The Revolt of the Angels - 14

Père Guinardon began to laugh.
"My dear Sariette, you remind me of the Chevalier des Grieux when he
learns that his darling mistress is to be transported to the
Mississippi. 'My dear mistress going to the Mississippi!' says he."
"No! no!" answered Sariette, very pale, "this book shall not go to
America. It shall return, as it ought, to the d'Esparvieu library. Let
me have it, Guinardon."
The antiquary made a second attempt to put an end to an interview that
now looked as if it might take an ugly turn.
"My good Sariette, you haven't told me what you think of my Greco. You
never so much as glanced at it. It is an admirable piece of work all
the same."
And Guinardon, putting the picture in a good light, went on:
"Now just look at Saint Francis here, the poor man of the Lord, the
brother of Jesus. See how his fuliginous body rises heavenward like the
smoke from an agreeable sacrifice, like the sacrifice of Abel."
"Give me the book, Guinardon," said Sariette, without turning his head;
"give me the book."
The blood suddenly flew to Père Guinardon's head.
"That's enough of it," he shouted, as red as a turkey-cock, the veins
standing out on his forehead.
And he dropped the _Lucretius_ into his jacket pocket.
Straightway old Sariette flew at the antiquary, assailed him with sudden
fury, and, frail and weakly as he was, butted him back into young
Octavie's arm-chair.
Guinardon, in furious amazement, belched forth the most horrible abuse
on the old maniac and gave him a punch that sent him staggering back
four paces against the _Coronation of the Virgin_, by Fra Angelico,
which fell down with a crash. Sariette returned to the charge, and tried
to drag the book out of the pocket in which it lay hid. This time Père
Guinardon would really have floored him had he not been blinded by the
blood that was rushing to his head, and hit sideways at the work-table
of his absent mistress. Sariette fastened himself on to his bewildered
adversary, held him down in the arm-chair, and with his little bony
hands clutched him by the neck, which, red as it was already, became a
deep crimson. Guinardon struggled to get free, but the little fingers,
feeling the mass of soft, warm flesh about them, embedded themselves in
it with delicious ecstasy. Some unknown force made them hold fast to
their prey. Guinardon's throat began to rattle, saliva was oozing from
one corner of his mouth. His enormous frame quivered now and again
beneath the grasp; but the tremors grew more and more intermittent and
spasmodic. At last they ceased. The murderous hands did not let go their
hold. Sariette had to make a violent effort to loose them. His temples
were buzzing. Nevertheless he could hear the rain falling outside,
muffled steps going past on the pavement, newspaper men shouting in the
distance. He could see umbrellas passing along in the dim light. He drew
the book from the dead man's pocket and fled.
The fair Octavie did not go back to the shop that night. She went to
sleep in a little entresol underneath the bric-a-brac stores which
Monsieur de Blancmesnil had recently bought for her in this same Rue de
Courcelles. The workman whose task it was to shut up the shop found the
antiquary's body still warm. He called Madame Lenain, the concierge,
who laid Guinardon on the couch, lit a couple of candles, put a sprig of
box in a saucer of holy water, and closed the dead man's eyes. The
doctor who was called in to certify the death ascribed it to apoplexy.
Zéphyrine, informed of what had happened by Madame Lenain, hastened to
the house, and sat up all night with the body. The dead man looked as if
he were sleeping. In the flickering light of the candles El Greco's
Saint mounted upwards like a wreath of smoke, the gold of the Primitives
gleamed in the shadows. Near the deathbed a little woman by Baudouin was
plainly discernible giving herself a douche. All through the night
Zéphyrine's lamentations could be heard fifty yards away.
"He's dead, he's dead!" she kept saying. "My friend, my divinity, my
all, my love---- But no! he is not dead, he moves. It is I, Michel; I,
your Zéphyrine. Awake, hear me! Answer me; I love you; if ever I caused
you pain, forgive me. Dead! dead! O my God! See how beautiful he is. He
was so good, so clever, so kind. My God! My God! My God! If I had been
there he would not now be lying dead. Michel! Michel!"
When morning came she was silent. They thought she had fallen asleep.
She was dead too.


