Nora, The Ape-Woman Page 10

  “That doesn’t happen often. They’re usually very gentle.”

  “If you saw them in the free state, as I’ve seen them in Borneo,” said Goldry, “there would be reason to be afraid—especially of their defunct chief, King Ouha, a superb beast, who was my close friend for six months.”

  “Truly?” asked the Célimène. “Is that the one we’ve seen in the cinema?”

  “The very same—but the role was played by our friend Narcisse.”

  “Impossible! So, you’ve made a film, Monsieur?”

  “I’ve done a little of everything,” the ape replied, modestly. “I saw that it gave pleasure to these Messieurs, and it didn’t disturb my studies at all, since it was filmed in our establishment.”

  “So that’s why people were ecstatic about the strength and agility of the actor who was believed to be an acrobat in disguise. And the plot, Monsieur Goldry—was that the product of a romantic imagination?”28

  “No, Madame; unfortunately, it’s rigorously true; I lost my dear friends that way.”

  “How exciting all that must have been!” exclaimed the American woman. “Don’t you think so, my dear?”

  “What? Yes…gripping, even.”

  “All my life as a scholar,” Dr. Goldry went on, “has been devoted to the study of the precursors of humankind. Cheerfully, he added, pointing at Narcisse: “And you can see the result.”

  “Will Monsieur Narcisse be coming to Paris?” asked Cécile Borel.

  “Certainly! Paris is the only place where the completion of our work can take place, but he’ll only go when he’ll be able to demonstrate his superiority in everything.”

  “It’s fortunate, then, that my work is finished!” said Ernest Paris, fearfully.

  “Pardon me, Master,” said Jacquot, “but your masterpiece, Le Vrai Jésus, isn’t finished.”

  “I don’t believe that it ever will be; it’s not progressing, as you know very well.”

  “Doubtless because you lack documents.”

  “On the contrary, I have too many of them. They all contradict one another—and they call that history! Oh, my friends, what a cacophony historical documents make! One flounders trying to determine what happened fifteen years ago, and I had the stupid idea of wanting to revive a man dead for nineteen centuries! I have a strong desire to abandon that great agitator, whom I was perhaps wrong to consider as the precursor of democracy, and content myself with living on my laurels.”

  “And what if I were able to revive that singular prophet just for you?” said Marc Vanel. “If you could follow him, step by step, through his singular existence?”

  “Then I’d believe that you really are a sorcerer, and I’d demand a pyre for you!”

  “Thank you! But you’d regret it. In all times, people have wanted to see everyone bringing a new idea as a sorcerer. I’m not talking, of course, about those who only find a new way of exploiting human credulity—I’m talking about those who were the actual precursors of present day science, the likes of Flamel, Paracelsus, Van Helmont and many others. They committed errors, were imbued with the prejudices of their time, and believed in God and the Devil, but they were seekers nonetheless, and sometimes they found. What are we, the scientists of today? Seekers like them, but better equipped, and, informed by the very errors of our forerunners, more suspicious, rid of the lumber of superstitions, we have more elbow room. In science, as in literature, my dear Master, the blossoming of our discoveries only takes place of the dung-hill of our predecessors. The very word sorcerer indicates sourcer—which is to say the source of the stream, the river of science, which flows into the ocean of human knowledge.”

  “Perfect deduction,” said Ernest Paris, “and I offer you my humblest apologies. Instead of burning you I’ll surround you with the burning incense of my admiration.”

  Dr. Fortin did not blink. In his usual bantering tone the replied: “Be careful that I don’t punish you for your incredulous smile.”

  “Punish me? How?”

  “By causing your self to pass into the brain of Narcisse.”

  “My God!” And, putting down his glass, the Academician fled as fast as he could.

  “Oh, Monsieur Fortin, what have you done?” Jacquot pretended to moan. “My poor Master!”

  The doctor writhed with laughter. “No! Did you see him run, the old ape!”

  “You were wrong, Fortin,” said Serge Voronoff. “He won’t come back.”

  “Excuse me,” said Jacquot, “but I can’t let my employer leave alone.”

