Kitabı oku: «The Double Life», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXXIV
M. Mifroid Performs on the Stage
ONE would never have expected to drop from one of the numberless ways in the catacombs into a city of twenty thousand inhabitants. However, upon reflection, one would wonder why men, taken out of their natural environment, would not be susceptible to the same natural changes as the animals.
Arajo relates to us how he saw flocks of blind ducks come out of the caverns of the subterranean lake of Zirhnitz. One is bound to believe that these ducks were the products of ducks which once saw clearly, but which were shut up by some accident in the bowels of the earth, in the midst of obscure waters. And so there is some logic in the theory that if the family of a man in the first years of the fourteenth century was by accident confined in the catacombs, it would live there and produce offspring. At the end of the third generation they would have forgotten the existence of the open world. Of course they would continue to speak the language, and as no strange element would mix with it, it would preserve its purity through centuries.
Then in the darkness they would lose the use of their eyes, but develop their sense of touch as blind men do. Hence the excess of digits on their hands and feet. Then the loss of one sense always develops all the other senses in proportion. After centuries these super-developed senses become abnormal, and the nose and ears develop accordingly in size.
And so it was with these people of the Talfa. Their features had developed to an extraordinary extent, and their idea of beauty in the human form was based on the excessive development of these features. Demoiselle de Coucy was considered the most beautiful of all the Talfa.
They had entered the large meeting room, and M. Mifroid attempted to again light his lamp, but the crowd cried out in such disgust that he was persuaded to keep it out. He endeavored to converse with those near by. Their names were among the most illustrious in France at the time of the Battle of Crecy. But they addressed themselves in a tone so ineffably sweet, and all the uproar they tried to make resulted in an enchanting murmur. It was difficult to imagine that such sweet and honeyed words could emanate from such ugly beings.
M. Mifroid was seated on a chair next to Lady Jane de Montfort, who continually felt his face and touched his ears. While her curiosity was great she approached him with such delicate gracefulness that he hadn’t the heart to restrain her.
Soon there was a great silence, and a concert began. To Mifroid and Théophraste nothing was to be heard. Occasionally the people applauded quietly, but the absolute silence of the performers was a striking feature. Not a word was heard.
Soon there was much talking again around the two men, and they learned that it was intended that they should go down on the stage. This was the reason why they had been dragged to the meeting hall. They were to be exhibited as a phenomenon. Théophraste willingly consented, as his companion had promised him a good duck for dinner. M. Mifroid was not so easily persuaded, but at last acquiesced, and they descended to the stage. They all clamored for a song, and M. Mifroid started one of the old French songs of the fourteenth century, which he had learned as a boy. He had hardly started the first verse, when everybody in the hall called out for him to sing lower.
He started again, this time moderating his voice, but again they called to him to sing lower. The third time he could hardly hear himself, so low was his voice, but this did not satisfy his audience, and he left the platform with his song unfinished. He afterward learned that the sense of hearing of these people was so developed that they could understand silent music.
CHAPTER XXXVI
A New Trade
AFTER the concert the party went out of the hall, and passed on to a striking mansion in which a sumptuous repast was served. M. Mifroid had by this time become quite intimate with the Lady de Montfort. He confessed that he was unable to withstand the allurements of the lady. It must not be forgotten that the darkness was most conducive to the failure of all his honorable intentions. However, we will not dilate upon what happened, but Mme. de Montfort weakened him with her caresses and M. Mifroid at last succumbed to the temptation. After a while she slept, and he opened the door and went out.
Although they had been among the Talfa several hours, neither M. Mifroid nor Théophraste had had the inclination to see what kind of habitation they were in. Weakness and the great crowd of Talfa had prevented them.
M. Théophraste had conducted himself in such a manner during the meal, eating everything to excess, that he had had to be carried out. It was done according to the directions of Mme. de Coucy, who, it is feared, would not at that time have carried on her love intrigues.
Now M. Mifroid found himself alone, and he decided to investigate. As he went out of the room, he realized that he was in a subterranean city.
That which struck him most was the total absence of doors. All the shops were open to the passers-by, and the most precious articles as well as the poorest were exposed for any one to take who wished.
He was very much amused by the profusion of the columns, by the incredible carving in the friezes, by the reliefs and sculptured caps to the pillars. They were so extravagantly flowered, with the lines so intricate, that only a master hand could have worked them. A curious point about all this work was that it only reached as high as a man could touch. Above that point the design mixed in with the vaulting of the catacombs and was left to the imagination. But whatever was seen of this beautiful carving could only be compared with the marvels worked by the early sculptors of India or the ivory-carvers of Burma.
