The Revolt of the Angels - 11

When she passed by a church she wanted to enter it, especially in the
evening. And so she did not love the Republic which had done its utmost
to destroy both the Church and the Army. Her heart rejoiced to see the
re-birth of national sentiment. France was lifting up her head. What was
most applauded in the music halls were songs about the soldiers and the
kind nuns. Meanwhile Maurice inhaled the odour of her tawny hair, the
subtle bitter perfume of her body, all the odours of her person, and
desire grew in him. He felt her near him on the little couch, very warm
and very soft. He complimented the artiste on her great talent. She
asked him what he liked best in all her repertory. He knew nothing about
it, still he made replies that satisfied her. She had dictated them
herself without knowing it. The vain creature spoke of her talent, of
her success, as she wished others to speak of them. She never ceased
talking of her triumphs, yet withal she was candour itself. Maurice in
all sincerity praised Bouchotte's beauty, her fresh skin, her purity of
line. She attributed this advantage to the fact that she never made up
and never "put messes on her face." As to her figure, she admitted that
there was enough everywhere and none too much, and to illustrate this
assertion she passed her hand over all the contours of her charming
body, rising lightly to follow the delightful curves on which she
reposed.
Maurice was quite moved by it. It began to grow dark; she offered to
light up. He begged her to do nothing of the sort.
Their talk, at first gay and full of laughter, grew more intimate and
very sweet, with a certain languor in its tone. It seemed to Bouchotte
that she had known Monsieur Maurice d'Esparvieu for a long time, and
holding him for a man of delicacy, she gave him her confidence. She told
him that she was by nature a good woman, but that she had had a grasping
and unscrupulous mother. Maurice recalled her to the consideration of
her own beauty, and exalted by subtle flattery the excellent opinion she
had of herself. Patient and calculating, in spite of the burning desire
growing in him, he aroused and increased in the desired one the longing
to be still further admired. The dressing-gown opened and slipped down
of its own accord, the living satin of her shoulders gleamed in the
mysterious light of evening. He--so prudent, so clever, so adroit,--let
her sink in his arms, ardent and half swooning before she had even
perceived she had granted anything at all. Their breath and their
murmurs intermingled. And the little flowery couch sighed in sympathy
with them.
When they recovered the power to express their feelings in words, she
whispered in his ear that his cheek was even softer than her own.
He answered, holding her embraced:
"It is charming to hold you like this. One would think you had no
bones."
She replied, closing her eyes:
"It is because I love you. Love seems to dissolve my bones; it makes me
as soft and melting as a pig's foot _à la Ste. Menebould_."
Hereupon Théophile came in, and Bouchotte called upon him to thank
Monsieur Maurice d'Esparvieu, who had been amiable enough to be the
bearer of a handsome offer from Madame la Comtesse de la Verdelière.
The musician was happy, feeling the quiet and peace of the house after a
day of fruitless applications, of colourless lessons, of failure and
humiliation. Three new collaborators had been thrust upon him who would
add their signatures to his on his operetta, and receive their share of
the author's rights, and he had been told to introduce the tango into
the Court of Golconda. He pressed young d'Esparvieu's hand and dropped
wearily on to the little couch, which, being now at the end of its
strength, gave way at the four legs and suddenly collapsed.
And the angel, precipitated to the ground, rolled terror-struck on to
the watch, match-box and cigarette-case that had fallen from Maurice's
pocket, and on to the bombs Prince Istar had left behind him.


CHAPTER XXIV
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF THE VICISSITUDES THAT BEFEL THE
"LUCRETIUS" OF THE PRIOR DE VENDÔME

Léger-Massieu, successor to Léger senior, the binder, whose
establishment was in the rue de l'Abbaye, opposite the old Hôtel of the
Abbés of Saint Germain-des-Près, in the hotbed of ancient schools and
learned societies, employed an excellent but by no means numerous staff
of workmen, and served with leisurely deliberation a clientèle who had
learned to practise the virtue of patience. Six weeks had elapsed since
he had received the parcel of books that had been despatched by Monsieur
Sariette, but still Léger-Massieu had not yet put the work in hand. It
was not until fifty-three days had come and gone, that, after calling
over the books against the list that had been drawn up by Monsieur
Sariette, the binder gave them out to his workmen. The little
_Lucretius_ with the Prior de Vendôme's arms not being mentioned on the
list, it was assumed that it had been sent by another customer.