  “But I haven’t gone,” said Paris, “showing his mocking face at the door. I had a fright, it’s true, but on reflection…and with apologies to Fortin...”

  “Indeed!” said the latter. “And to Vanel—after all, he started it.”

  “Messieurs, you’re stronger than me. So, I can abase myself without shame. Against strength...”

  “All the fantasies of the mind are authorized,” said Marc Vanel. “From one spark a conflagration can bring, and a great discovery from the most puerile thing. So, I was telling you that I can revive for you the epoch and the person of Jesus. Do you know how? By cinematography.”

  “Films before our era? You’re going to recommence your phantasmagorias?”

  “Have you heard mention of photography at a distance, and its results?”

  “Of course,” said Ernest Paris. “My portrait was made, from Vaugirard, at Saint-Raphael.”

  “Well, what can be done over distance it’s sufficient to do over time. It’s quite simple, you see.”

  “Especially in words. But in fact?”

  “It’s quite simple. A luminous ray propagates through space like a wave in the immensity of the ocean, a wave in the atmosphere and, we now have the proof, a sidereal wave in the ether. Thus, a continuous ray is made of an object struck by light, and propagates to infinity; thus, the ray that, in the year 33, illuminated the death of Jesus, will soon have been in progress for two thousand years, and can be recovered at the corresponding distance with the speed of light.”29

  “Good, good! Fine, in theory. But if you think that I can follow you at that speed…! So you, Marc Vanel, will be at the end of that ray with a cinephotographic apparatus, to capture the agony and the death of Jesus?”

  “Certainly I shall be there! And with an apparatus more accurate and more rapid than photography, which requires several fractions of a second. Mine will be instantaneous.”

  “What do you call this trick?”

  “It doesn’t have a name yet.”

  “In that case, my dear Jacquot, we can let Jesus sleep until then. We’ll be able to remain unable to do anything... What, Mesdames, you haven’t gone to sleep during that conversation?”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to,” Maud replied. “It’s too exciting. Will you let me see the film of the Messiah, Monsieur Vanel?”

  “Whatever you wish, Mademoiselle. I have no secrets for a pretty woman.”

  “Oho!” said Cécile Borel. “You see the boldness of these scientists! Well, personally, I’m not like Miss Maud. All these hypotheses—or realities, since it’s necessary to believe in them—scare me. I’d rather remain in the ignorance and credulity of the good old times than compromise my salvation with the Devil.”

  “A good Devil, at any rate,” said Nora, “and not frightening at all. Where are the scholars of legend, white haired, with massively long beards? Our modern scientists aren’t yet sixty, and as solid as oak trees. And the acorn is still growing, I think. How much science it has been possible to acquire in so few years—especially in your case, Monsieur Vanel, still so young and so...”

  “Go on, Mademoiselle, finish. So…?”

  Nora hesitated momentarily, and then, bravely, admitted: “So visibly handsome.”

  “Really? I might please you?”

  “Although the scientist frightens me a little, the man seems very agreeable to me.”

  “Will you permit me to come and hear you repeat that at your home, Mademoise
lle?”

  “I’ll be as flattered by that as the visit of Master Ernest Paris, who solicited the same favor just now.”

  “In that case, my first visit in Paris will be to you, I assure you.”

  “I have many friends—but I prefer quality to quantity.”

  “You’re exquisite, Mademoiselle Nora.”

  Cécile Borel stood up. “One doesn’t get bored with you, Messieurs, but time’s passing, and the moment has come to fly back to Paris. I hope that we’ll see one another again in Paris. My box will always be open to you, and my drawing room too.” Turning to the celebrated writer, she added: “And you, dear Master and bad lot, also know that I live near the Académie.”

  “Oh, the Académie—I don’t got there very often. On the other hand, I adore the quais. I shall therefore come to ask for shelter on rainy days or when the sun is too hot.”

  “You’ll always find a good welcome.”

  “In Paris,” sang Ernest Paris, “there are roses... That’s the influence of the environment! You see, Voronoff, I feel quite sprightly. You’re going back too, then?”

  “It’s necessary. Business, my dear. The vacation is over. Shall I take Romeo?”