In the search M. Mifroid did not come upon any large building. He had frequently heard Mademoiselle say: “Ah, St. Mary!” And so he tried to find some temple in order to find out what their religion was. His search, however, was in vain. The only building of any size was the concert hall where they had been earlier. It was certainly more wonderful than all the rest, but except for this one example all the architectural marvels were applied to the private buildings. The meanest aperture, the poorest door, were little gems of art. There were no statues in the squares.
M. Mifroid was just starting back to his lady’s house, when he met a party of young Talfa, armed with cross-bows. “Ah!” thought he, “here are the guards.” He was, however, quickly undeceived, for they had smelled the odor from his lamp, and they came up to him. They told him they were going for a hunt. The hunting season started every year on the rising of the waters of the great lake. At this time there were always a lot of rats, which were killed in thousands and used for many different things in the Talfa households.
Thanks to the directions they had given him, he soon found his way back to Lady de Montfort’s house. There he found her waiting at the window, and as soon as he got near her, she waved her handkerchief.
They were soon in conversation again, and he found out that she was not married.
She asked him what he did on the top of the earth, and he told her he was a commissioner of police. She listened intently, and asked what Théophraste did.
“He is a robber,” said M. Mifroid.
Evidently neither a commissioner of police nor a robber was known among the Talfa, and soon the news spread that the two strangers had unknown trades, and a great crowd gathered, who begged them to show them what they did on earth.
M. Mifroid sent to fetch Théophraste.
CHAPTER XXXVI
A Robber is Caught
WHEN Théophraste was brought up to M. Mifroid, he was in a pitiful condition. He had given himself up to the worst debauchery, and was still under the influence of his excesses.
However, M. Mifroid explained to him what was required of him. He had to demonstrate to the Talfa people the duties of a police commissioner, and Théophraste was to act the robber and be arrested. However, owing to Théophraste’s condition, M. Mifroid had his misgivings as to the result of this practical demonstration.
The crowd by this time had assumed enormous proportions, and by special permission an electric lamp was lit. All present held their noses as if the lamp smelled.
Then M. Mifroid instructed Théophraste. He told him to run into a store and take some things, and run out. This was an easy matter, as none of the stores had doors, and Théophraste commenced to act the robber. He ran into a hatter’s and seized all sorts of rat-skin caps. He instinctively put them under his coat, and hid them about his person, looking furtively around him in a most natural way.
All this time the people around the store looked on noiselessly. No one said anything and not the least sign of surprise was shown. One man at length said: “Look at that fellow providing himself with hats for a year. It was then that M. Mifroid came upon the scene, and seizing Théophraste by the arm, said in his most official tone: “In the name of the law, I arrest you!”
This did not produce the desired effect, as the people still preserved their dumbness, and did not appear at all impressed.
Mlle. de Coucy asked M. Mifroid what he meant by “In the name of the law.” But as the Talfa people had no law, he found it difficult to explain.
He told her how the police was an institution to protect the person and property of peaceable citizens. They were the guardians of the law. He, however, could not make them understand, as they thought Théophraste had a right to the hats.
Lady de Montfort explained that they had no need of laws to protect the state, as they had no state, nor the property, as they had no property, and as individuals never conflicted no law was necessary to protect persons. All the Talfa people did was to hunt for their food and make clothing from the skins of rats. Marriage to them was a prehistoric institution which appeared unworthy of the human state. They only half believed its existence as a sacred legend. Their unions were of a very liberal nature, and did not require any ceremony or oath. Consequently they lived together peacefully and happily.
A curious feature of these Talfa people was the entire absence of any code of morals. There was no difference made between a virtuous woman and one of loose habits. Everybody lived on the same footing and enjoyed the same privileges. Things happened according to taste and temperament, and nobody thought anything about it. Thus conflicts of passion were reduced to a minimum. No one had rights, as no one possessed anything.
Thus lived the Talfa people. No laws, no trouble, and no police commissioners.
CHAPTER XXXVII
The Escape from the Catacombs
M. THEOPHRASTE LONGUET had by this time quite forgotten the ties which bound him to the world above, and while M. Mifroid was abandoning himself to the fancies of Lady de Montfort, he was indulging in excesses of debauchery with the Talfa people.
The time came when M. Mifroid became tired of this kind of life. They had been in the catacombs three weeks and had become acquainted with the habits of all the Talfa people. M. Mifroid longed to get into the open world, where people had public affairs and a properly organized society. He felt confused, and a feeling of weariness came over him.
Théophraste was for stopping there altogether. He said he had never had such a time before. He had been playing the tricks of Cartouche on the Talfa people, and he felt more free in spirits than he had felt on earth. He was so persistent In his determination to stay that M. Mifroid decided to appeal to Mlle, de Coucy. He felt that Théophraste was a nuisance to the Talfa, and the best way to get him out was to appeal to the people themselves. Théophraste had even suggested putting out his own eyes to be like these people.