And as it did not figure on any list of goods received it remained shut
up in a cupboard, from which Léger-Massieu's son, the youthful Ernest,
one day surreptitiously abstracted it, and slipped it into his pocket.
Ernest was in love with a neighbouring seamstress whose name was Rose.
Rose was fond of the country, and liked to hear the birds singing in the
woods, and in order to procure the wherewithal to take her to Chatou one
Sunday and give her a dinner, Ernest parted with the _Lucretius_ for ten
francs to old Moranger, a second-hand dealer in the rue Saint X----, who
displayed no great curiosity regarding the origin of his acquisitions.
Old Moranger handed over the volume, the very same day, to Monsieur
Poussard, an expert in books, of the faubourg Saint Germain, for sixty
francs. The latter removed the stamp which disclosed the ownership of
the matchless copy, and sold it for five hundred francs to Monsieur
Joseph Meyer, the well-known collector, who handed it straight away for
three thousand francs to Monsieur Ardon, the bookseller, who immediately
transferred it to Monsieur R----, the great Parisian bibliopolist, who
gave six thousand for it, and sold it again a fortnight later at a
handsome profit to Madame la Comtesse de Gorce. Well known in the higher
ranks of Parisian society, the lady in question is what was called in
the seventeenth century a "curieuse," that is to say, a lover of
pictures, books, and china. In her mansion in the Avenue d'Jéna she
possesses collections of works of art which bear witness to the
diversity of her knowledge and the excellence of her taste. During the
month of July, while the Comtesse de Gorce was away at her château at
Sarville in Normandy, the house in the Avenue d'Jéna, being unoccupied,
was visited one night by a thief said to belong to a gang known as "The
Collectors," who made works of art the special objects of their raids.
The police enquiry elicited the fact that the marauder had reached the
first floor by means of the waste-pipe, that he had then climbed over
the balcony, forced a shutter with a jemmy, broken a pane of glass,
turned the window-fastener, and made his way into the long gallery.
There he broke open several cupboards and possessed himself of whatever
took his fancy. His booty consisted for the most part of small but
valuable articles, such as gold caskets, a few ivory carvings of the
fourteenth century, two splendid fifteenth-century manuscripts, and a
volume which the Countess's secretary briefly described as "a
morocco-bound book with a coat of arms on it," and which was none other
than the _Lucretius_ from the d'Esparvieu library.
The malefactor, who was supposed to be an English cook, was never
discovered. But, two months or so after the theft, a well-dressed,
clean-shaven young man passed down the rue de Courcelles, in the
dimness of twilight, and went to offer the Prior de Vendôme's
_Lucretius_ to Père Guinardon. The antiquary gave him four shillings for
it, examined it carefully, recognised its interest and its beauty, and
put it in the king-wood cabinet, where he kept his special treasures.
Such were the vicissitudes which, in the course of a single season,
befel this thing of beauty.


CHAPTER XXV
WHEREIN MAURICE FINDS HIS ANGEL AGAIN

The performance was over. Bouchotte in her dressing-room was taking off
her make-up, when the door opened softly and old Monsieur Sandraque, her
protector, came in, followed by a troop of her other admirers. Without
so much as turning her head, she asked them what they meant by coming
and staring at her like a pack of imbeciles, and whether they thought
they were in a tent at the Neuilly Fair, looking at the freak woman.
"Now, then, ladies and gentlemen," she rattled on derisively, "just put
a penny in the box for the young lady's marriage-portion, and she'll let
you feel her legs,--all made of marble!"
Then, with an angry glance at the admiring throng, she exclaimed: "Come,
off you go! Look alive!"
She sent them all packing, her sweetheart Théophile among them,--the
pale-faced, long-haired, gentle, melancholy, short-sighted, and dreamy
Théophile.
