Paris Before the Deluge Page 16

  The street was full of a compact crowd of men, women and children, who were following a banner carried by men who were affecting the utmost gravity.

  It was a deputation of the Club of Me-nu-tcheans, going to the seat of government to present a petition. That petition was grave, and threatened a new revolution if it were sustained, for it demanded laws—the laws discussed in the clubs a few days before—and the laws were not those decreed by the present government.

  “The imbeciles!” said Atlas, ill-humoredly, coming away from the window. “That’s how they want to govern, with mobs?”

  As he turned around he found himself face to face with a man who had just knocked on the door and come into the room at the same time. It was the innkeeper Elasippe’s customer. His face was distraught; his clothes were in disorder, as if he had just been in a fight.

  “Save me, sir!” he said, as he came in. “Save me from the savagery of those men!”

  The savagery of which the newcomer was complaining was the brutality of a few strapping adolescents whom the procession of petitioners had excited, and who had thought it a good idea to take out the seething of their ill will on the back of the poor man, whose appearance had aggravated them.

  “Who are you?” Atlas asked him.

  “An exile sir,” replied the newcomer, frankly and nobly, whose emotion had calmed down.

  At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Atlas shoved the newcomer swiftly into a corner to hide him from indiscreet gazes and then went to open up. An unknown hand, which immediately disappeared, handed him a message.

  That message was from Nimrod.

  After having read it, Atlas went to dart a glance into the street, and then came back to the exile. “I won’t ask you who you are, Sir Exile,” he said, “and I don’t want to know where you’re going. The street is calm now; you can leave in complete safety.”

  The exile held out his hand, which Atlas shook willingly, and then he left.

  A few moments later, Atlas went out in his turn.

  XII. A Revenant

  If agitation reigned in the wretched room of the Me-nu-tchean Atlas, it was no less great in the rich house of Lord Speos. Two men were conversing there in low voices, in a study.

  One of them, Speos himself, had pale, contracted features. His eyes were almost continuously lowered toward the ground, as if in a profound reverie. The other, holding his head high, was smiling sardonically, only replying with a few brief and sententious remarks, which sometimes caused the Me-nu-tchean lord to stamp his feet with impatience, who would have preferred clear and precise advice in response to his question.

  Long intervals of silence fell between them, during which each of them devoted himself to his own thoughts.

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor leading to the study caused them both to turn toward the door, on which someone soon knocked.

  “It’s him!” they said, in unison, each darting a glance at the other, one painted with embarrassment, the other with hope.

  At the same time, the door opened.

  It was Atlas.

  Atlas came in, clutching the note that he had just received from Nimrod.

  “Welcome, Atlas,” said Speos, in a hypocritical tone that the young man did not notice.

  “Sit down,” Nimrod said to him, offering him a chair and placing him between his master and himself.

  “My dear friend,” said Speos, “you probably know that some of our people have decided to present a petition—strongly supported, as you must be aware—to the effect of obtaining a definitive democratic government, which ought to provide the Pah-ri-ziz with progressive laws, with which you’re familiar, since they emerge from our club. We would also like there to be at least one man in the council of that government on our side, purely in the interests of the proletariat. That man will be you. Would you like that, Atlas?”

  “Me!” said Atlas, coming to his feet proudly and throwing back his luxuriant hair. “Me! Oh, then they wouldn’t any longer say: that miserable peasant, that nameless child of the little people! I could finally be the equal of everyone. I’d be a man, a citizen. They wouldn’t any longer kick me aside, like social refuse. Yes, yes, citizen, I’d like that—I’d like that very much!”

  “It shall be,” said Speos, darting a knowing look at Nimrod.

  “On one condition, however,” Nimrod added, looking at his master slyly.

  “No, no, no conditions,” said Speos.

  “But after all,” Nimrod went on, “Atlas has at least to support our laws, the laws of those who have put him in the council. He won’t be speaking against his conscience; he’ll be speaking on behalf of everyone in supporting the law of proscription, the law against the resistant aristocrats.”