CHAPTER XXXII
WHICH DESCRIBES HOW NECTAIRE'S FLUTE WAS HEARD IN THE TAVERN
OF CLODOMIR

Madame de la Verdelière having failed to force an _entrée_ as
sick-nurse, returned after several days had elapsed,--during the absence
of Madame des Aubels,--to ask Maurice d'Esparvieu for his subscription
to the French churches. Arcade led her to the bedside of the
convalescent. Maurice whispered in the angel's ear:
"Traitor, deliver me from this ogress immediately, or you will be
answerable for the evil which will soon befall."
"Be calm," said Arcade, with a confident air.
After the conventional complimentary flourishes, Madame de la Verdelière
signed to Maurice to dismiss the angel. Maurice feigned not to
understand. And Madame de la Verdelière disclosed the ostensible reason
of her visit.
"Our churches," she said, "our beloved country churches,--what is to
become of them?"
Arcade gazed at her angelically and sighed.
"They will disappear, Madame; they will fall into ruin. And what a pity!
I shall be inconsolable. The church amid the villagers' cottages is like
the hen amidst her chickens."
"Just so!" exclaimed Madame de la Verdelière with a delighted smile. "It
is just like that."
"And the spires, Madame?"
"Oh, Monsieur, the spires!..."
"Yes, the spires, Madame, that stick up into the skies towards the
little Cherubim, like so many syringes."
Madame de la Verdelière incontinently left the place.
That same day Monsieur l'Abbé Patouille came to offer the wounded man
good counsel and consolation. He exhorted him to break with his bad
companions and to be reconciled to his family.
He drew a picture of the sorrowful father, the mother in tears, ready to
receive their long-lost child with open arms. Renouncing with manly
effort a life of profligacy and deluding joys, Maurice would recover his
peace and strength of mind, he would free himself from devouring
chimeras, and shake off the Evil Spirit.
Young d'Esparvieu thanked Abbé Patouille for all his kindness, and made
a protestation of his religious feelings.
"Never," said he, "have I had such faith. And never have I been in such
need of it. Just imagine, Monsieur l'Abbé, I have to teach my guardian
angel his catechism all over again, for he has quite forgotten it!"
Monsieur l'Abbé Patouille heaved a deep sigh, and exhorted his dear
child to pray, there being no other resource but prayer for a soul
assailed by the Devil.
"Monsieur l'Abbé," asked Maurice, "may I introduce my guardian angel to
you? Do stay a moment; he has gone to get me some cigarettes."
"Unhappy child!"
And Abbé Patouille's fat cheeks drooped in token of affliction. But almost
immediately they plumped up again, as a sign of light-heartedness. For in
his heart there was matter for rejoicing. Public opinion was improving.
The Jacobins, the Freemasons, the Coalitionists were everywhere in
disgrace. The Smart Set led the way. The Académie Française was of the
right way of thinking. The number of Christian schools was increasing by
leaps and bounds. The young men of the Quartier Latin were submitting to
the Church, and the École Normale exhaled the perfume of the seminary. The
Cross was gaining the day; but money was wanted,--more money, always
money.
After six weeks' rest, Maurice was allowed by his doctor to take a
drive. He wore his arm in a sling. His mistress and his friend went
with him. They drove to the Bois, and took a gentle pleasure in looking
upon the grass and the trees. They smiled on everything and everything
smiled on them. As Arcade had said, their faults had made them better.
By the unlooked-for ways of jealousy and anger, Maurice had attained to
calm and kindliness. He still loved Gilberte and he loved her with an
indulgent love. The angel still desired her as much as ever, but having
once possessed her, his desire had lost the sting of curiosity. Gilberte
forbore trying to please, and thereby pleased the more. They drank milk
at the Cascade, and found it good. They were all three innocent. Arcade
forgot the injustice of the old tyrant of the world. But he was soon to
be reminded of it.
On entering his friend's house, he found Zita awaiting him, looking like
a statue in ivory and gold.