But recognizing her little Maurice, she gave him a smile. He approached
her, and leaning over the back of the chair on which she was seated,
congratulated her on her playing and singing, duly performing a kiss at
the end of every compliment. She did not let him escape thus, and with
reiterated enquiries, pressing solicitations, feigned incredulity,
obliged him to repeat his stock panegyrics three or four times over, and
when he stopped she seemed so disappointed that he was forced to take up
the strain again immediately. He found it trying, for he was no
connoisseur, but he had the pleasure of kissing her plump curved
shoulders all golden in the light, and of catching glimpses of her
pretty face in the mirror over the toilet-table.
"You were delicious."
"Really?... you think so?"
"Adorable ... div----"
Suddenly he gave a loud cry. His eyes had seen in the mirror a face
appear at the back of the dressing-room. He turned swiftly round, flung
his arms about Arcade, and drew him into the corridor.
"What manners!" exclaimed Bouchotte, gasping.
But, pushing his way through a troop of performing dogs, and a family of
American acrobats, young d'Esparvieu dragged his angel towards the exit.
He hurried him forth into the cool darkness of the boulevard, delirious
with joy and wondering whether it was all too good to be true.
"Here you are!" he cried; "here you are! I have been looking for you a
long time, Arcade,--or Mirar if you like,--and I have found you at last.
Arcade, you have taken my guardian angel from me. Give him back to me.
Arcade, do you love me still?"
Arcade replied that in accomplishing the super-angelic task he had set
himself he had been forced to crush under foot friendship, pity, love,
and all those feelings which tend to soften the soul; but that, on the
other hand, his new state, by exposing him to suffering and privation,
disposed him to love Humanity, and that he felt a certain mechanical
friendship for his poor Maurice.
"Well, then," exclaimed Maurice, "if only you love me, come back to me,
stay with me. I cannot do without you. While I had you with me I was not
aware of your presence. But no sooner did you depart than I felt a
horrible blank. Without you I am like a body without a soul. Do you know
that in the little flat in the rue de Rome, with Gilberte by my side, I
feel lonely, I miss you sorely, and long to see you and to hear you as I
did that day when you made me so angry. Confess I was right, and that
your behaviour on that occasion was not that of a gentleman. That you,
you of so high an origin, so noble a mind, could commit such an
indiscretion is extraordinary, when one comes to think about it. Madame
des Aubels has not yet forgiven you. She blames you for having
frightened her by appearing at such an inconvenient moment, and for
being insolent and forward while hooking her dress and tying her shoes.
I, I have forgotten everything. I only remember that you are my
celestial brother, the saintly companion of my childhood. No, Arcade,
you must not, you cannot leave me. You are my angel; you are my
property."
Arcade explained to young d'Esparvieu that he could no longer be guiding
angel to a Christian, having himself gone down into the pit. And he
painted a horrible picture of himself; he described himself as breathing
hatred and fury; in fact, an infernal spirit.
"All nonsense!" said Maurice, smiling, his eyes big with tears.
"Alas! our ideas, our destiny, everything tends to part us, Maurice. But
I cannot stifle the tenderness I feel for you, and your candour forces
me to love you."
"No," sighed Maurice. "You do not love me. You have never loved me. In a
brother or a sister such indifference would be natural; in a friend it
would be ordinary; in a guardian angel it is monstrous. Arcade, you are
an abominable being. I hate you."