  “I’ll support it, I swear!” Atlas replied. “Oh yes, I swear it to support it with all my might!”

  “You shall be in the council then,” said Speos. “Everything has been prepared for that. May Me-nu-tche, our glorious patron, come to our aid! Au revoir, then, Atlas! Count on us, as we’re counting on you. Justice will, therefore, finally be a verity among the Pah-ri-ziz.”

  Speos got up to shake Atlas’ hand as he left. Nimrod escorted the future councilor to the exit door, while Speos rubbed his hands in glee; he was counting on a rude fighter in favor of his projects.

  “You’ll demand even more in the government council, Atlas,” said Nimrod, as they were about to part. “You’ll demand the division of lands—that’s the true justice. Anyway, we’ll discuss all that between ourselves, without saying anything to Speos, who still has a few scruples of caste...”

  As he went back in, Nimrod said to himself; “What does it matter to me whether the law confiscates the wealth of resistant lords! What matters to me is that the law threatens to despoil Speos of the wealth he’s stolen from the exile Mo-kie-thi, whose death is uncertain, but whose exile definite...”

  When Nimrod went back into Speos’ study, he said: “I said a few more words to him, for he might yet have scruples, that integral revolutionary.”

  He had scarcely pronounced those last words, when a man appeared on the threshold of the study, the sight of whom caused Lord Speos to recoil in fear and stammer: “Help me, Nimrod! It’s him!”

  Nimrod smiled, and did not appear to hear him. He left Speos alone with the newcomer.

  The newcomer was the innkeeper Elasippe’s customer, the exile who had obtained momentary shelter from Atlas. It was Lord Mo-kie-thi.

  Mo-kie-thi extended his hand to Speos with an appearance of affection, which restored a little confidence to the frightened man’s heart.

  “Good day, my dear fellow!” he said.

  “It’s really you, then!” exclaimed Speos, in a halting voice.

  “As you can see, full of life and health.”

  “It’s truly prodigious, for in eighteen years...it has been eighteen years, I believe...”

  “At least.”

  “In the eighteen years since you left, you’ve never given us any news—and in truth, I thought you were dead.”

  “I’ve noticed that—you’ve forced me to live on the enemy, forgetting the address of my correspondent bankers.”

  “You’ve done very well: a brave man, a soldier,” said Speos, adopting a bantering tone and only responding to a part of his old friend’s observation.

  “Oh yes, you can joke,” Mo-kie-thi retorted, “And I’m almost tempted to laugh myself, since the misery is past. It’s true nonetheless that I’ve cursed you more than once for not having sent me a single pah-ri-ziz sou, while my property, thank God, hasn’t been devastated and my houses haven’t been burned. I left, as you know full well, enough to nourish myself out there, and my son here. My son! You haven’t mentioned him...”

  “Your son!” stammered Speos.

  “He must he strong, tall, full of valor and chivalry,” the visitor went on, confidently. “Oh, the blood of the Mo-kie-thi never fails. But where is he?”

  “Your son!” said Speos agai
n, with an embarrassment full of anxiety.

  “Yes, by Sylax, my son! In truth, you’re frightening me, Speos. Where is he, then?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead! But that’s impossible! I don’t believe it.”

  “He died not long after your departure.”

  “No, no, no!” retorted Mo-kie-thi, vehemently. “He’s not dead! I don’t believe it, I tell you. He’s alive, he’s handsome, tall, strong, well-built—but you want to surprise me. How much gratitude I owe you, my friend, for all the care you’ve given him! Anyway, we’ll talk about that later, because I know that you’ve experienced losses.”

  “Losses! Someone’s misinformed you, Mo-kie-thi.”

  “So much the better, my dear fellow, so much the better if they’ve misinformed me. That error won’t affect the extent of my gratitude in your regard.”

  Mo-kie-thi was speaking with so much confidence and such great bonhomie, that Speos was utterly confused.

  “Oh, at any rate,” Mo-Kie-thi went on, looking at his watch, “I’ll leave you. You might need to go to the club at present.”