Upon telling Mlle, de Coucy, however, he got a totally different answer than he expected. She told him that the Talfa people had decided to let them go as soon as twenty thousand people had passed their fingers over their faces. She explained that the Talfa had forever been trying to get into the upper world, and therefore they must all visit these men from the coveted realms and see what they looked like before their departure.
M. Mifroid calculated that it would take some time to complete this ceremony, and so he devised a plan by which they could deceive the people and escape. They were never long alone, and all day and all night fingers were feeling their faces and were thrust into their eyes, nose or mouth. It was during these operations one night that M. Mifroid devised his plan of escape. He would utilize his powers as a sculptor.
Obtaining some clay from the bed of the lake he modeled two masks like those of the Talfa people with large noses and ears. Then under the pretense of acquiescing in Théophraste’s wishes, who dreamed only of becoming a Talfa, he put one of the masks on his face, and the other he wore himself. The deception was perfect, and although they met several Talfa they were not recognized, in spite of much finger feeling.
M. Mifroid took the precaution of providing himself with food, and they both started out. Théophraste laughed with delight at the bold deception, and in his merriment he did not realize that M. Mifroid had led him out of the domains of the Talfa. They walked for five days. Their eyes had by this time become accustomed to the darkness, and they were able to make good headway. On the fifth day they came across some human bones, and M. Mifroid uttered a prayer of thankfulness, for here were signs of a civilized people. They were on the outskirts of the city of Ossarium.
Théophraste had been in a very depressed state of mind since leaving the Talfa. He had continually reproached M. Mifroid for getting him away. Upon coming upon the first signs of human existence, M. Mifroid drew his attention to them and declared that in a short time they would be out in the light of day again.
Soon they came across a skull with the signs of a candle near it, showing Catholic burial, then the gallery seemed to dip down, the ground became wet, and they found themselves wading through mire. Water dripped on them from crevices above, and the air became cold and damp. At last M. Mifroid recognized a part of the gallery, and again he sent a prayer up to heaven for his deliverance.
There was a Latin inscription cut out of the rock: “Ossa arida audite verbum Domini,” which M. Mifroid recognized as being near an entrance to the catacombs.
They had not proceeded far when voices were heard, and they found themselves in a large vault. This was a very different place than the hall of the Talfa, though. There were ordinary human beings here. Through the whole length of the hall chairs were arranged. The place was lit up by numerous candles enclosed in human skulls. At the end was a kind of rotunda where evidently the musicians sat, for a large circle of music-stands were arranged. A number of people were present getting ready for a feast. No one took any notice of the two strangers, as it was thought that they were invited guests, and they strolled through, watching the proceedings. Soon the musicians began to arrive one by one, and the people sat around making pleasantries, and passing the time away in talk. It was half-past one.
It was indeed a curious sight. Here down among the dead, with coffins and bones all around, had assembled a crowd to listen to music, and to make revelry. Fifty musicians had assembled, among whom M. Mifroid recognized many of the orchestra of the Opera House.
Soon the music started, Chopin’s “Dead March” being the first piece. After listening for some time M. Mifroid tapped Théophraste on the shoulder, whispering to him that it was time to go. They hurried along, and ten minutes later they found themselves on the earth again.
They walked together for about half an hour, neither uttering a word. They were both thinking what a wonderful experience they had gone through. The Talfa nation, with its peculiar habits, had impressed them wonderfully, and neither wished to disturb the other in contemplation of it all.
Suddenly Théophraste said: “What are you waiting for, M. Mifroid? Do you intend to arrest me?”
M. Mifroid had, in the emotion of the moment, forgotten his original mission. He, however, had become very friendly with Théophraste in the catacombs, in spite of his excesses, and so, now that he was confronted with the necessity of arresting him, he said: “No, my friend, I shall not arrest you. My mission was to arrest Cartouche, but as Cartouche is no more, I cannot arrest him. Besides, you, M. Longuet, are my friend.”
They then parted at the Buci Crossway.
CHAPTER XXXVII
An Old Friend
AFTER the footsteps of M. Mifroid had died away, M. Longuet remained standing at the street corner. A feeling of intense sadness and loneliness had come over him. He could not decide on whether to go back to his wife or to leave her altogether. But what would he do? If he left her he would have no home, and he would be an outcast from the world. He wandered for a long time through the streets, until he found himself opposite a door in the Rue Suger. He rang the bell and a man in a blouse and paper cap opened the door in response.
“Good-evening, Ambrose,” said Théophraste. “Are you up at this hour? I would not have disturbed you, but many things have happened since I last saw you.”
He had not seen him since the evening he came to ask his opinion on the watermark on the old paper.
“Come in,” said Ambrose cordially. “Make yourself at home. How are all the folks at home?” “I will tell you all to-morrow. What I want now is some sound sleep. I am tired out.”