"I have loved you dearly, Maurice, and I still love you. You trouble my
heart which I deemed encased in triple bronze. You show me my own
weakness. When you were a little innocent boy I loved you as tenderly
and purely as Miss Kate, your English governess, who caressed you with
so much fervour. In the country, when the thin bark of the plane trees
peels off in long strips and discloses the tender green trunk, after the
rains which make the fine sand run on the sloping paths, I showed you
how with that sand, those strips of bark, a few wild flowers, and a
spray of maidenhair fern to make rustic bridges, rustic shelters,
terraces, and those gardens of Adonis, which last but an hour. During
the month of May in Paris we raised an altar to the Virgin, and we burnt
incense before it, the scent of which, permeating all the house,
reminded Marcelline, the cook, of her village church and her lost
innocence, and drew from her floods of tears; it also gave your mother a
headache, your mother who, with all her wealth, was crushed with the
_ennui_ that is common to the fortunate ones of this world. When you
went to college I interested myself in your progress, I shared your work
and your play, I pondered with you over arduous problems in arithmetic,
I sought the impenetrable meaning of a phrase of Julius Cæsar's. What
fine games of prisoners' base and football we had together! More than
once did we know the intoxication of victory, and our young laurels were
not soaked in blood or tears. Maurice, I did all I could to protect
your innocence, but I could not prevent your losing it at the age of
fourteen. Afterwards I regretfully saw you loving women of all sorts, of
divers ages, by no means beautiful, at least in the eyes of an angel.
Saddened at the sight, I devoted myself to study; a fine library offered
me resources rarely met with. I delved into the history of religions;
you know the rest."
"But now, my dear Arcade," concluded young d'Esparvieu, "you have lost
your position, your situation, you are entirely without resource. You
have lost caste, you are off the lines, a vagabond, a bare-footed
wanderer."
The Angel replied bitterly that, after all, he was a little better clad
at present than when he was wearing the slops of a suicide.
Maurice alleged in excuse that when he dressed his naked angel in a
suicide's slops, he was irritated with that angel's infidelity. But it
was useless to dwell on the past or to recriminate. What was really
needful was to consider what steps to take in future.
And he asked:
"Arcade, what do you think of doing?"
"Have I not already told you, Maurice? To fight with Him who reigns in
the heavens, dethrone Him, and set up Satan in His stead."
"You will not do it. To begin with it is not the opportune moment.
Opinion is not with you. You will not be in the swim, as papa says.
Conservatism and authority are all the go nowadays. We like to be ruled,
and the President of the Republic is going to parley with the Pope. Do
not be obstinate, Arcade. You are not as bad as you say. At bottom you
are like the rest of the world, you adore the good God."
"I thought I had already explained to you, Maurice, that He whom you
consider God is actually but a demiurge. He is absolutely ignorant of
the divine world above him, and in all good faith believes himself to be
the true and only God. You will find in the _History of the Church_, by
Monsignor Duchesne--Vol. I, page 162--that this proud and narrow-minded
demiurge is named Ialdabaoth. My child, so as not to ruffle your
prejudices and to deal gently with your feelings in future, that is the
name I shall give him. If it should happen that I should speak of him to
you, I shall call him Ialdabaoth. I must leave you. Adieu."
"Stay----"
"I cannot."
"I shall not let you go thus. You have deprived me of my guardian angel.
It is for you to repair the injury you have caused me. Give me another
one."
Arcade objected that it was difficult for him to satisfy such a demand.
That having quarrelled with the sovereign dispenser of guardian
Spirits, he could obtain nothing from that quarter.
"My dear Maurice," he added, smiling, "ask for one yourself from
Ialdabaoth."
"No,--no,--no," exclaimed Maurice. "You have taken away my guardian
angel,--give him back to me."
"Alas! I cannot."
"Is it, Arcade, because you are a revolutionary that you cannot?"
"Yes."
"An enemy of God?"
"Yes."
"A Satanic spirit?"
"Yes."
"Well, then," exclaimed young Maurice, "I will be your guardian
angel,--I will not leave you."
And Maurice d'Esparvieu took Arcade to have some oysters at P----'s.


CHAPTER XXVI
THE CONCLAVE

That day, convoked by Arcade and Zita, the rebellious angels met
together on the banks of the Seine at La Jonchère, in a deserted and
tumble-down entertainment-hall that Prince Istar had hired from a
pot-house keeper called Barattan. Three hundred angels crowded together
in the stalls and boxes. A table, an arm-chair, and a collection of
small chairs were arranged on the stage, where hung the tattered
remnants of a piece of rustic scenery. The walls, coloured in distemper
with flowers and fruit, were cracked and stained with damp, and were
crumbling away in flakes. The vulgar and poverty-stricken appearance of
the place rendered the grandeur of the passions exhibited therein all
the more striking.