  “What a demon tempter! Let’s see, my friend, I still have a little left...that little Nora, you know—I only have to look at her…but yes, it’s just as I say!”

  “Shut up, you old ape—as if I didn’t know you! Be very prudent.”

  “Let’s go then. All the same, I’ll come to see you...I’m not promising anything…but take Romeo anyway.”

  When the visitors had gone, the four augurs looked at one another, laughing.

  “Where the Devil are you trying to lead him with your story of Jesus?” asked Jean Fortin. “The poor fellow’s almost convinced that you stroll among the stars.”

  “Who knows? Perhaps it will come.”

  “And our daughter?” said Dr. Goldry. “She pretended not to know us, the silly girl. Did you see her in the cage? There are reminiscences, though. There’s still a little atavism in her.”

  “It will be better next time. So, Voronoff, he seems to have made up his mind, the Immortal?”

  “He’ll have to if he wants to offer himself to Nora. She’s not an ape for nothing, and won’t always be content with the bagatelles de la porte.”30

  “It’s singular, all the same, that a man of that intelligence can become so lubricious with age. In him, it’s becoming a monomania—because he can’t do it anymore he thinks about it incessantly.”

  “Who knows what the future has in reserve for us? It would be a pity—such a waste of time! What are you thinking about, Homo-Deus?”

  “I’m thinking about Nora, our daughter. She’s terribly inebriating.”

  “You’re thinking about that too? After all, it’s your age…what about you, Narcisse?”

  “Me?” replied the orangutan. “To possess her would be heaven…the rainbow...she’s so beautiful!”

  “Him too! Hang on, I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed the facetious Fortin. “Narcisse, you’ll be the rival of Ernest Paris, and, I’ll wager, the preferred rival. By the sacred backside of the Pope, there’ll be a few days of jolly fun for us yet!”

  XI. The Invisible Satyr

  Nora had been back in Paris for ten days. She had retained a certain impression from her excursion to Eze, but her versatile mind had not sought to delve into its cause; she continued her music hall life and fleeting adventures without worrying unduly about the past. Nevertheless, she had taken a certain interest in the existence of her quartet of fathers. That pleased her by virtue of its very strangeness; furthermore, she had sensed that the four fantastic doctors were not men to neglect, and that they might once again have a great influence over her life. So, from time to time, she visited the Voronoff Institute in order to meet one of her fathers there, and to see her goddaughter Nora, in whom she was increasingly interested.

  Another motive for distraction for her was Ernest Paris, who was paying assiduous court to her, bringing, at every visit, a rich volume or one of the art-works with which his town house, in the Villa Saïd on the Avenue Foch, was overflowing. Jules Ducon took great pride in the Academician’s visits to his mistress, taking in good part, for the benefit of his vanity, the luster that that glorious presence gave his relationship with the dancer. She was much less interested, being entirely indifferent to matters of literature. But as, on several occasions, Cécile Borel and Ernest Paris had run into one another in her drawing room, with Maud and other people better informed than she was, she had observed the servility of those visitors before the illustrious writer, and had concluded in consequence that she ought to welcome the Master with consideration and amiability.

  The reputation as a fine talker that surrounded Ernest Paris was not, in any case, superficial, and, ignorant as the dancer was, she ended up finding a considerable charm in his reiterated visits. As for the Master, who desired Nora ardently, he took full account of the fact that he was in no state to satisfy her, for he divined that she was very voluptuous, and thought it wiser, while awaiting the favorable moment, to limit himself to the bagatelles de la porte—certain that both battens of the door in question would open easily on the day that he felt the strength to penetrate it.

  On the day in question, Ernest Paris had just left, after having tried to awaken a certain virility by means of lewd talk and tentative caresses. Although he had made transparent allusions to it, he had not dared to ask the young woman squarely for what he obtained so benevolently and actively from the Marquise de Virmile, and Nora, left alone and slightly excited, was rather nonplussed by that unexpected retreat. Having not thus far frequented old men, she had not taken account of the frustrations of senility. Why, she wondered, awaken her sensuality only to retire before the decisive gesture? Was it disdain on the novelist’s part? Did he judge her unworthy of his love? She remained somewhat irritated by the adventure, and went back into her drawing room shrugging her shoulders. Decidedly, she did not understand.

