Thursday's Serial: “Sous le Soleil de Satan” by George Bernanos (in French) - the end

 Chapitre XIII

Sourire magique ! La vieille église, attiédie par le jour, respire autour de lui, d’une lente haleine ; une odeur de pierre antique et de bois vermoulu, aussi secrète que celle de la futaie profonde, glisse au long des piliers trapus, erre en brouillard sur les dalles mal jointes ou s’amasse dans les coins sombres, pareille à une eau dormante. Un renfoncement du sol, l’angle d’un mur, une niche vide la recueille comme dans une ornière de granit. Et la lueur rouge de la veilleuse, au loin, vers l’autel, ressemble au fanal sur un étang solitaire.

Saint-Marin flaire avec délice cette nuit campagnarde, entre des murailles du xvie siècle, pleines du parfum de tant de saisons. Il a gagné le côté droit de la nef, se ramasse à l’extrémité d’un banc de chêne, dur et cordial ; une lampe de cuivre, au bout d’un fil de fer, se balance au-dessus, avec un grincement léger. Par intervalles une porte bat. Et, lorsque tout va faire silence, peut-être, ce sont les vitraux poussiéreux qui grelottent dans leur résille de plomb, au trot d’un cheval, sur la route.

— À cette heure, se dit-il, le docteur chavranchais et son insupportable compagnon trottent je ne sais où, s’écartent juste assez pour me permettre de jouir en paix d’une heure parfaite !… (Car il croit volontiers à ces politesses du hasard, à des accords mystérieux.) Cette église, ce silence, les jeux de l’ombre… Voyons ! tout est à lui… tout l’attendait. Au moins, qu’ils ne reviennent pas trop tôt, souhaite-t-il.

Ils ne reviendront pas trop tôt.

(Les mourants connaissent bien leurs désirs, mais ils se taisent sur toutes choses, disait Mécislas Golberg, ce vieux juif.)

L’angoisse de l’éminent maître s’est dissipée peu à peu dans le grand silence intérieur qu’il a si rarement connu. Mille souvenirs s’y allument, pareils aux petites lumières d’une ville nocturne. Sa mémoire les repasse et jouit de leur confusion, de leur désordre enivrant. À travers les limites tracées par nos calendriers, comme les ans, les jours, les heures, s’appellent et se répondent !… Un clair matin de vacances, où retentit le beau son de cuivre d’une bassine à confitures…, un soir où coule une eau limpide et glacée, sous un feuillage immobile…, le regard surpris d’une cousine blonde, à travers la table familiale, et la petite poitrine haletante…, et puis tout à coup — le demi-siècle franchi d’un bond — les premières morsures de la vieillesse, un rendez-vous dénoué…, le grand amour, chèrement gardé, pas à pas défendu, disputé, jusqu’à la dernière minute, lorsque les lèvres du vieil amoureux pressent une bouche mobile et furtive, demain féroce… C’est là sa vie — tout ce que le temps épargne — qui dans son passé garde encore forme et figure ; le reste n’est rien, son œuvre, ni la gloire. L’effort de cinquante années, sa carrière illustre, trente livres célèbres… Hé quoi ! cela compte-t-il si peu ?… Que de niais vont s’écriant que l’art… Quel art ? Le merveilleux jongleur en connaît seulement les servitudes. Il l’a porté comme un fardeau. L’harmonieux bavard qui n’a parlé que de lui ne s’est pas exprimé une fois. L’univers, qui croit l’aimer, ne sait que ce qui le déguise. Il est exilé de ses livres et, par avance, dépossédé… Tant de lecteurs, pas un ami !

Il n’en éprouve d’ailleurs nul regret. La certitude qu’il échappe ainsi pour toujours, qu’on n’aura de lui qu’un simulacre, fait briller son regard malicieux. Le meilleur de son œuvre ne mérite pas d’autre conclusion que cette plaisanterie in extremis. Il ne souhaite aucun disciple. Ceux qui l’entourent sont des ennemis. Impuissants à renouveler un charme, une gentillesse dont leur maître eut le secret, ils se contentent de pasticher adroitement son style. Leurs plus grandes audaces sont dans l’ordre de la grammaire. « Ils démontent mes paradoxes, dit-il, mais ils ne savent pas les remonter. » La jeunesse décimée, qui vit Péguy couché dans les chaumes, à la face de Dieu, s’éloigne avec dégoût du divan où la supercritique polit ses ongles. Elle laisse à Narcisse le soin de raffiner encore sur sa délicate impuissance. Mais elle hait déjà, de toutes les forces de son génie, les plus robustes et les mieux venus du troupeau qui briguent la succession du mauvais maître, distillent en grimaçant leurs petits livres compliqués, grincent au nez des plus grands, et n’ont d’autre espoir en ce monde que de pousser leur crotte aigre et difficile au bord de toutes les sources spirituelles où les malheureux vont boire.

Cependant, qu’importe à l’auteur du Cierge Pascal le grignotement, dans son ombre, de tant de quenottes assidues ? Il a rongé plutôt par nécessité que par goût, avec ennui. Place aux jeunes rats mieux dentés ! Ce soir, il pourrait rêver d’eux sans colère. Il songe, en frissonnant de plaisir, à la grande ville lointaine, à sa foule bouillonnante, sous l’énorme ciel noir. La reverra-t-il jamais ? Existe-t-elle encore seulement, quelque part, là-bas, dans la nuit si douce ?

Presque au-dessus de sa tête, l’horloge bat à petits coups, comme un cœur. Il ferme un moment les yeux pour mieux l’entendre, vivre et respirer avec elle, l’antique aïeule sans âge, qui dispense à regret, depuis des siècles, l’impitoyable avenir. Ce bruit qu’il écoute, imperceptible à peine dans la charpente sonore, ce ronron monotone, seulement interrompu par la voix grave des heures, durera plus que lui, cheminera des années et des années encore, à travers de nouveaux espaces de silence, jusqu’au jour… Quel jour ? Quel jour aura marqué pour la dernière fois, au coup de minuit, les deux aiguilles rouillées, les deux commères, avant de s’arrêter pour jamais ?

Il ouvre les yeux. Devant lui une plaque de marbre grisâtre, scellée au mur, porte une inscription dont il déchiffre lentement les larges lettres dédorées.

 

À la mémoire… de… Jean-Baptiste Heame, notaire royal 1690-1741… et de Mélanie-Hortense Le Pean, son épouse… de Pierre Antoine Dominique… de Jean-Jacques Heame, seigneur d’Hemecourt… de Paul-Louis-François… et ainsi jusqu’au bas de la liste, jusqu’au dernier : Jean-César Heame d’Hemecourt, capitaine de cavalerie, ancien marguillier de la paroisse, décédé à Cannes… en 1889… Bienfaiteur de cette église…

Priez pour cette famille entièrement éteinte.

 

demande encore la vieille pierre, humblement, comme pour s’excuser d’être là.