"You excite my pity," she said to him. "The day is at hand the like of
which has never dawned since the beginning of Time, and perhaps will
never dawn again before the Sun enters with all its train into the
constellation of Hercules. We are on the eve of surprising Ialdabaoth in
his palace of porphyry, and you, who are burning to deliver the heavens,
who were so eager to enter in triumph into your emancipated
country,--you suddenly forget your noble purpose and fall asleep in the
arms of the daughters of men. What pleasure can you find in intercourse
with these unclean little animals, composed, as they are, of elements so
unstable that they may be said to be in a state of constant evanescence?
O Arcade! I was indeed right to distrust you. You are but an
intellectual; you do but feel idle curiosity. You are incapable of
action."
"You misjudge me, Zita," replied the angel. "It is the nature of the
sons of heaven to love the daughters of men. Corruptible though it be,
the material part of women and of flowers charms the senses none the
less. But not one of these little animals can make me forget my hatred
and my love, and I am ready to rise up against Ialdabaoth."
Zita expressed her satisfaction at seeing him in this resolute mood. She
urged him to pursue the accomplishment of this vast undertaking with
undiminished ardour. Nothing must be hurried or deferred.
"A great action, Arcade, is made up of a multitude of small ones; the
most majestic whole is composed of a thousand minute details. Let us
neglect nothing."
She had come to take him to a meeting where his presence was required.
They were to take a census of the revolutionaries.
She added but one word:
"Nectaire will be there."
When Maurice saw Zita, he deemed her lacking in attraction. She failed
to please him because she was perfectly beautiful and because true
beauty always caused him painful surprise. Zita inspired him with
antipathy when he learned that she was an angel in revolt and that she
had come to seek Arcade to take him away among the conspirators.
The poor child tried to retain his companion by all the means that his
wit and the circumstances afforded him. If his guardian angel would only
remain with him, he would take him to a magnificent boxing-match, to a
"revue" where he would witness the apotheosis of Poincaré, or, lastly,
to a certain house he knew of where he would behold women remarkable for
their beauty, talents, vices, or deformities. But the angel would not
allow himself to be tempted, and said he was going with Zita.
"What for?"
"To plot the conquest of the skies."
"Still the same nonsense! The conquest of---- but there, I proved to you
that it was neither possible nor desirable."
"Good night, Maurice."
"You are going? Well, I will accompany you."
And Maurice, his arm in a sling, went with Arcade and Zita all the way
to Clodomir's restaurant at Montmartre, where the tables were laid in an
arbour in the garden.
Prince Istar and Théophile were already there, with a little creature
who looked like a child, and was, in fact, a Japanese angel.
"We are only waiting for Nectaire," said Zita.
And at that moment the old gardener noiselessly appeared. He took his
seat, and his dog lay down at his feet. French cooking is the best in
the world. It is a glory that will transcend all others when humanity
has grown wise enough to put the spit above the sword. Clodomir served
the angels, and the mortal who was with them, with a soup made of
cabbages and bacon, a loin of pork and kidneys cooked in wine, thereby
proving himself a real Montmartre cook, and showing that he had not been
spoilt by the Americans, who corrupt the most excellent _chefs_ of the
City of Restaurants.
Clodomir brought forth some Bordeaux, which, though unrecorded among the
renowned vintages of Médoc, gave evidence by its choice and delicate
aroma of the high nobility of its origin. We must not omit to chronicle
that, after this wine and many others had been drunk, the cellarman, in
solemn state, produced a Burgundy choice and rare, full-bodied yet not
heavy, generous yet delicate, rich with the true Burgundian mellowness,
a noble and, withal, a somewhat heady wine, that brought delight alike
to mind and sense.
"Hail to thee, Dionysus, greatest of the Gods!" cried old Nectaire,
raising his glass on high. "I drink to thee who wilt restore the Golden
Age, and give again to mortal men, who will become heroes as of old, the
grapes which the Lesbians used to cull, long since, from the vines of
Methymna; who wilt restore the vineyards of Thasus, the white clusters
of Lake Mareotis, the storehouses of Falernus, the vines of the Tmolus,
and the wine of Phanae, of all wines the king. And the juice thereof
shall be divine, and, as in old Silenus' day, men shall grow drunk with
Wisdom and with Love."