Ambrose showed him his own bed, and soon Théophraste was stretched out and asleep.
The following day Ambrose tried to get some news from Théophraste, who, however, observed an absolute silence, and would not be persuaded to say a word. He was like a dumb man. He passed his time for two days in examining words and papers, which filled his pockets, and in writing, but always without saying a word.
One morning as he was preparing to go out, Ambrose asked him: “Where are you going?”
“I am going to see M. Mifroid about the details of a trip we took together, and of which you will learn when I am dead.”
“You are going to kill yourself?”
“Oh, no. There is no use in doing that. I shall die soon enough. But I shall come to your house to die, my dear Ambrose. After going to see M. Mifroid, I shall go to see my wife.”
“I did not dare to ask about her. Your sadness and silence made me fear some domestic trouble. It is all so inexplicable.”
“She still loves me,” said Théophraste.
Before letting him go, Ambrose made him change his underclothes, and lent him a clean shirt, as he said he could not see his wife decently in the rags he was in at present.
“I will put it on,” said Théophraste, “for my own sake, as my wife won’t see it. I’m not going near her. I shall only see her from a distance. I only want to learn if she is happy.”
CHAPTER XXXIX
The Final Tragedy
IT was nine o’clock in the evening, the season was well advanced, and a heavy mist hung over the land. M. Longuet went up the long drive toward the “Villa Flots de Azure.” His hand trembled as he cautiously pushed open the little garden gate. He crossed the garden step by step, to look around. His whole demeanor was one of evil intent. There was a light in the parlor, and the window was half open. With short steps Théophraste advanced, and stretching his head he peered in.
He fell back groaning. Placing his hands over his face, he tore the white locks on his forehead. The sight had frenzied him, and he felt a pang of agonizing jealousy go through his frame.
Marceline and Adolphe were there, locked in affectionate embrace! This is what he had come to see! His wife no doubt was happy, but in quite a different way from what he expected.
He sat down on the ground and wept with rage. Rising, his curiosity forced him to get nearer and listen.
What he heard only made him worse, and he inwardly felt that he was about to commit a great crime. However, he battled against this feeling, and ran away from the house. Something compelled him to return!
In a state of sanguinary expectation, comparable to nothing in the history of crimes, he again retraced his steps, found himself in the garden again, and without waiting to look in he bounded into the parlor.
M. Lecamus and Marceline were taken aback, and both uttered a cry of surprise. Their surprise was soon turned to terror, as Théophraste, seizing some stout cord, ran to Adolphe, and with superhuman strength and agility bound him hand and foot. Dragging him to the hall, he tied him to a newel post and left him. It was all done with such lightning speed that Adolphe hadn’t the time to resist the first attack, and he was as a child in the ferocious grip of Théophraste.
Turning around he ran to the sitting-room, and seized an old sword that was hanging on the wall. Marceline in her terror called to Lecamus to mind his ears. She feared that he would undergo the same treatment as Signor Petito. However, nothing was further from Théophraste’s thoughts, for turning on Marceline he struck her down with one blow. Two seconds later he was holding her head up to Adolphe, saying: “Haste thee now to kiss these lips while they are still warm.”
Adolphe could do nothing, so he touched the lips of the dead woman, and then fell in a faint.
Théophraste ran upstairs, and brought down from the garret an old trunk, and in less than twenty-five minutes he had the body of Marceline cut up and placed in it. He closed the trunk with a key, and putting it over his shoulder he said good-by to Lecamus. However, he might have said good-by to the door-post, for Lecamus was in a dead faint and choking from the cords around his neck.
Théophraste and the trunk disappeared in the darkness.
That same night one could have seen a man on a barge in the Seine discharging the contents of a trunk into the river. They could also have heard him murmur: “My poor Marceline, my poor Marceline! It was not your fault.”
At dawn Théophraste knocked at Ambrose’s door. Ambrose saw that he was greatly agitated, and asked him in sympathetic tones what had happened.
Théophraste could not reply. His tongue seemed riveted to his mouth. He crawled to the bed, and, lying down, wept.
At last Ambrose was able to console him sufficiently to get these few words from him: “I felt the flame of murder pass through my veins. The impulse to kill had returned to me after centuries. The same impulse that had made me decapitate my faithless wife, Marie Antoinette Neron, two hundred years previously, and to throw her body into the river. I forgive M. Lecamus. When I am dead go and look for him and tell him that I name him my testamentary executor. I leave him all my worldly goods. He will know what to do with the little oaken chest, in which is locked the terrible secrets of the last months of my sad life.” Having said these words, Théophraste raised himself on the pillow, for the oppression increased, and he knew that the end was near. His look was no longer of this world. His gaze was fixed on some imaginary object far away, and in a doleful voice he said: “I have seen-I see-I turn again toward the square ray of light.”
And he expired!