— Fameuse perte !… murmure l’auteur du Cierge Pascal entre ses dents. Mais il sourit d’un bon sourire de sympathie protectrice. Le copieux morceau de marbre, consciencieusement gravé, rehaussé d’or fin, aussi cossu que n’importe quelle autre pièce de mobilier bourgeois ! Rien de plus triste qu’une tombe de pierre blanche, aux quatre bornes enchaînées, fouettée par la pluie, un jour d’hiver. Mais à l’abri du froid et du chaud, face au banc d’œuvre où le défunt marguillier reçut le pain bénit, cette pierre, aussi lisse et polie qu’au premier jour, cirée chaque semaine par un sacristain diligent, quelle consolante image de la mort ! La sensibilité de l’écrivain s’émeut pour ce confortable posthume. Il épelle tous ces noms, comme des noms d’amis, dont le voisinage le rassure. Avec cette dynastie des Heame, que d’autres encore, sous les dalles aux lettres effacées, çà et là, jusqu’au pied de l’autel, bonnes gens qui voulurent dormir sous un toit, durer aussi longtemps que la sûre assise ! On peut rêver dormir là, de compagnie… Jamais le célèbre romancier ne se sentit si résigné, si docile. Une fatigue exquise détend jusqu’à ses dernières fibres, fait flotter devant ses yeux l’image de la profonde église endormie, désormais sans secret, amicale, familière. Il goûte une paix sentie, un extrême bien-être, presque religieux… Il se dorlote, il s’étire ; il étouffe un bâillement, comme une prière.

Au dehors, le ciel s’obscurcit ; un dernier vitrail du transept s’éteint tout à fait. Désormais, la porte s’ouvre et se referme sur un fond de velours noir, où le monde extérieur ne se dénonce plus que par son parfum. Des ombres éparses se rapprochent, s’assemblent. Un chuchotement discret court au long des travées, de banc de chêne en banc de chêne, des petits pas impatients gagnent le seuil, l’église se vide peu à peu de son menu peuple invisible. L’heure du salut quotidien est passée depuis longtemps, la sacristie reste close, trois lampes sur douze éclairent seules l’immense vaisseau. Que se passe-t-il ? Qu’attendre encore ?… On se cherche à tâtons, on s’appelle de loin, d’une petite toux caressante, on discute entre initiés. Car, avec la dernière diligence automobile de Vaucours, les curieux et les curieuses ont disparu : Lumbres ne garde si tard que ses vieux amis. Les derniers s’éloignent cependant. Saint-Marin va rester seul.

 

 

Chapitre XIV

Pour lui seul, ce grand joujou un peu funèbre, mais charmant tout de même — pour le seul auteur du Cierge Pascal — pour lui seul ! Il suit amoureusement du regard les nervures de la voûte, réunies en rosace, et qui retombent trois à trois sur les pilastres des murailles latérales, d’un mouvement si souple, d’une grâce vivante, presque animale. Le maître-maçon qui, jadis, traça leur course aérienne, n’a-t-il pas, sans le savoir, travaillé pour réjouir les yeux du génie vieillissant ? Qu’attendent de plus les dévots et les dévotes, et même ce prêtre paysan, lorsqu’ils lèvent le nez vers leur ciel vide, qu’un relâchement de leurs liens, une courte paix, la provisoire acceptation de la destinée ? Ce qu’ils appellent naïvement grâce de Dieu, don de l’Esprit, efficace du Sacrement, c’est ce même répit qu’il goûte dans ce lieu solitaire. Pauvres gens, dont la candeur s’embarrasse de tant d’inutiles discours ! Brave saint campagnard qui croit consommer chaque matin la Vie éternelle, et dont les sens ne connaissent pourtant qu’une illusion assez grossière, comparable à peine au rêve lucide, à l’illusion volontaire du merveilleux écrivain. « Que ne suis-je venu plus tôt, se dit-il, respirer l’air d’une église rustique !… Nos grand’mères 1830 savaient des secrets que nous avons perdus ! » Il regrette la visite au presbytère, qui pensa l’égarer, le sot pèlerinage à la chambre du saint (ce pan de mur, dont la vue fit chanceler un moment sa raison), spectacle en somme un peu barbare, et fait pour un public moins délicat… « La sainteté, s’avoue-t-il, comme toutes choses en ce monde, n’est belle à voir qu’en scène ; l’envers du décor est puant et laid. » Sa cervelle en rumeur bourdonne de mille pensées nouvelles, hardies ; une jeune espérance, confuse encore, émeut jusqu’à ses muscles ; il ne s’est pas senti, depuis bien des jours, si souple, si vigoureux.

— Il y a une joie dans le vieillir, s’écrie-t-il, presque à voix haute, qui m’est révélée aujourd’hui. L’amour même — oui, l’amour même ! — peut être quitté sans rudesse. J’ai recherché la mort dans les livres, ou dans les ignobles cimetières citadins, tantôt démesurée, comme une vision formée dans les rêves, tantôt rabaissée à la taille d’un homme en casquette, qui tient en bon état, disent-ils, la clôture des tombes, enregistre, administre. Non ! c’est ici, ou dans d’autres séjours semblables, qu’il faut l’accueillir avec bonhomie, ainsi que le froid et le chaud, la nuit et le jour, la marche insensible des astres, le retour des saisons, à l’exemple des sages et des bêtes. Combien le philosophe peut apprendre de choses précieuses, incomparables, du seul instinct de quelque vieux prêtre tel que celui-ci, tout proche de la nature, héritier de ces solitaires inspirés dont nos pères firent jadis les divinités des champs. Ô l’inconscient poète, qui, cherchant le royaume du ciel, trouve au moins le repos, une humble soumission aux forces élémentaires, la profonde paix…

En étendant le bras, l’illustre maître pourrait toucher du doigt le confessionnal où le saint de Lumbres dispense à son peuple les trésors de sa sagesse empirique. Il est là, entre deux piliers, badigeonné d’un affreux marron, vulgaire, presque sordide, fermé de deux rideaux verts. L’auteur du Cierge Pascal déplore tant de laideur inutile, et qu’un prophète villageois rende ses oracles au fond d’une boîte de sapin ; mais il considère toutefois avec curiosité le grillage de bois derrière lequel il imagine le calme visage du vieux prêtre, souriant, attentif, les yeux clos, la main levée pour bénir. Qu’il l’aime mieux ainsi que tout sanglant, là-haut, face à la muraille nue, le fouet à la main, dans son cruel délire ! « Les plus doux rêveurs, pense-t-il, ont sans doute besoin de ces secousses un peu vives qui raniment dans leur cerveau les images défaillantes. Ce que d’autres demandent à la morphine ou à l’opium, celui-ci l’obtient des morsures d’une lanière sur son dos et ses flancs. »