When the coffee was served, Prince Istar, Zita, Arcade, and the Japanese
angel took it in turns to give an account of the forces assembled
against Ialdabaoth. Angels, in exchanging eternal bliss for the
sufferings of an earthly life, grow in intelligence, acquire the means
of going astray and the faculty of self-contradiction. Consequently
their meetings, like those of men, are tumultuous and confused. Did one
of them deal in figures, the others immediately called them in question.
They could not add one number to another without quarrelling, and
arithmetic itself, subjected to passion, lost its certitude. The Kerûb,
who had brought with him the pious Théophile, waxed indignant when he
heard the musician praising the Lord, and rained down such blows on his
head as would have felled an ox. But the head of a musician is harder
than a bucranium, and the blows which Théophile received did not avail
to modify that angel's notion of divine providence. Arcade, having at
great length set up his scientific idealism in opposition to Zita's
pragmatism, the beautiful archangel told him that he argued badly.
"And you are surprised at that!" exclaimed young Maurice's guardian
angel. "I argue, like you, in the language of human beings. And what is
human language but the cry of the beasts of the forests or the
mountains, complicated and corrupted by arrogant anthropoids. How then,
Zita, can one be expected to argue well with a collection of angry or
plaintive sounds like that? Angels do not reason at all; men, being
superior to the angels, reason imperfectly. I will not mention the
professors who think to define the absolute with the aid of cries that
they have inherited from the pithecanthropoid monkeys, marsupials, and
reptiles, their ancestors! It is a colossal joke! How it would amuse the
demiurge, if he had any brains!"
It was a beautiful starlight night. The gardener was silent.
"Nectaire," said the beautiful archangel, "play to us on your flute, if
you are not afraid that the Earth and Heaven will be stirred to their
depths thereby."
Nectaire took up his flute. Young Maurice lighted a cigarette. The flame
burnt brightly for a moment, casting back the sky and its stars into the
shadows, and then died out. And Nectaire sang of the flame on his divine
flute. The silvery voice soared aloft and sang:
"That flame was a whole universe which fulfilled its destiny in less
than a minute. Suns and planets were formed therein. Venus Urania
apportioned the orbits of the wandering spheres in those infinite
spaces. Beneath the breath of Eros--the first of the gods,--plants,
animals, and thoughts sprang into being. In the twenty seconds which
hurried by betwixt the life and death of those worlds, civilizations
were unfolded, and empires sank in long decline. Mothers shed tears, and
songs of love, cries of hatred, and sighs of victims rose upward to the
silent skies.
"In proportion to its minuteness, that universe lasted as long as this
one--whereof we see a few atoms glittering above our heads--has lasted
or will last. They are, one no less than the other, but a gleam in the
Infinite."
As the clear, pure notes welled up into the charmed air, the earth
melted into a soft mist, the stars revolved rapidly in their orbits,
the Great Bear fell asunder, its parts flew far and wide. Orion's belt
was shattered; the Pole Star forsook its magnetic axis. Sirius, whose
incandescent flame had lit up the far horizon, grew blue, then red,
flickered, and suddenly died out. The shaken constellations formed new
signs which were extinguished in their turn. By its incantations the
magic flute had compressed into one brief moment the life and the
movement of this universe which seems unchanging and eternal both to men
and angels. It ceased, and the heavens resumed their immemorial aspect.
Nectaire had vanished. Clodomir asked his guests if they were pleased
with the cabbage soup which, in order that it might be strong, had been
kept simmering for twenty-four hours on the fire, and he sang the
praises of the Beaujolais which they had drunk.
The night was mild. Arcade, accompanied by his guardian angel,
Théophile, Prince Istar, and the Japanese angel, escorted Zita home.


CHAPTER XXXIII
HOW A DREADFUL CRIME PLUNGES PARIS INTO A STATE OF TERROR

The city was asleep. Their footsteps rang loudly on the deserted
pavement. Having reached the corner of the Rue Feutrier, half-way up
Montmartre, the little company halted before the dwelling of the
beautiful angel. Arcade was talking about the Thrones and Dominations
with Zita, who, her finger on the bell, could not make up her mind to
ring. Prince Istar was tracing the mechanism of a new sort of bomb on
the pavement with the end of his stick, and bellowed so loudly that he
woke the sleeping citizens and stirred into activity the amatory
passions of the neighbouring Pasiphaës. Théophile was singing the
barcarole from the second act of _Aline, Queen of Golconda_ at the top
of his voice. Maurice, his arm in a sling, was fencing left-handed with
the Japanese, striking sparks from the pavement, and crying "A hit! a
hit!" in a piercing voice.
