for one very good reason: the worthy sleuth, expert in police work, was not as strong when it came to spelling. He tried psicoloji and psicologi, but nothing worked. An intelligent man, however, never allows himself to be thwarted.

“Damn it,” he said to himself. “He has words to drive you mad…so…but it doesn’t matter; I’ll go and find a dictillionary in his bookcase….”

Indeed, a Larousse came to his aid. In possession of the word, he opened the strong-box, took possession of the bonds, and put a small pile of notepaper in their place. Then he closed the safe again, left the Château Mesmer and took a cab to the Prefecture.

When Cordeau came back, he ran to the strong-box. “He hasn’t touched it! Surely—otherwise, he wouldn’t have taken the trouble to lock it again.

Joyfully, he set up the combination.

Horror! The bonds were no longer there. He picked up the notepaper furiously, on which was written the insolent message: Chase away the natural and it come back at the gallop. And I’m running away….ditto.

“Stolen!” murmured the doctor. “Stolen! I went too quickly. The sum was too large. What can I do? Lodge a complaint? I’ll look ridiculous. And then if Lesécant hears about it….oh no! No, he shan’t have her, the pork butcher. The beautiful Hélène! It’s me…me….”

Then, prey to a crisis of wrath: “Yes, me, me! I’ll start again…there’s still time…before the deadline.”

Then he reflected. Would it not be better to have the thief arrested, and then continue the experiment he had begun with him. He therefore decided to go to the Prefecture.

He had scarcely emerged when he ran into Lesécant, who was also running.

“Monsieur.”

“Monsieur?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“No time.”

“Make some. Go back in.”

“I don’t want to. Why should I take any trouble on your behalf?”

“I’ll oblige you to do it, by force.”

“Try, then!”

“All right!”

And Lesécant, with a solid fist, obliged his colleague to turn back.

“You’ll render me satisfaction for this violence!” Cordeau roared.

“Whenever you wish, but before then, answer me: Was it you who pronounced these words just now: Pork butcher…shan’t have her…me, me…?”

“Yes, it was me.”

“You?”

“Certainly. What’s astonishing about it? Don’t I have the right to think aloud in my own home?”

“Yes, but what’s strange is that I heard you, just now, in Viroflay.”

“You’re mad.”

“No more than you. Thank you, Monsieur—that’s all I wanted to know. I shall study the matter and draw the conclusions that please me. Au revoir, Monsieur.”

“We’ll meet again with steel in hand.”

 

When Lesécant found Vésigout’s letter on his desk, he nearly choked with rage. While he was yielding to a fit of wrath unprecedented in his experience, the villa’s doorbell rang.

He mastered himself, and then went to open the door. He found himself in the presence of Rémois, who was smiling.

“Your Vésigout has run off, Monsieur.”

“I know, Monsieur Lesécant, but that’s a minor incident of no importance. Monsieur Noirmont will have reimbursed you within a fortnight.

A cold shower could not have produced a greater effect on the surgeon’s effervescence. He only had the strength to say: “That’s good, Monsieur…thank you….”

Cordeau had already heard the news.

Thanks to a speculation as skillful as it was fortunate, Monsieur Noirmont had restarted the enterprise at Chittingham on a larger scale. A letter had informed Hélène that her father would return in a fortnight, ready to free her from the nightmare of the doctors and marry her to Paul Rémois.

At the Prefecture, the psychologist had found the painter in the office of the secretary of the Head of the Sûreté. There, the fifty thousand francs had been returned to him and “the arrest of the thief” had been reported to him. In the satisfaction of recovering the bonds, Cordeau had left a two-thousand-franc tip for the agent who had captured the thief.

Those two thousand francs, and a thousand francs added by Hélène’s fiancé, plunged agent Fléchard into delight.

Vésigout, reformed and cured, took charge of the publicizing of the enterprise at Chittingham.

All’s well that ends well.

Forgetting their discord, Cordeau and Lesécant were reconciled; they begged Noirmont to forget their “folly” and to keep their funds—a decision of which they would have no reason to complain.

They never found out that Rémois had tricked them. Even vengeance fell before happiness. It was with glass in hand that they encountered him at Hélène’s wedding—but they found grounds for argument there. Which of them would be the first godfather?

“Draw lots,” advised Rémois.

They agreed; and that’s why you are not threatened by the possibility of a sequel to “The Rival Colleagues.”