Au bout du fil de fer, la lampe de cuivre oscille doucement, passe et repasse. À chaque retour l’ombre se déploie jusqu’aux voûtes, puis, chassée de nouveau, s’embusque au noir des piliers, s’y replie, pour se déployer encore, « Ainsi passons-nous du froid au chaud, rêve Saint-Marin, tantôt bouillants d’ardeur, effervescents, tantôt froids et las, selon des lois méconnues, et sans doute inconnaissables. Jadis, notre scepticisme était encore un défi. L’indifférence même, où nous croyons plus tard tout atteindre, n’est bientôt qu’une pose assez fatigante à garder. Quelle crampe. Seigneur ! derrière le sourire épicurien. Mais nos petits-neveux ne réussiront pas mieux que nous. L’esprit humain fait varier sans cesse la forme et la courbure de son aile, attaque l’air sous tous les angles, du négatif au positif, et ne vole jamais. Quoi de plus décrié que ce nom de dilettante, porté jadis avec honneur ? La nouvelle génération fut manifestement marquée d’un autre signe ; on a su lequel depuis : c’était celui de son sacrifice, sort honorable, envié par les militaires. J’ai vu, tout frémissant d’une impatience sacrée, le jeune Lagrange pareil à un pressentiment vivant… Il goûte avant moi le repos qu’il a détesté. Croyants ou libertins, de quelque mot qu’on nous nomme, ce n’est pas assez que notre recherche soit vaine ; chaque effort hâte notre fin. L’air même que nous respirons brûle au dedans, nous consume. Douter n’est pas plus rafraîchissant que nier. Mais d’être un professeur de doute, quel supplice chinois ! Encore, dans la force de l’âge, la recherche des femmes, l’obsession du sexe congestionne habituellement les cerveaux, refoule la pensée. Nous vivons dans le demi-délire de la délectation morose, coupé d’accès de désespoir lucide. Mais d’année en année les images perdent leur force, nos artères filtrent un sang moins épais, notre machine tourne à vide. Nous remâchons dans la vieillesse des abstractions de collège, qui tenaient de l’ardeur de nos désirs toute leur vertu ; nous répétons des mots non moins épuisés que nous-mêmes ; nous guettons aux yeux des jeunes gens les secrets que nous avons perdus. Ah ! l’épreuve la plus dure est de comparer sans cesse à sa propre déchéance l’ardeur et l’activité d’autrui, comme si nous sentions glisser inutilement sur nous la puissante vague de fond qui ne nous lèvera plus… À quoi bon tenter ce qui ne peut être tenté qu’une fois ? Ce bonhomme de prêtre a fait moins sottement qui s’est retiré de la vie avant que la vie ne se retirât. Sa vieillesse est sans amertume. Ce que nous regrettons de perdre, il souhaite en être au plus tôt délivré ; quand nous nous lamentons de ne plus sentir de pointe au désir, il se flatte d’être moins tenté. Je jurerais qu’à trente ans il s’était fait des félicités de vieillard, sur quoi l’âge n’a pu mordre. Est-il trop tard pour l’imiter ? Un paysan mystique, nourri de vieux livres et des leçons de maîtres grossiers, dans la poudre des séminaires, peut s’élever par degrés à la sérénité du sage, mais son expérience est courte, sa méthode naïve et parfois sangrenue, compliquée d’inutiles superstitions. Les moyens dont dispose, à la fin de sa carrière, mais dans la pleine force de son génie, un maître illustre, ont une autre efficace. Emprunter à la sainteté ce qu’elle a d’aimable ; retrouver sans roideur la paix de l’enfance ; se faire au silence et à la solitude des champs ; s’étudier moins à ne rien regretter qu’à ne se souvenir de rien ; observer par raison, avec mesure, les vieux préceptes d’abstinence et de chasteté, assurément précieux ; jouir de la vieillesse comme de l’automne ou du crépuscule ; se rendre peu à peu la mort familière, n’est-ce pas un jeu difficile, mais rien qu’un jeu, pour l’auteur de beaucoup de livres, dispensateur d’illusion ? « Ce sera ma dernière œuvre, conclut l’éminent maître, et je ne l’écrirai que pour moi, acteur et public tour à tour… »

Mais ce dernier livre est celui-là qu’on n’écrit pas, à peine entrevu dans les songes. De le rêver seulement est un signe fatal. Ainsi les vieux chats qui vont mourir caressent encore des griffes la laine du tapis, et traînent sur les belles couleurs un regard plein d’une tendresse obscure.

C’est ce même regard que l’auteur du Cierge Pascal fixe au mince treillage de bois derrière lequel il imagine son héros bénisseur, patriarche au rire indulgent, à la langue savoureuse et drue, riche de l’expérience des âmes. Il l’aime déjà de tout le bien qu’il peut en attendre. Pour être un saint on n’en est pas moins sensible à une certaine forme rare de la courtoisie, cette sympathie attentive, pénétrante, qui est la suprême politesse d’un grand seigneur de l’intelligence. Celui que la flatterie rebute goûte mieux les formes supérieures de la louange. Hé ! Hé ! d’autres que l’illustre Saint-Marin se sont agenouillés ici, ont écouté le bon vieillard, et sont partis moins lourds. Pourquoi pas ? Dans la confession, l’expérience du péché est-elle jamais complète ? N’y a-t-il pas, dans la honte de l’aveu, même incomplet, déloyal, une sensation âpre et forte qui ressemble au remords, un remède un peu rude et singulier à l’affadissement du vice ? Et d’ailleurs les maniaques de la libre pensée sont bien sots de dédaigner à l’église une méthode de psychothérapie qu’ils jugent excellente et nouvelle chez un neurologiste en renom. Ce professeur, dans sa clinique, fait-il autre chose qu’un simple prêtre au confessionnal : provoquer, déclancher la confidence pour suggestionner ensuite, à loisir, un malade apaisé, détendu. ? Combien de choses pourrissent dans le cœur, dont ce seul effort délivre ! L’homme célèbre, qui vit dans son ombre, se voit dans tous les yeux, s’entend sur toutes les lèvres, se reconnaît jusque dans la haine et l’envie qui le pressent, peut bien tenter d’échapper à sa propre obsession, de rompre le cercle enchanté. Il ne s’ouvre jamais à l’inférieur, il ment toujours à son égal. S’il laisse après lui des mémoires véridiques, sa dissimulation naturelle se double d’un de ces effrayants accès de vanité posthume que le public connaît assez. Rien n’est moins qu’une parole d’outre-tombe. Alors… Alors, il est beau qu’une fois, par hasard, ce don précieux de lui-même, qu’il a toujours refusé, il le fasse au premier venu, comme on jette une poignée d’or à un mendiant.

Pas une minute cet homme pourtant subtil qui, à défaut de goût véritable, ressent au moins la grossièreté d’autrui comme une contrainte physique, n’échappe au piège de sa propre bassesse. Il remue ces idées pêle-mêle, avec une assurance naïve, se flatte de n’avoir qu’à faire un choix entre tant de solides raisons. Il a fini par regarder les marches de bois, usées par les genoux, avec autant de curiosité que d’envie… Une fois là, le reste va de soi. Qui le retiendrait ? Ce qui fut donné si souvent à cette même place, aux vieilles filles illettrées, ne sera pas refusé sans doute à l’observateur le plus retors, et qui garde mieux son sang-froid, délicieux railleur ! Il ne faut qu’un petit effort, après avoir sucé, vidé tant de sensations rares et difficiles, parlé tant de langages, fait tant de savantes grimaces, pour finir dans la peau d’un philosophe campagnard, désabusé, pacifié, à point dévot. Depuis l’empereur qui planta des raves, on a vu plus d’un grand de ce monde s’assurer une mort bucolique. En argot de coulisse, cela s’appelle entrer dans son rôle, pour se prendre soi-même à son jeu. C’est ainsi qu’au terme d’une consciencieuse étude tel comédien, gras à souhait, rouge de plaisir, avale son bock, referme son livre, et s’écrie : Je tiens mon Polyeucte !…

 

 

Chapitre XV

« Je tiens mon saint ! » pourrait dire à ce moment l’illustre maître, s’il était d’humeur à plaisanter. Et il le tient en effet, ou va le tenir. Il songe, candide, qu’après avoir tâté d’une dent dédaigneuse les fruits plus précieux cueillis au jardin des rois, il peut mordre encore avec appétit au morceau de gros pain arraché à la bouche du pauvre, car telle est la curiosité du génie, toujours neuve.

