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  “Into the azure! Forwards! If we Terrans can achieve the cerebral summation sufficient to subsist fluidically, we can escape to go in search of superior humankinds and acquire the knowledge that is still lacking down here.”

  Diana, her head reeling fearfully in the blue décor full of stars that surrounded her, representing the Immensity to her, yielded to the domination of the two mages. Each of them holding one of her hands, Adsum continued to hold her in the vertiginous precipices of thought.

  “Don’t be afraid, dear spirit, stay with us! That vast Universe is nothing; it is no more, in its amplitude, than the body of any being composed of atoms. If one were to throw into space all the grains of sand and drops of water on Earth, that dust would be less than all the worlds that surround us. Numbers lose all value here, since it is the incommensurable. The human mind demands a limit, for it wants a limit to everything, but here, there cannot be one. It is as impossible to imagine a limit to infinity as it is to imagine infinity. Infinity is a terrible word that weighs upon the mind but tells us nothing. Nothing is finite in nature, since everything recommences.

  “Is it not the same in this limitless milieu? Has it a center, a Universal navel, from which a will departs? We humans have acquired the habit of considering our Sun as the nucleus of life; it is merely the center of a planetary system, itself describing a mighty orbit around an unknown capital. Is that the universal point of departure of worlds? No! For our Sun is merely one star in the Milky Way, in which there are millions of suns. It is a splendid chaos, ordered of its own accord, with laws of attraction and the gravity of bodies acting upon one another.

  “And that formidable amalgam of worlds and sun, we find once again in the most infinitesimal of beings. That animalcule, only visible in a microscope, is composed of millions of atoms, as the Universe is of millions of stars. Every atom has its individual life, dying and living again incessantly, perhaps progressively. We ought to accord a directing spirit to all organisms that reproduce. There is a spirit in the atom, since it exists, lives, dies and modifies itself. Is there, in that scale of beings, a primordial molecule, the basis of everything that exists? Humans have created words—cells, molecules—that signify no more than the word infinity. The almost-nothing, no matter how microscopic it might be, is a base of creation. Everything is divisible in the extreme, and when we want to take census of atoms, we count them in billions per square millimeter—which is a figure that surpasses our intellect.

  “And the atom is ourselves; we are composed of that impalpable dust; it is us, and we are not, in sum, its masters. Those infinitely small entities regulate what, for them, is a universe; they impose their will upon it, make it suffer, kill it, without it being able to do anything against them, since destroying them would be destroying itself. Well, why refuse those atoms, which compose everything that exist, a directing spirit of which we are the proof? Thus, molecular infinity exists as well as stellar infinity, and the infinitely small mirrors the infinitely large. Everything fuses and mingles, atoms and suns.

  “And in addition to matter, the visible component of worlds, there is force, the fluids that we only know in part, as yet, and which are innumerable. These fluids include those that relate to animal and plant life, which are the intellectual parts of everything that exist. In the middle, if there is one, of that mysterious gulf of nature, the human mind, which is a supreme fluid in respect of it, struggles and seeks to understand. Ought we to renounce that and be content to live the beautiful life of the fortunate of the Earth, without that higher preoccupation? Or rather, should we lose our reason therein, go in search of the unknown, the incomprehensible, the great why?”

  Adsum’s thought, which was perceptibly communicated to the other two, Ormus and Diana, by his voice and his quivering fingers, paused.

  The two dreamers seemed to wake up with a start among the stars, each with one hand under the empery of the hands of the Master Adsum, who was looking at them, as if his forehead were illuminated by an internal fire.

  XIX. The Enchantment of Billions

  That flight outside life had exhausted Dina mentally and physically. For Ormus, the sensation was not new; he knew that the domination of his mind was due to Adsum’s spiritual supremacy over him, just as his own mind was the master of the Duchess. Now, that suggestion of a master thought, which fused the three minds into one, that voyage in infinity had become a reality for the Duchess; the two men had converted her physical awakening and the appeal of her senses into a sort of mental sensuality, an ecstasy of psychic love in the ether, a double friction and erosion of ideas, in an ideal orgy, to such an extent that the woman was exhausted by it. It seemed that her brain was stunned, sunk in a vague torpor.

  Such moments are rare in the human species. Scarcely having fallen asleep, the mind travels anew, sometimes creating a veritable existence for us alongside the other, where the minutes count as hours. At other times, our brain gives birth to a kind of kaleidoscope, where events and beings mingle in a host of various impressions devoid of order and cohesion. Are dreams a kind of relaxation, or repose? It is permissible to doubt it, for some have a complication and an order more elevated than that of waking life, in which the mind—domesticated, so to speak—devotes itself to a more regular and less fantastic labor.