  “The club! Yes, I go there sometimes,” Speos replied, in a sly tone that clearly revealed that he understood his friend’s malicious intention.

  “Oh, it’s fashionable, I know,” said Lord Mo-kie-thi. “Who doesn’t go to the club? It’s good form—I don’t reproach you for it. Your club, however, doesn’t seem to me to be handling things very well. Perhaps it’s to the club that I owe the strict incognito in which I’m living.”

  “And which I advise you not to give up any time soon,” the renegade Speos retorted, swiftly. “So I offer you, for greater safety, a refuge with me—the refuge of friendship.”

  “Bah! No need! I’m no longer afraid. At first, I allowed myself to be influenced by the advice of an excessive prudence, but now…oh! What about my son?” Mo-kie-thi added, reverting abruptly to that notion. “When and where shall I see him? For in truth, I’m impatient…the poor child!”

  “As I told you, he died at least seventeen years ago.”

  “Seriously?” said Mo-kie-thi, looking at his friend incredulously. “My son is dead?”

  “He’s dead,” replied Speos, sadly.

  “Well,” said Mo-kie-thi, in a quiet voice, “shall I tell you something? I thought you were a true friend, and I was mistaken.”

  Speos looked at his old friend stupidly, and made no reply.

  “Yes,” Mo-kie-thi continued, “I was mistaken. Either my son isn’t dead, or you’ve killed him in order to take possession of my property, because you thought I had died too, in my distant travels, or in the fire in Me-nu-tche...” Fixing his piercing eyes on Speos’ troubled eyes, he added: “You know—the fire in Nirvana’s house at Me-nu-tche.” After a momentary pause, he went on: “Yes, you’ve killed my son, doubtless with the hope of having his death forgotten one day, in the turbulence of the times, and perhaps also of having the father murdered. One sees that sometimes.”

  “Me! Ridiculous!” replied Speos, stupidly, not having the strength to adopt the tone of indignation appropriate to the crimes of which he was being accused.

  “Au revoir, Speos,” said Mo-kie-thi, bowing respectfully before his so-called friend. “Prepare your accounts without too much faith in the power of your club. Its voice isn’t yet so loud that it can stifle the voice of the law of the land. Au revoir!”

  And Mo-kie-thi left, leaving Speos paralyzed by a puerile fear.

  “Nimrod! Nimrod!” he shouted, then.

  Nimrod appeared in response to his master’s voice, as the evil spirit, according to ancient legends, appears in response to the voice of a sorcerer.

  “Did you see that man, Nimrod?” said Lord Speos.

  “Yes, Master,” Nimrod replied, coldly.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Of course.”

  “He wants his property.”

  “What! You’re his heir.”

  “Give me other advice.”

  “It’s necessary, my lord...”

  “Enough! I want advice that will rid me of that man,” said Speos, making a great effort, and turning his back on his servant.

  “I’ll get rid of him for you, Master.”

  “Good! But never mention it to me again.”

  Lord Speos went out. Nimrod did not follow him.

  XIII. Memories and Projects

  Nimrod went to knock very discreetly on the door of Ludia’s room, which opened. He went in with as much precaution as he was received, as if both of them would be taking a great risk if they were found together.

  “What do you want?” said Lord Speos’ wife, who did not know what to think about the mystery with which Nimrod was coming to see her, and who was always afraid when she found herself alone with him.

  “What do I want?” said Nimrod. “I want to talk to Ludia.” Smiling, he added: “Tell Lady Speos, I beg you, to leave us alone.”

  “Well, speak!”

  “Do you remember a terrible night some eighteen years ago, if not nineteen, or even more—I don’t know exactly—when you were suffering so much, when your father was perhaps cursing you, but was certainly cursing the child that you had brought into the world and your seducer?”

  “Well?” replied Ludia, trembling with anxiety and fright at that beginning.

  “Don’t worry, Lady Speos, I’m only talking to Ludia,” said Nimrod, unemotionally. “Do you remember that, a few days later, I handed you a letter from…oh, my God, from your lover?” Nimrod’s voice took on a malevolent inflection. “Your lover, who had left...”