C’est une belle chose de goûter si tard les joies de l’initiation ! De Paris à Lumbres, il est vrai que la route est longue ; mais du presbytère tout proche à l’église paisible, quel autre espace il a franchi ! Tout à l’heure encore, inquiet, anxieux, sans autre espoir que de rentrer bientôt, tête basse, au petit hôtel de la rue de Verneuil, pour y mourir un jour, inutile, oublié, au bras d’une servante qui murmure à la cantonade que « le pauvre Monsieur a bien du mal à passer », maintenant délivré, libre, avec un projet en tête — ô délices ! — une petite fièvre à fleur de peau… En six semaines tout peut être décidé, conclu. Il trouvera quelque part, à la lisière d’un bois, une de ces maisons mi-paysannes, mi-bourgeoises, entre deux humides pelouses vertes. La conversion de Saint-Marin, sa retraite à Lumbres… le cri de triomphe des dévots… la première interview… une délicate mise au point… qui sera comme le testament du grand homme : une suprême caresse à la jeunesse, à la beauté, au plaisir perdus, non point reniés, puis le silence, le grand silence, où le public ensevelit pieusement, côte à côte, dans leur solitude de Lumbres, le philosophe et le saint.

L’obsession devient si forte qu’il croit rêver, perd un moment contact, frissonne en se retrouvant seul. Ce réveil trop brusque a rompu l’équilibre, le laisse agité, nerveux. Il regarde avec méfiance le confessionnal vide, si proche. La porte close au rideau vert l’invite… Hé quoi ! quelle meilleure occasion de voir plus que le pauvre logis du bonhomme, son grabat, sa discipline ; le lieu même où il se manifeste aux âmes ? L’auteur du Cierge Pascal est seul et d’ailleurs il s’inquiète peu d’être vu. À soixante-dix ans, sa première impulsion est toujours nette, franche, irrésistible, dangereux privilège des écrivains d’imagination… Sa main tâtonne, trouve une poignée, ouvre d’un coup. L’hésitation a suivi le geste, au lieu de le devancer ; la réflexion vient trop tard. Un remords indéfinissable, le regret d’avoir agi si vite, au hasard ; la crainte, ou la honte, de surprendre un secret mal défendu, lui fait un instant baisser les yeux ; mais déjà le reflet de la lampe sur les dalles a trouvé l’ouverture béante, s’y glisse, monte lentement… Son regard monte avec lui…

…S’arrête… À quoi bon ? On ne recouvre plus ce que la lumière découvre une fois, pour toujours.

…Deux gros souliers, pareils à ceux trouvés là-haut ; le pli d’une soutane bizarrement troussée… une longue jambe maigre dans un bas de laine toute roide, un talon posé sur le seuil, voilà ce qu’il a vu d’abord. Puis… petit à petit… dans l’ombre plus dense… une blancheur vague, et tout à coup la face terrible, foudroyée.

Antoine Saint-Marin sait montrer dans les cas extrêmes une bravoure froide et calculée. D’ailleurs, mort ou vif, ce bonhomme inattendu l’irrite au moins autant qu’il l’effraie. En somme, on l’interrompt tout à coup, au bon moment, en plein rêve ; le dernier mot reste, au fond de sa boîte obscure, à ce témoin singulier, au cadavre vertical. Un professeur d’ironie trouve son maître, et s’éveille, quinaud, d’un songe un peu niais, attendrissant.

Il ouvre largement la porte, recule d’un pas, mesure du regard son étrange compagnon, et sans oser encore le défier, l’affronte.

— Beau miracle ! siffle-t-il entre ses dents, un peu rageur. Le brave prêtre est mort ici sans bruit, d’une crise cardiaque. Tandis que ces imbéciles trottent à sa recherche sur les chemins, il est là, bien tranquille, telle une sentinelle, tuée d’une balle dans sa guérite, à bout portant !…

Dressé contre la paroi, les reins soutenus par l’étroit siège sur lequel il s’est renversé au dernier moment, arc-bouté de ses jambes roides contre la mince planchette de bois qui barre le seuil, le misérable corps du saint de Lumbres garde, dans une immobilité grotesque, l’attitude d’un homme que la surprise met debout.

·            ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·                 ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·               ·

 

Que d’autres soient, d’une main amie, sous un frais drap blanc, disposés pour le repos ; celui-ci se lève encore dans sa nuit noire, écoute le cri de ses enfants… Il a encore quelque chose à dire… Non ! son dernier mot n’est pas dit… Le vieil athlète percé de mille coups témoigne pour de plus faibles, nomme le traître et la trahison… Ah ! le diable, l’autre, est sans doute un adroit, un merveilleux menteur, ce rebelle entêté dans sa gloire perdue, plein de mépris pour le bétail humain lourd et pensif que les mille ressources de sa ruse excitent ou retiennent à son gré, mais son humble ennemi lui fait front, et sous la huée formidable remue sa tête obstinée. De quelle tempête de rires et de cris le joyeux enfer acclame la parole naïve, à peine intelligible, la défense confuse et sans art ! Qu’importe ! un autre encore l’entend, que les deux ne cèleront pas toujours !

 

Seigneur, il n’est pas vrai que nous vous ayons maudit ; qu’il périsse plutôt, ce menteur, ce faux témoin, votre rival dérisoire ! Il nous a tout pris, nous laisse tout nus, et met dans notre bouche une parole impie. Mais la souffrance nous reste, qui est notre part commune avec vous, le signe de notre élection, héritée de nos pères, plus active que le feu chaste, incorruptible… Notre intelligence est épaisse et commune, notre crédulité sans fin, et le suborneur subtil avec sa langue dorée… Sur ses lèvres, les mots familiers prennent le sens qu’il lui plaît, et les plus beaux nous égarent mieux. Si nous nous taisons, il parle pour nous et, lorsque nous essayons de nous justifier, notre discours nous condamne. L’incomparable raisonneur, dédaigneux de contredire, s’amuse à tirer de ses victimes leur propre sentence de mort. Périssent avec lui les mots perfides ! C’est par son cri de douleur que s’exprime la race humaine, la plainte arrachée à ses flancs par un effort démesuré. Vous nous avez jetés dans l’épaisseur comme un levain. L’univers, que le péché nous a ôté, nous le reprendrons pouce par pouce, nous vous le rendrons tel que nous le reçûmes, dans son ordre et sa sainteté, au premier matin des jours. Ne nous mesure pas le temps, Seigneur ! Notre attention ne se soutient pas, notre esprit se détourne si vite ! Sans cesse le regard épie, à droite ou à gauche, une impossible issue ; sans cesse l’un de vos ouvriers jette son outil et s’en va. Mais, votre pitié, elle, ne se lasse point, et partout vous nous présentez la pointe du glaive ; le fuyard reprendra sa tâche, ou périra dans la solitude… Ah ! l’ennemi qui sait tant de choses ne saura pas celle-là ! Le plus vil des hommes emporte avec lui son secret, celui de la souffrance efficace, purificatrice… Car ta douleur est stérile, Satan !… Et pour moi, me voici où tu m’as mené, prêt à recevoir ton dernier coup… Je ne suis qu’un pauvre prêtre assez simple, dont ta malice s’est jouée un moment, et que tu vas rouler comme une pierre… Qui peut lutter de ruse avec toi ? Depuis quand as-tu pris le visage et la voix de mon Maître ? Quel jour ai-je cédé pour la première fois ? Quel jour ai-je reçu avec une complaisance insensée le seul présent que tu puisses faire, trompeuse image de la déréliction des saints, ton désespoir, ineffable à un cœur d’homme ? Tu souffrais, tu priais avec moi, ô l’affreuse pensée ! Ce miracle même… Qu’importe ! Qu’importe ! Dépouille-moi ! Ne me laisse rien ! Après moi un autre, et puis un autre encore, d’âge en âge, élevant le même cri, tenant embrassée la Croix… Nous ne sommes point ces saints vermeils à barbe blonde que les bonnes gens voient peints, et dont les philosophes eux-mêmes envieraient l’éloquence et la bonne santé. Notre part n’est point ce que le monde imagine. Auprès de celle-ci, la contrainte même du génie est un jeu frivole. Toute belle vie. Seigneur, témoigne pour vous ; mais le témoignage du saint est comme arraché par le fer.