Meanwhile Inspector Grolle at the corner of the next street was
dreaming. He had the bearing of a Roman legionary and displayed all the
characteristics of that proudly servile race, who, ever since men first
took to building cities, have been the mainstay of Empires and the
support of ruling houses. Inspector Grolle was very strong, but very
tired. He suffered from an arduous profession and from lack of food. He
was a man devoted to duty, but still a man, and he was unable to resist
the wiles, the charms, and the blandishments of the gay ladies whom he
met in swarms in the shadows along the empty streets and round about
pieces of waste ground; he loved them. He loved like a soldier under
arms. It tired him, but courage conquered fatigue. Though he had not yet
reached the middle of Life's way, he longed for sweet repose and
peaceful country pursuits. At the corner of the Rue Muller, on this mild
night, he stood lost in thought. He was dreaming of the house where he
was born, of the little olive wood, of his father's bit of ground, of
his old mother, bent with long and heavy labour, whom he would never see
again. Roused from his reverie by the nocturnal tumult, Inspector Grolle
turned the corner of the street, and looked rather unfavourably at the
band of loiterers, wherein his social instinct suspected enemies of law
and order. He was patient and resolute. After a lengthy silence, he
said, with awe-inspiring calm:
"Move on, there!"
But Maurice and the Japanese angel were fencing and heard nothing. The
musician heard nothing but his own melodies. Prince Istar was absorbed
in the explanation of explosive formulæ. Zita was discussing with Arcade
the greatest enterprise that had ever been conceived since the solar
system issued from its original nebula,--and thus they all remained
unconscious of their surroundings.
"Move on, I tell you!" repeated Inspector Grolle.
This time the angels heard the solemn word of warning, but either
through indifference or contempt, they neglected to obey, and continued
their talk, their songs, and their cries.
"So you want to be taken up, do you?" shouted Inspector Grolle, clapping
his great hand on Prince Istar's shoulder.
The Kerûb was indignant at this vile contact, and with one blow from his
formidable fist sent the Inspector flying into the gutter. But Constable
Fesandet was already running to his comrade's aid, and they both fell
upon the Prince, whom they belaboured with mechanic fury, and whom,
notwithstanding his strength and weight, they would perchance have
dragged all bleeding to the police station, had not the Japanese angel
overset them one after the other without effort, and reduced them to
writhing and shrieking in the mud, before Maurice, Arcade, and Zita had
time to intervene. As to the angelic musician, he stood apart trembling,
and invoked the heavens.
At this moment two bakers who were kneading their dough in a
neighbouring cellar ran out at the noise, in their white aprons,
stripped to the waist. With an instinctive feeling for social solidarity
they took the side of the downfallen police. Théophile conceived a just
fear at the sight of them, and fled away; they caught him and were about
to hand him over to the guardians of the peace, when Arcade and Zita
tore him from their hands. The fight continued, unequal and terrible,
between the two angels and the two bakers. Like an athlete of Lysippus
in strength and beauty, Arcade smothered his heavy adversary in his
arms. The beautiful archangel drove her dagger into the baker who had
attacked her. A dark stream of blood flowed down over his hairy chest,
and the two white-capped supporters of the law sank to the ground.
Constable Fesandet had fainted face downwards in the gutter. But
Inspector Grolle, who had got up, blew a blast on his whistle loud
enough to be heard at the neighbouring police-station, and sprang upon
young Maurice, who, having but one arm with which to defend himself,
fired his revolver with his left hand at the inspector, who put his hand
to his heart, staggered, and dropped down. He gave a long sigh, and the
shadows of eternity darkened his eyes.