  “Get to the point!” snapped Ludia, quivering as much with indignation as impatience.

  “You promised before me to be faithful to him, to wait for him, even though he’d left on a long voyage—because he swore to return.”

  “Well, then?” said Ludia, impatiently.

  “As you were very young, as he was married, as your father cursed him and wished him dead...”

  “Nimrod!” protested the poor woman in a muffled voice, going frightfully pale.

  “You have waited.”

  Ludia lowered her head on to her bosom. Her arms fell convulsively to her sides, and she threw herself into a chair, her eyes haggard, her heart swollen and her lungs breathless.

  Nimrod took a step toward her and continued, tranquilly: “Well, Madame, your father is dead; you have come of age; and your lover has come back without his wife.”

  “What did you say?” Ludia cried, vehemently, raising her eyes, full of anxiety, to look at her interlocutor.

  “I said that Lord Mo-kie-thi has come back, and he believes you to be free, unless someone has told him otherwise.”

  “Ah!” said Ludia, with a profound sigh.

  “Yes,” said Nimrod, insouciantly. “But the strangest thing about all this, and perhaps the most troublesome, is that the pact that he made with his friend, now your husband...”

  “What pact?” asked Ludia, who seemed to have lost her memory.

  “Yes, you know very well. Mo-kie-thi had a son.”

  “Oh, yes, I know—but he died a long time ago.”

  “No, he didn’t die.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “In truth, I don’t know, but it might be better if he were dead.”

  “Enough! I understand. Oh, my God, my God! No, it’s not true—he died long ago, I tell you.”

  “He didn’t die, any more than his father—but he was singularly inconvenient, and the father is even more inconvenient now.”

  Lady Speos got up and launched herself at Nimrod as if moved by electricity. He seized her arms with an astonishing strength.

  “Nimrod!” she cried, in a distraught voice, approaching her face to the impassive face of her torturer. “Nimrod!”

  “It wasn’t me who said that the child was dead, Madame. As for the father, it’s to me that he’s confided the case of sending him away…into exile.”

  “Into exile! To death, you mean! Oh
, it won’t be Nimrod, my good Nimrod, who does that.” Ludia seized her servant’s hand ardently and covered it with kisses.

  “Yes and no,” replied Nimrod, phlegmatically, not scorning the lady’s expansive tenderness.

  “Explain yourself,” said Ludia, anxiously.

  “No, if that’s what you want.”

  “If that’s what I want! But I don’t want my husband to commit a crime.”

  “If I don’t do it,” Nimrod retorted, “your husband is doomed.”

  “Doomed? Why?”

  “At any rate, he’s doomed,” said Nimrod.

  “Oh, that can’t be. I want to see Mo-kie-thi. I want to see him. Where is he?”

  “Write a few words to him. I’ll give them to him.”

  “Write! No!”

  “Oh, just a few words. ‘Come this evening’…or tomorrow evening, if you prefer… ‘at such-and-such a time’…eleven, or midnight, perhaps, to be safer… ‘I have to talk to you.’ Sign it: ‘Ludia.’ I’ll be watching, close at hand.”

  “And Speos? My intentions are pure, Nimrod, I swear by the three divine friends. But if Speos were to find out...”

  “He won’t know anything. Madame must be aware of my devotion to her.”

  Ludia started to write, while her perfidious servant, putting his hands together, raised his eyes to the heavens, as if to give thanks for the good fortune it had sent.

  “Oh, by the way,” he said, interrupting the lady. “I don’t have any news of your son yet.”

  “Oh, I’ve given up asking,” Ludia replied. “You’ve refused so many times to give me the information I want, and have humiliated my maternal love so many times, that I would never have dared to address any further questions to you on that subject.”

  “I am, however, still much occupied in his regard. I believe that it will soon be permitted to me, finally, to present him to you, as I’m desirous of so doing.”

  “Sylax by blessed!” said the poor mother, shivering with pleasure, and cheerfully sealing the letter, which she handed to Nimrod.