  She stood in front of the mantelpiece and looked at herself complaisantly in the mirror above it. From her face, her gaze descended to her shoulders, her arms, slender but not thin, and parted her dress in order to free her firm, small breasts, whose tips suddenly became firm under the caress of her hands.

  A whim came into her head then. She was quite alone; the chambermaid, Berthe, was not due to return, and the cook never emerged from her domain. The desire to see herself naked and admire herself in lascivious poses, to dance for herself alone, for her own pleasure, caused her to undress herself in a trice and to display herself, a splendid statuette of blue-tinted marble, in the middle of the room. With her arms gracefully curved above her head, she admired herself at length.

  Then, slowly, with the suppleness of a cat stretching, her entire body entered into a dance, without her quitting her sculptural pose, and every part of her began to move. By turns, her breasts, her shoulders, her abdomen and her hips made particular graces, gyrations, slow or rapid comings and goings. It was like a symphony of flesh animated by a voluptuousness that did not depart from the dancer. Nora was dancing for herself; her entire body and al her senses participated therein, and she enjoyed herself fully—more, even than if she had had a male partner.

  Suddenly, she stopped, staring into the large mirror. Two luminous points were scintillating there, like a vague green reflection of emerald or beryl issuing from an unknown source.

  That’s odd, she said to herself. One might think that the eyes of a god or a genie were looking at me...

  And that thought reminded her of her childish dreams, of enchantresses, genies and Prince Charming. She smiled, blew a kiss to her dream, and resumed her dance, which suddenly became wilder.

  Was it an atavistic memory of past times? She bounded, ran on all fours, leapt, spun, and, as in the theater, stopped a vertical leap and remained as motionless as a Tanagra statuette, a marble of quivering flesh, in front of the mirror, where, naively and bestially,
she admired herself, detailing all her perfections, and caressing her belay and loins with her hands.

  And another fantasy surged forth: that of getting to know that Flower of voluptuousness better. She went to fetch a hand-mirror from the sideboard, and, bending over, contorting herself in order to see more clearly, she examined that delicate organ attentively, which plays such a large role in the life of a woman.

  In the depilation of her ape’s body, the physicians had contrived a silky black triangle of public hair, and Nora, amused, caressed it softly, while bending over further and further in order not to miss any detail of the voluptuous contractions of that orchid.

  Suddenly, she felt two caressant hands seize her by the hips, and an ardent breath burning the nape of her neck. Frightened, she pulled away and paraded a bewildered glance around her. There was no one there, and yet, the same expert hands recommenced running everywhere; a mouth glided, searching for hers; she felt herself pushed and pulled toward the divan.

  A convulsive tremor gripped her and, as she finally found herself laid down on the cushions, as she felt a body extend over her, she made a supreme effort, and escaped once again.

  A burst of laughter rang out.

  Then, terror took possession of her; her bestial nature got the upper hand. With savage howls she bounded over the walls, the paintings, the tapestries, the curtains, which tore and collapsed with her on to the carpet. Frantically, she leapt, bounding over the furniture, running on all fours, panting, her eyes bulging, her jaw menacing, her mouth foaming. In that disorder, to be sure, the beauty became the beast again—but even so, she remained graceful, desirable.

  But the pursuit did not cease. Finally, blocked in a corner, she was seized, dominated and carried to the divan, where more exact caresses recommenced.

  Exhausted, Nora submitted.

  Then, under the kisses, her nature gained the upper hand again, and, wildly, with frenetic ardor, she gave herself.

  For the first time, she sensed that she was in that fantastic domain for which she had searched so ardently and so vainly. It could only be a genie, one of those marvelous beings that had the gift of invisibility, and which would soon reveal itself to her with all the prestige of its omnipotence! And she was the foremost lover of that god of fantasy, the Danaë of that new Jupiter, with the sexual rain that was inundating her with its fecund semen. She waited for the shower of gold and precious gems, and once again, savant caresses made her entire being vibrate.