When Prince Istar asked the assembly to form its Committee, and first of
all to elect a President, the name that was renowned throughout the
world entered the minds of all present, but a religious respect sealed
their lips; and after a moment's silence, the absent Nectaire was
elected by acclamation. Having been invited to take the chair between
Zita and an angel of Japan, Arcade immediately began as follows:
"Sons of Heaven! My comrades! You have freed yourselves from the bonds
of celestial servitude--you have shaken off the thrall of him called
Iahveh, but to whom we should here accord his veritable name of
Ialdabaoth, for he is not the creator of the worlds, but merely an
ignorant and barbarous demiurge, who having obtained possession of a
minute portion of the Universe has therein sown suffering and death.
Sons of Heaven, tell me, I charge you, whether you will combat and
destroy Ialdabaoth?"
All with one voice made answer:
"We will!"
And many speaking all together swore they would scale the mountain of
Ialdabaoth, and hurl down the walls of jasper and porphyry, and plunge
the tyrant of Heaven into eternal darkness.
But a voice of crystal pierced through the sullen murmur.
"Tremble, ye impious, sacrilegious madmen! The Lord hath already lifted
his dread arm to smite you!"
It was a loyal angel who, with an impulse of faith and love, envying the
glory of confessors and martyrs, jealous and eager, like his God
himself, to emulate man in the beauty of sacrifice, had flung himself
in the midst of the blasphemers, to brave them, to confound them, and to
fall beneath their blows. The assembly turned upon him with furious
unanimity. Those nearest to him overwhelmed him with blows. He continued
to cry, in a clear, ringing voice, "Glory to God! Glory to God! Glory to
God!"
A rebel seized him by the neck and strangled his praises of the Almighty
in his throat. He was thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot. Prince
Istar picked him up, took him by the wings between his fingers, then
rising like a column of smoke, opened a ventilator, which no one else
could have reached, and passed the faithful angel through it. Order was
immediately restored.
"Comrades," continued Arcade, "now that we have affirmed our stern
resolve, we must examine the possible plans of campaign, and choose the
best. You will therefore have to consider if we should attack the enemy
in full force, or whether it were better, by a lengthy and assiduous
propaganda, to win the inhabitants of Heaven to our cause."
"War! War!" shouted the assembled host.
And it seemed as if one could hear the sound of trumpets and the rolling
of drums.
Théophile, whom Prince Istar had dragged to the meeting, rose, pale and
unstrung, and, speaking with emotion, said:
"Brethren, do not take ill what I am about to say; for it is the
friendship I have for you that inspires me. I am but a poor musician.
But, believe me, all your plans will come to naught before the Divine
Wisdom which has foreseen everything."
Théophile Belais sat down amid hisses. And Arcade continued:
"Ialdabaoth foresees everything. I do not contest it. He foresees
everything, but in order to leave us our free will he acts towards us
absolutely as if he foresaw nothing. Every instant he is surprised,
disconcerted; the most probable events take him unawares. The obligation
which he has undertaken, to reconcile with his prescience the liberty of
both men and angels, throws him constantly into inextricable
difficulties and terrible dilemmas. He never sees further than the end
of his nose. He did not expect Adam's disobedience, and so little did he
anticipate the wickedness of men that he repented having made them, and
drowned them in the waters of the Flood, and all the animals as well,
though he had no fault to find with the animals. For blindness he is
only to be compared with Charles X, his favourite king. If we are
prudent it will be easy to take him by surprise. I think that these
observations will be calculated to reassure my brother."
Théophile made no reply. He loved God, but he was fearful of sharing
the fate of the faithful angel.
One of the best-informed Spirits of the assembly, Mammon, was not
altogether reassured by the remarks of his brother Arcade.
"Bethink you," said this Spirit, "Ialdabaoth has little general culture,
but he is a soldier--to the marrow of his bones. The organisation of
Paradise is a thoroughly military organisation. It is founded on
hierarchy and discipline. Passive obedience is imposed there as a
fundamental law. The angels form an army. Compare this spot with the
Elysian Fields which Virgil depicts for you. In the Elysian Fields reign
liberty, reason, and wisdom. The happy shades hold converse together in
the groves of myrtle. In the Heaven of Ialdabaoth there is no civil
population. Everyone is enrolled, numbered, registered. It is a barracks
and a field for manoeuvres. Remember that."