 

Telle fut sans doute, ici-bas, la plainte suprême du curé de Lumbres, élevée vers le Juge, et son reproche amoureux. Mais, à l’homme illustre qui l’est venu chercher si loin, il a autre chose à dire. Et, si la bouche noire, dans l’ombre, qui ressemble à une plaie ouverte par l’explosion d’un dernier cri, ne profère plus aucun son, le corps tout entier mime un affreux défi :

— Tu voulais ma paix, s’écrie le saint, viens la prendre !…

 

FIN

Good Reading: "The Cats of Ulthar" by H. P. Lovecraft (in English)

It is said that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot see. He is the soul of antique Aegyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten cities in Meroe and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle’s lords, and heir to the secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which she hath forgotten.

In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.

One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.

There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sat playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.

On the third morning of the wanderers’ stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked disks. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.

That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes’ kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.

So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awakened at dawn—behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marveled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.

It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners.

There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.

And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat.

Tuesday Serial: "Deadly City" by Paul W. Fairman (in English) - the end

There was a knock on the door accompanied by the booming voice of Jim Wilson. "You in there! Ready for breakfast?"

Frank got up and walked toward the door. As he did so, the door to the bathroom closed.

Jim Wilson wore a two-day growth of beard and it didn't seem to bother him at all. As he entered the room he rubbed his hands together in great gusto. "Well, where'll we eat, folks? Let's pick the classiest restaurant in town. Nothing but the best for Minna here."

He winked broadly as Minna, expressionless and silent, followed him in exactly as a shadow would have followed him and sat primly down in a straight-backed chair by the wall.

"We'd better start moving south," Frank said, "and not bother about breakfast."

"Getting scared?" Jim Wilson asked.

"You're damn right I'm scared—now. We're right in the middle of a big no-man's-land."

"I don't get you."

At that moment the bathroom door opened and Nora came out. Jim Wilson forgot about the question he'd asked. He let forth a loud whistle of appreciation. Then he turned his eyes on Frank and his thought was crystal clear. He was envying Frank the night just passed.

A sudden irritation welled up in Frank Brooks, a distinct feeling of disgust. "Let's start worrying about important things—our lives. Or don't you consider your life very important?"

Jim Wilson seemed puzzled. "What the hell's got into you? Didn't you sleep good?"

"I went down the block this morning and found some teletype machines. I've just been reading the reports."

"What about that guy that tried to get into your room last night?"

"I didn't see him. I didn't see anybody. But I know why the city's been cleaned out." Frank went back to the window and picked up the sheaf on clips he had gone through. Jim Wilson sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning. Nora followed Frank and perched on the edge of the chair he dropped into.

"The city going to blow up?" Wilson asked.

"No. We've been invaded by some form of alien life."

"Is that what the papers said?"

"It was the biggest and fastest mass evacuation ever attempted. I pieced the reports together. There was hell popping around here during the two days we—we waited it out."

"Where did they all go?" Nora asked.

"South. They've evacuated a forty-mile strip from the lake west. The first Terran defense line is set up in northern Indiana."

"What do you mean—Terra."

"It's a word that means Earth—this planet. The invaders came from some other planet, they think—at least from no place on Earth."

"That's the silliest damn thing I ever heard of," Wilson said.

"A lot of people probably thought the same thing," Frank replied. "Flying saucers were pretty common. Nobody thought they were anything and nobody paid much attention. Then they hit—three days ago—and wiped out every living soul in three little southern Michigan towns. From there they began spreading out. They—"

Each of them heard the sound at the same time. A faint rumble, increasing swiftly into high thunder. They moved as one to the window and saw four jet planes, in formation, moving across the sky from the south.

"There they come," Frank said. "The fight's started. Up to now the army has been trying to get set, I suppose."

Nora said, "Is there any way we can hail them? Let them know—"

Her words were cut off by the horror of what happened. As they watched, the plane skimmed low across the Loop. At a point, approximately over Lake Street, Frank estimated, the planes were annihilated. There was a flash of blue fire coming in like jagged lightning to form four balls of fire around the planes. The fire balls turned, almost instantly, into globes of white smoke that drifted lazily away.

And that was all. But the planes vanished completely.

"What happened?" Wilson muttered. "Where'd they go?"

"It was as if they hit a wall," Nora said, her voice hushed with awe.

"I think that was what happened," Frank said. "The invaders have some kind of a weapon that holds us helpless. Otherwise the army wouldn't have established this no-man's-land and pulled out. The reports said we have them surrounded on all sides with the help of the lake. We're trying to keep them isolated."

Jim Wilson snorted. "It looks like we've got them right where they want us."

"Anyhow, we're damn fools to stick around here. We'd better head south."

Wilson looked wistfully about the room. "I guess so, but it's a shame—walking away from all this."

Nora was staring out the window, a small frown on her face. "I wonder who they are and where they came from?"

"The teletype releases were pretty vague on that."

She turned quickly. "There's something peculiar about them. Something really strange."

"What do you mean?"

"Last night when we were walking up the street. It must have been these invaders we heard. They must have been across the street. But they didn't act like invaders. They seemed—well, scared. I got the feeling they ran from us in panic. And they haven't been back."

Wilson said, "They may not have been there at all. Probably our imaginations."

"I don't think so," Frank cut in. "They were there and then they were gone. I'm sure of it."

"Those wailing noises. They were certainly signalling to each other. Do you suppose that's the only language they have?" Nora walked over and offered the silent Minna a cigarette. Minna refused with a shake of her head.

"I wish we knew what they looked like," Frank said. "But let's not sit here talking. Let's get going."

Jim Wilson was scowling. There was a marked sullenness in his manner. "Not Minna and me. I've changed my mind. I'm sticking here."

Frank blinked in surprise. "Are you crazy? We've run our luck out already. Did you see what happened to those planes?"

"The hell with the planes. We've got it good here. This I like. I like it a lot. We'll stay."