Meanwhile, windows opened one by one, and heads looked out on the
street. A sound of heavy steps approached. Two policemen on bicycles
debouched upon the street. Thereupon Prince Istar flung a bomb which
shook the ground, put out the gas, shattered some of the houses, and
enveloped the flight of young Maurice and the angels in a dense smoke.
Arcade and Maurice came to the conclusion that the safest thing to do
after this adventure was to return to the little flat in the Rue de
Rome. They would certainly not be sought for immediately and probably
not at all, the bomb thrown by the Kerûb having fortunately wiped out
all witnesses of the affair. They fell asleep towards dawn, and they had
not yet awoke at ten o'clock in the morning when the concierge brought
their tea. While eating his toast and butter and slice of ham, young
d'Esparvieu remarked to the angel:
"I used to think that a murder was something very extraordinary. Well, I
was mistaken. It is the simplest, the most natural action in the world."
"And of most ancient tradition," replied the angel. "For long centuries
it was both usual and necessary for man to kill and despoil his fellows.
It is still recommended in warfare. It is also honourable to attempt
human life in certain definite circumstances, and people approved when
you wanted to assassinate me, Maurice, because it appeared to you that I
had been intimate with your mistress. But killing a police-inspector is
not the action of a man of fashion."
"Be silent," exclaimed Maurice, "be silent, scoundrel! I killed the poor
Inspector instinctively, not knowing what I was doing. I am grieved to
my heart about it. But it is not I, it is you who are the guilty one;
you who are the murderer. It was you who lured me along this path of
revolt and violence which leads to the pit. You have been my undoing.
You have sacrificed my peace of mind, my happiness, to your pride and
your wickedness, and all in vain; for I warn you, Arcade, you will not
succeed in what you are undertaking."
The concierge brought in the newspapers. On seeing them Maurice grew
pale. They announced the outrage in the Rue de Ramey in huge headlines:
"An Inspector killed--Two cyclist policemen and two bakers seriously
wounded--Three houses blown up, numerous victims."
Maurice let the paper drop, and said in a weak, plaintive voice:
"Arcade, why did you not slay me in the little garden at Versailles
amidst the roses, to the song of the blackbirds?"
Meanwhile terror reigned in Paris. In the public squares, and in the
crowded streets, house-wives, string-bag in hand, grew pale as they
listened to the story of the crime, and consigned the perpetrators to
the most dreadful punishment. Shop-keepers, standing at the doors of
their shops, put it all down to the anarchists, syndicalists,
socialists, and radicals, and demanded that special measures should be
taken against them.
The more thoughtful people recognized the handiwork of the Jew and the
German, and demanded the expulsion of all aliens. Many vaunted the ways
of America and advocated lynching. In addition to the printed news
sinister rumours became current. Explosions had been heard at various
places; everywhere bombs had been discovered; everywhere individuals,
taken for malefactors, had been struck down by the popular arm and given
up to justice, torn to ribbons. On the Place de la République a drunkard
who was crying "Down with the police" was torn to pieces by the crowd.
The President of the Council and Minister of Justice held long
conferences with the Prefect of Police, and they agreed to take
immediate action. In order to allay the excitement of the Parisians,
they arrested five or six hooligans out of the thirty thousand which the
Capital contains. The chief of the Russian police, believing he
recognised in this attack the methods of the Nihilists, demanded, on
behalf of his Government, that a dozen refugees should be given up. The
demand was immediately granted. Proceedings were also taken for certain
individuals to be extradited to ensure the safety of the King of Spain.
On learning of these energetic measures, Paris breathed once more, and
the evening papers congratulated the Government. There was excellent
news of the wounded. They were out of danger and identified as their
assailants all who were brought before them.
True, Inspector Grolle was dead; but two Sisters of Mercy kept vigil at
his side, and the President of the Council came and laid the Cross of
Honour on the breast of this victim of duty.
At night there were panics. In the Avenue de la Révolte the police,
noticing a travelling acrobat's caravan on a piece of waste ground, took
it for the retreat of a band of robbers. They whistled for help, and
when they were a goodly number, attacked the caravan. Some worthy
citizens joined them; fifteen thousand revolver-shots were fired, the
caravan was blown up with dynamite, and among the débris they found the
corpse of a monkey.


CHAPTER XXXIV