Arcade replied that they must look at their adversary in his true
colours, and that the military organisation of Paradise was far more
reminiscent of the villages of King Koffee than of the Prussia of
Frederick the Great.
"Already," said he, "at the time of the first revolt, before the
beginning of Time, the conflict raged for two days, and Ialdabaoth's
throne was made to totter. Nevertheless, the demiurge gained the
victory. But to what did he owe it? To the thunderstorm which happened
to come on during the conflict. The thunderbolts falling on Lucifer and
his angels struck them down, bruised and blackened, and Ialdabaoth owed
his victory to the thunderbolts. Thunder is his sole weapon. He abuses
its power. In the midst of thunder and lightning he promulgates his
laws. 'Fire goeth before him,' says the Prophet. Now Seneca, the
philosopher, said that the thunderbolt in its fall brings peril to very
few, but fear to all. This remark was true enough for men of the first
century of the Christian era; it is no longer so for the angels of the
twentieth; all of which goes to prove that, in spite of his thunder, he
is not very powerful; it was acute terror that made men rear him a tower
of unbaked brick and bitumen. When myriads of celestial spirits,
furnished with machines which modern science puts at their disposal,
make an assault upon the heavens, think you, comrades, that the old
master of the solar system surrounded with his angels, armed as in the
time of Abraham, will be able to resist them? To this day the warriors
of the demiurge wear helmets of gold and shields of diamond. Michael,
his best captain, knows no other tactics than the hand-to-hand combat.
To him Pharaoh's chariots are still the latest thing, and he has never
heard of the Macedonian phalanx."
And young Arcade lengthily prolonged the parallel between the armed
herds of Ialdabaoth and the intelligent fighting men of the rebel army.
Then the question of pecuniary resources arose.
Zita asserted that there was enough money to commence war, that the
electrophores were in order, that an initial victory would obtain them
credit.
The discussion continued, amid turbulence and confusion. In this
parliament of angels, as in the synods of men, empty words flowed in
abundance. Disturbances grew more violent and more frequent as the time
for putting the resolution drew near. It was beyond question that
supreme command would be entrusted to him who had first raised the flag
of revolt. But as everyone aspired to act as Lucifer's Lieutenant, each
in describing the kind of fighting man to be preferred drew a portrait
of himself. Thus Alcor, the youngest of the rebellious angels, arose and
spoke rapidly as follows:
"In Ialdabaoth's army, happily for us, the officers obtain their posts
by seniority. This being the case, there is little likelihood of the
command falling into the hands of a military genius, for men are not
made leaders by prolonged habits of obedience, and close attention to
minutiæ is not a good apprenticeship for the evolution of vast plans of
campaign. If we consult ancient and modern history, we shall see that
the greatest leaders were kings like Alexander and Frederick,
aristocrats like Cæsar and Turenne, or men impatient of red-tape like
Bonaparte. A routine man will always be poor or second-rate. Comrades,
let us appoint intelligent leaders, men in the prime of life, to command
us. An old man may retain the habit of winning victories, but only a
young man can acquire it!"
Alcor then gave place to an angel of the philosophic order, who mounted
the rostrum and spoke thus:
"War never was an exact science, a clearly defined art. The genius of
the race, or the brain of the individual, has ever modified it. Now how
are we to define the qualities necessary for a general in command in the
war of the future, where one must consider greater masses and a larger
number of movements than the intelligence of man can conceive? The
multiplication of technical means, by infinitely multiplying the
opportunities for mistake, paralyses the genius of those in command. At
a certain stage in the progress of military science, a stage which our
models, the Europeans, are about to reach, the cleverest leader and the
most ignorant become equalized by reason of their incapacity. Another
result of great modern armaments is, that the law of numbers tends to
rule with inflexible rigour. It is of course true that ten angels in
revolt are worth more than ten angels of Ialdabaoth; it is not at all