"Okay," Frank replied hotly, "but talk for yourself. You're not making Minna stay!"

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "I'm not? Look, buster—how about minding your own goddam business?"

The vague feelings of disgust Frank had had now crystallized into words. "I won't let you get away with it! You think I'm blind? Hauling her into the back room every ten minutes! Don't you think I know why? You're nothing but a damn sex maniac! You've got her terrorized until she's afraid to open her mouth. She goes with us!"

Jim Wilson was on his feet. His face blazed with rage. The urge to kill was written in the crouch of his body and the twist of his mouth. "You goddam nosey little squirt. I'll—"

Wilson charged across the short, intervening distance. His arms went out in a clutching motion.

But Frank Brooks wasn't full of knockout drops this time, and with a clear head he was no pushover. Blinded with rage, Jim Wilson was a pushover. Frank stepped in between his outstretched arms and slugged him squarely on top of the head with the telephone. Wilson went down like a felled steer.

The scream came from Minna as she sprang across the room. She had turned from a colorless rag doll into a tigress. She hit Frank square in the belly with small fists at the end of stiff, outstretched arms. The full force of her charge was behind the fists, and Frank went backward over the bed.

Minna did not follow up her attack. She dropped to the floor beside Jim Wilson and took his huge head in her lap. "You killed him," she sobbed. "You—you murderer! You killed him! You had no right!"

Frank sat wide-eyed. "Minna! For God's sake! I was helping you. I did it for you!"

"Why don't you mind your business? I didn't ask you to protect me? I don't need any protection—not from Jim."

"You mean you didn't mind the way he's treated you—"

"You've killed him—killed him—" Minna raised her head slowly. She looked at Frank as though she saw him for the first time. "You're a fool" she said dully. "A big fool. What right have you got to meddle with other people's affairs? Are you God or something, to run people's lives?"

"Minna—I—"

It was as though he hadn't spoken. "Do you know what it's like to have nobody? All your life to go on and grow older without anybody? I didn't have no one and then Jim came along and wanted me."

Frank walked close to her and bent down. She reacted like a tiger. "Leave him alone! Leave him alone! You've done enough!"

Nonplused, Frank backed away.

"People with big noses—always sticking them in. That's you. Was that any of your business what he wanted of me? Did I complain?"

"I'm sorry, Minna. I didn't know."

"I'd rather go into back rooms with him than stay in front rooms without nobody."

She began to cry now. Wordlessly—soundlessly, rocking back and forth with the huge man's bloody head in her lap. "Anytime," she crooned. "Anytime I would—"

The body in her arms stirred. She looked down through her tears and saw the small black eyes open. They were slightly crossed, unfocused as they were by the force of the blow. They straightened and Jim mumbled, "What the hell—what the hell—"

Minna's time for talking seemed over. She smiled—a smile hardly perceptible, as though it was for herself alone. "You're all right," she said. "That's good. You're all right."

Jim pushed her roughly away and staggered to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, his head turning; for all the world like a bull blinded and tormented. Then his eyes focused on Frank.

"You hit me with the goddam phone."

"Yeah—I hit you."

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Look—I made a mistake." Frank picked up the phone and backed against the wall. "I hit you, but you were coming at me. I made a mistake and I'm sorry."

"I'll smash your goddam skull."

"Maybe you will," Frank said grimly. "But you'll work for it. It won't come easy."

A new voice bit across the room. "Cut it out. I'll do the killing. That's what I like best. Everybody quiet down."

They turned and saw a slim, pale-skinned young man in the open doorway. The door had opened quietly and no one had heard it. Now the pale young man was standing in the room with a small, nickle-plated revolver in his right hand.

The left hand was close down at his side. It was swathed generously in white bandage.

The young man chuckled. "The last four people in the world were in a room," he said, "and there was a knock on the door."

His chuckle deepened to one of pure merriment. "Only there wasn't a knock. A man just walked in with a gun that made him boss."

No one moved. No one spoke. The man waited, then went on: "My name is Leroy Davis. I lived out west and I always had a keeper because they said I wasn't quite right. They wanted me to pull out with the rest of them, but I slugged my keeper and here I am."

"Put down the gun and we'll talk it over," Frank said. "We're all in this together."

"No, we aren't. I've got a gun, so that makes me top man. You're all in it together, but I'm not. I'm the boss, and which one of you tried to cut my hand off last night."

"You tried to break in here yelling and screaming like a madman. I held the door. What else could I do?"

"It's all right. I'm not mad. My type—we may be nuts, but we never hold a grudge. I can't remember much about last night. I found some whisky in a place down the street and whisky drives me nuts. I don't know what I'm doing when I drink whisky. They say once about five years ago I got drunk and killed a little kid, but I don't remember."

Nobody spoke.

"I got out of it. They got me out some way. High priced lawyers got me out. Cost my dad a pile."

Hysteria had been piling up inside of Nora. She had held it back, but now a little of it spurted out from between her set teeth. "Do something, somebody. Isn't anybody going to do anything?"

Leroy Davis blinked at her. "There's nothing they can do, honey," he said in a kindly voice. "I've got the gun. They'd be crazy to try anything."

Nora's laugh was like the rattle of dry peas. She sat down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling and laughed. "It's crazy. It's all so crazy! We're sitting here in a doomed city with some kind of alien invaders all around us and we don't know what they look like. They haven't hurt us at all. We don't even know what they look like. We don't worry a bit about them because we're too busy trying to kill each other."

Frank Brooks took Nora by the arm. "Stop it! Quit laughing like that!"

Nora shook him off. "Maybe we need someone to take us over. It's all pretty crazy!"

"Stop it."

Nora's eyes dulled down as she looked at Frank. She dropped her head and seemed a little ashamed of herself. "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet."

Jim Wilson had been standing by the wall looking first at the newcomer, then back at Frank Brooks. Wilson seemed confused as to who his true enemy really was. Finally he took a step toward Leroy Davis.

Frank Brooks stopped him with a motion, but kept his eyes on Davis. "Have you seen anybody else?"

Davis regarded Frank with long, careful consideration. His eyes were bright and birdlike. They reminded Frank of a squirrel's eyes. Davis said, "I bumped into an old man out on Halstead Street. He wanted to know where everybody had gone. He asked me, but I didn't know."

"What happened to the old man?" Nora asked. She asked the question as though dreading to do it; but as though some compulsion forced her to speak.

"I shot him," Davis said cheerfully. "It was a favor, really. Here was this old man staggering down the street with nothing but a lot of wasted years to show for his efforts. He was no good alive, and he didn't have the courage to die." Davis stopped and cocked his head brightly. "You know—I think that's what's been wrong with the world. Too many people without the guts to die, and a law against killing them."

It had now dawned upon Jim Wilson that they were faced by a maniac. His eyes met those of Frank Brooks and they were—on this point at least—in complete agreement. A working procedure sprang up, unworded, between them. Jim Wilson took a slow, casual step toward the homicidal maniac.

"You didn't see anyone else?" Frank asked.

Davis ignored the question. "Look at it this way," he said. "In the old days they had Texas long horns. Thin stringy cattle that gave up meat as tough as leather. Do we have cattle like that today? No. Because we bred out the weak line."

Frank said, "There are some cigarettes on that table if you want one."

Jim Wilson took another slow step toward Davis.

Davis said, "We bred with intelligence, with a thought to what a steer was for and we produced a walking chunk of meat as wide as it is long."

"Uh-huh," Frank said.

"Get the point? See what I'm driving at? Humans are more important than cattle, but can we make them breed intelligently? Oh, no! That interferes with damn silly human liberties. You can't tell a man he can only have two kids. It's his God-given right to have twelve when the damn moron can't support three. Get what I mean?"

"Sure—sure, I get it."

"You better think it over, mister—and tell that fat bastard to quit sneaking up on me or I'll blow his brains all over the carpet!"

If the situation hadn't been so grim it would have appeared ludicrous. Jim Wilson, feeling success almost in his grasp, was balanced on tiptoe for a lunge. He teetered, almost lost his balance and fell back against the wall.

"Take it easy," Frank said.

"I'll take it easy," Davis replied. "I'll kill every goddam one of you—" he pointed the gun at Jim Wilson "—starting with him."

"Now wait a minute," Frank said. "You're unreasonable. What right have you got to do that? What about the law of survival? You're standing there with a gun on us. You're going to kill us. Isn't it natural to try anything we can to save our own lives?"

A look of admiration brightened Davis' eyes. "Say! I like you. You're all right. You're logical. A man can talk to you. If there's anything I like it's talking to a logical man."

"Thanks."

"Too bad I'm going to have to kill you. We could sit down and have some nice long talks together."

"Why do you want to kill us?" Minna asked. She had not spoken before. In fact, she had spoken so seldom during the entire time they'd been together that her voice was a novelty to Frank. He was inclined to discount her tirade on the floor with Wilson's head in her lap. She had been a different person then. Now she had lapsed back into her old shell.

Davis regarded thoughtfully. "Must you have a reason?"

"You should have a reason to kill people."

Davis said, "All right, if it will make you any happier. I told you about killing my keeper when they tried to make me leave town. He got in the car, behind the wheel. I got into the back seat and split his skull with a tire iron."

"What's that got to do with us?"

"Just this. Tommy was a better person than anyone of you or all of you put together. If he had to die, what right have you got to live? Is that enough of a reason for you?"

"This is all too damn crazy," Jim Wilson roared. He was on the point of leaping at Davis and his gun.

At that moment, from the north, came a sudden crescendo of the weird invader wailings. It was louder than it had previously been but did not seem nearer.

The group froze, all ears trained upon the sound. "They're talking again," Nora whispered.

"Uh-huh," Frank replied. "But it's different this time. As if—"

"—as if they were getting ready for something," Nora said. "Do you suppose they're going to move south?"

Davis said, "I'm not going to kill you here. We're going down stairs."

The pivotal moment, hinged in Jim Wilson's mind, that could have changed the situation, had come and gone. The fine edge of additional madness that would make a man hurl himself at a loaded gun, was dulled. Leroy Davis motioned pre-emptorily toward Minna.

"You first—then the other babe. You walk side by side down the hall with the men behind you. Straight down to the lobby."

They complied without resistance. There was only Jim Wilson's scowl, Frank Brooks' clouded eyes, and the white, taut look of Nora.

Nora's mind was not on the gun. It was filled with thoughts of the pale maniac who held it. He was in command. Instinctively, she felt that maniacs in command have one of but two motivations—sex and murder. Her reaction to possible murder was secondary. But what if this man insisted upon laying his hands upon her. What if he forced her into the age old thing she had done so often? Nora shuddered. But it was also in her mind to question, and be surprised at the reason for her revulsion. She visualized the hands upon her body—the old familiar things, and the taste in her mouth was one of horror.

She had never experienced such shrinkings before. Why now. Had she herself changed? Had something happened during the night that made the past a time of shame? Or was it the madman himself? She did not know.

Nora returned from her musings to find herself standing in the empty lobby. Leroy Davis, speaking to Frank, was saying, "You look kind of tricky to me. Put your hands on your head. Lock your fingers together over your head and keep your hands there."

Jim Wilson was standing close to the mute Minna. She had followed all the orders without any show of anger, with no outward expression. Always she had kept her eyes on Jim Wilson. Obviously, whatever Jim ordered, she would have done without question.

Wilson leaned his head down toward her. He said, "Listen, baby, there's something I keep meaning to ask but I always forget it. What's your last name?"

"Trumble—Minna Trumble. I thought I told you."

"Maybe you did. Maybe I didn't get it."

Nora felt the hysteria welling again. "How long are you going to keep doing this?" she asked.

Leroy Davis cocked his head as he looked at her. "Doing what?"

"Play cat and mouse like this. Holding us on a pin like flies in an exhibit."

Leroy Davis smiled brightly. "Like a butterfly in your case, honey. A big, beautiful butterfly."

"What are you going to do," Frank Brooks snapped. "Whatever it is, let's get it over with?"

"Can't you see what I'm doing?" Davis asked with genuine wonder. "Are you that stupid? I'm being the boss. I'm in command and I like it. I hold life and death over four people and I'm savoring the thrill of it. You're pretty stupid, mister, and if you use that 'can't get away with it' line, I'll put a bullet into your left ear and watch it come out your right one."

Jim Wilson's fists were doubled. He was again approaching the reckless point. And again it was dulled by the gradually increasing sound of a motor—not in the air, but from the street level to the south.

It was a sane, cheerful sound and was resented instantly by the insane mind of Leroy Davis.

He tightened even to the point that his face grew more pale from the tension. He backed to a window, looked out quickly, and turned back. "It's a jeep," he said. "They're going by the hotel. If anybody makes a move, or yells, they'll find four bodies in here and me gone. That's what I'm telling you and you know I'll do it."

They knew he would do it and they stood silent, trying to dredge up the nerve to make a move. The jeep's motor backfired a couple of times as it approached Madison Street. Each time, Leroy Davis' nerves reacted sharply and the four people kept their eyes trained on the gun in his hand.

The jeep came to the intersection and slowed down. There was a conference between its two occupants—helmeted soldiers in dark brown battle dress. Then the jeep moved on up Clark Street toward Lake.

A choked sigh escaped from Nora's throat. Frank Brooks turned toward her. "Take it easy," he said. "We're not dead yet. I don't think he wants to kill us."

The reply came from Minna. She spoke quietly. "I don't care. I can't stand any more of this. After all, we aren't animals. We're human beings and we have a right to live and die as we please."

Minna walked toward Leroy Davis. "I'm not afraid of your gun any more. All you can do with it is kill me. Go ahead and do it."

Minna walked up to Leroy Davis. He gaped at her and said, "You're crazy! Get back there. You're a crazy dame!"

He fired the gun twice and Minna died appreciating the incongruity of his words. She went out on a note of laughter and as she fell, Jim Wilson, with an echoing animal roar, lunged at Leroy Davis. His great hand closed completely over that of Davis, hiding the gun. There was a muffled explosion and the bullet cut unnoticed through Wilson's palm. Wilson jerked the gun from Davis' weak grasp and hurled it away. Then he killed Davis.

He did it slowly, a surprising thing for Wilson. He lifted Davis by his neck and held him with his feet off the floor. He squeezed Davis' neck, seeming to do it with great leisure as Davis made horrible noises and kicked his legs.

Nora turned her eyes away, buried them in Frank Brooks' shoulder, but she could not keep the sounds from reaching her ears. Frank held her close. "Take it easy," he said. "Take it easy." And he was probably not conscious of saying it.

"Tell him to hurry," Nora whispered. "Tell him to get it over with. It's like killing—killing an animal."

"That's what he is—an animal."

Frank Brooks stared in fascination at Leroy Davis' distorted, darkening face. It was beyond semblance of anything human now. The eyes bulged and the tongue came from his mouth as though frantically seeking relief.

The animal sounds quieted and died away. Nora heard the sound of the body falling to the floor—a limp, soft sound of finality. She turned and saw Jim Wilson with his hands still extended and cupped. The terrible hands from which the stench of a terrible life was drifting away into empty air.

Wilson looked down at his handiwork. "He's dead," Wilson said slowly. He turned to face Frank and Nora. There was a great disappointment in his face. "That's all there is to it," he said, dully. "He's just—dead." Without knowing it for what it was, Jim Wilson was full of the futile aftertaste of revenge.

He bent down to pick up Minna's body. There was a small blue hole in the right cheek and another one over the left eye. With a glance at Frank and Nora, Jim Wilson covered the wounds with his hand as though they were not decent. He picked her up in his arms and walked across the lobby and up the stairs with the slow, quiet tread of a weary man.

The sound of the jeep welled up again, but it was further away now. Frank Brooks took Nora's hand and they hurried out into the street. As they crossed the sidewalk, the sound of the jeep was drowned by a sudden swelling of the wailings to the northward.

On still a new note, they rose and fell on the still air. A note of panic, of new knowledge, it seemed, but Frank and Nora were not paying close attention. The sounds of the jeep motor had come from the west and they got within sight of the Madison-Well intersection in time to see the jeep hurtle southward at its maximum speed.

Frank yelled and waved his arms, but he knew he had been neither seen nor heard. They were given little time for disappointment however, because a new center of interest appeared to the northward. From around the corner of Washington Street, into Clark, moved three strange figures.

There was a mixture of belligerence and distress in their actions. They carried odd looking weapons and seemed interested in using them upon something or someone, but they apparently lacked the energy to raise them although they appeared to be rather light.

The creatures themselves were humanoid, Frank thought. He tightened his grip on Nora's hand. "They've seen us."

"Let's not run," Nora said. "I'm tired of running. All it's gotten us is trouble. Let's just stand here."

"Don't be foolish."

"I'm not running. You can if you want to."

Frank turned his attention back to the three strange creatures. He allowed natural curiosity full reign. Thoughts of flight vanished from his mind.

"They're so thin—so fragile," Nora said.

"But their weapons aren't."

"It's hard to believe, even seeing them, that they're from another planet."

"How so? They certainly don't look much like us."

"I mean with the talk, for so long, about flying saucers and space flight and things like that. Here they are, but it doesn't seem possible."

"There's something wrong with them."

This was true. Two of the strange beings had fallen to the sidewalk. The third came doggedly on, dragging one foot after the other until he went to his hands and knees. He remained motionless for a long time, his head hanging limply. Then he too, sank to the cement and lay still.

The wailings from the north now took on a tone of intense agony—great desperation. After that came a yawning silence.

 

* * *

 

"They defeated themselves," the military man said. "Or rather, natural forces defeated them. We certainly had little to do with it."

Nora, Frank, and Jim Wilson stood at the curb beside a motorcycle. The man on the cycle supported it with a leg propped against the curb as he talked.

"We saw three of them die up the street," Frank said.

"Our scouting party saw the same thing happen. That's why we moved in. It's about over now. We'll know a lot more about them and where they came from in twenty-four hours."

They had nothing further to say. The military man regarded them thoughtfully. "I don't know about you three. If you ignored the evacuation through no fault of your own and can prove it—"

"There were four of us," Jim Wilson said. "Then we met another man. He's inside on the floor. I killed him."

 

"Murder?" the military man said sharply.

"He killed a woman who was with us," Frank said. "He was a maniac. When he's identified I'm pretty sure he'll have a past record."

"Where is the woman's body?"

"On a bed upstairs," Wilson said.

"I'll have to hold all of you. Martial law exists in this area. You're in the hands of the army."

 

* * *

 

The streets were full of people now, going about their business, pushing and jostling, eating in the restaurants, making electricity for the lights, generating power for the telephones.

Nora, Frank, and Jim Wilson sat in a restaurant on Clark Street. "We're all different people now," Nora said. "No one could go through what we've been through and be the same."

Jim Wilson took her statement listlessly. "Did they find out what it was about our atmosphere that killed them?"

"They're still working on that, I think." Frank Brooks stirred his coffee, raised a spoonful and let it drip back into the cup.

"I'm going up to the Chicago Avenue police station," Wilson said.

Frank and Nora looked up in surprise. Frank asked, "Why? The military court missed it—the fact you escaped from jail."

"They didn't miss it I don't think. I don't think they cared much. I'm going back anyway."

"It won't be much of a rap."

"No, a pretty small one. I want to get it over with."

He got up from his chair. "So long. Maybe I'll see you around."

"So long."

"Goodbye."

Frank said, "I think I'll beat it too. I've got a job in a factory up north. Maybe they're operating again." He got to his feet and stood awkwardly by the table. "Besides—I've got some pay coming."

Nora didn't say anything.

Frank said, "Well—so long. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe. Goodbye."

 

* * *

 

Frank Brooks walked north on Clark Street. He was glad to get away from the restaurant. Nora was a good kid but hell—you didn't take up with a hooker. A guy played around, but you didn't stick with them.

 

But it made a guy think. He was past the kid stage. It was time for him to find a girl and settle down. A guy didn't want to knock around all his life.

 

* * *

 

Nora walked west on Madison Street. Then she remembered the Halstead Street slums were in that direction and turned south on Wells. She had nine dollars in her bag and that worried her. You couldn't get along on nine dollars in Chicago very long.

There was a tavern on Jackson near Wells. Nora went inside. The barkeep didn't frown at her. That was good. She went to the bar and ordered a beer and was served.

After a while a man came in. A middle aged man who might have just come into Chicago—whose bags might still be at the LaSalle Street Station down the block. The man looked at Nora, then away. After a while looked at her again.

Nora smiled.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Butcher" by Bill Woolfolk (in English)

art by John Buscema - Wanted Comics #51 - Orbit Publications, Inc., December 1952.

 

 

Good Reading: "D’un Oggetto Leggiadro e Pellegrino" by Michelangelo Buonarroti (in Italian)

  D’un oggetto leggiadro e pellegrino,
d’un fonte di pietà nasce ’l mie male.

Friday's Sung Word: "Marcha da Prima... Vera" by Noel Rosa (in Portuguese)

Chama-se Vera
A minha prima
Não é Severa
Pois é Vera só
Não é a prima do violão
É a sobrinha da minha avó

E receando que a Vera vire fera
Fiz esta marcha para a prima Vera

A Vera prima
Por ser primeira
Achando rima
Para o verbo amar
Não vai ao rádio, mas irradia
Antipatia por seu olhar

A prima Vera
Dizendo a idade
Não é sincera,
Diminui demais!
Se nos contasse as primaveras
Era mais velha do que seus pais!

 

You can listen "Marcha da Prima... Vera" sung by Vânia Bastos here.