  Adsum left the exhausted Duchess in that state of mental morbidity for a moment; then he extended the palm of his right hand over her, holding the fingers and thumb together, extended and imperious, in order to pour a dose of energy into her and revive her vacillating spirit.

  She straightened up and smiled at the two mages.

  “O Father” she stammered, “Are you a god?”

  “The human imagination has created gods in order to focus adoration by lending them a form, a personality in its own image, and has given them names. But God, if there is a God, is incomprehensible. The human masses demand a god less vague, and our duty, as pastors of that immense flock, is to impose a divinity upon them that at least has a plausible rationale in his religion. Thus, the Ancients recognized as a primordial divinity the Sun, the father and fecundator of the Earth, to which he distributes light and hat: the Sun, the principal fire, with his twelve divisibilities, which are the signs of the zodiac and from which mythologies have taken divinities concordant with the months and the seasons: the twelve gods of Olympus, Hercules and his twelve labors, Jesus and his twelve disciples.

  “In sum, I want to reestablish the true religion deformed by people and the centuries by a mixture of myths and schisms; a purified religion that returns to the source from which everything issues, more or less—the eternal Father, the Sun; to the veneration of a unique, visible and nurturing god.

  “The Flower of Truth, founded on that natural and luminous base, abolishes eternal punishments, with are not only sins against bounty but against justice. The wicked are punished by themselves, because wickedness, which is a lack of wisdom, retards their psychic progress, stagnates them in inferior reincarnations, while the mentality of the sage rises ever higher.

  “Here, in broad outline, is our new religion, established very simply, without obscure, prolix and destructive theologies:

  “There is but one god who reigns in the heavens, the Sun, the principle of life and beauty.

  “No salaried clergy, no temples, no icons. It only requires a propaganda by way of the press, regulated by a committee of sages elected by everyone, maintained by voluntary offerings whose surplus will be directed into scientific works.

  “Fraternal aid between all humans, regardless of nationality; they are human, and that is sufficient.

  “It is necessary not to kill that which bleeds, nor suppress that which vegetates. The plant that is uprooted and the tree that is cuts down must suffer as much as the fish one hooks or the kid whose throat is cut. Doubtless it is a law of life; humans, born to be both carnivorous and herbivorous, as their jaws prove, cannot spare plants and animals, but ought to make them die only in accordance with their needs, with as litt
le cruelty as possible.

  “Time and distance have no real value except in the human mind, and in the context of universal life, do not exist. Intelligence exists in everything, feeblest in the atom and the mite, at its apogee in human beings, but superior, doubtless formidable in the heavenly bodies and our sun, which are the supreme progress of the atom and are the true faces of god.

  “That is our gospel. We shall analyze it and develop it without further delay, rendering it accessible to any intelligence; and henceforth, my Daughter, it is to the three of us, its founders, who are responsible for that work.”

  Adsum fell silent.

  Diana’s brain was seething under the influence of these ideas, new to her. Previously, like all Anglo-Saxons, she had—without any genuine faith, it is true—practiced the Bible, which, in her eyes, was the book of revelation that no other could replace. It seemed paltry now, that incongruous ensemble of parables, debatable in its morality, corresponding as well as could be expected to the history of a nomadic people: a population of shepherds mutating into warriors and creating a god of wrath and pride, Jehovah. Henceforth, Diana Bering could strip away, overnight, her womanhood and the weakness of her sex, accentuated by the colossal fortune. After the vanity of her incarnations as Pharaoh’s wife, Cleopatra and Empress Eudoxia, now she was being summoned to be the proselyte and prophetess of a religion destined to rule the Earth. One day, in centuries to come, she would be the equal of a Buddha, a Jesus or a Mohammed, lauded by posterity.

  The two mages read what was passing through the American woman’s mind as in a book, and knew that it meant certain success for the propaganda of their work—but they could not think without bitterness about the baseness of the means they had employed for the conquest of that magnificent prey.

  “Everything I have belongs, from now on, to your great idea,” she said, firmly. “There could not be any nobler goal for my unspeakable fortune, and the nobility of our work will redeem its origin and its immortality.”

  “To work, then!” said Ormus. “I’ll go to New York to see Pytor and reach an understanding with him.” He added: “Now that’s settled, permit me to submit an idea to you that occurred to me three days ago, Diana, in the midst of that somewhat theatrical fête reconstituting the life that we lived together long ago: the idea of seeing in place a region, a country, the sight of which will doubtless recall a magnificent epoch of my anterior life—and also yours, since I was your spouse in those times. I find the idea tempting. Before leaving, we can issue directives setting down the broad outlines of our propaganda. Would you like, Diana, while all that is being organized, to undertake a voyage to Egypt?”

  “What do you think, my Father?” asked the catechumen.

  “I see no objection to it. The Daily Mail is already ringing the bells in a series of articles inspired by us; it will continue, and during the time in Egypt, the necessary arrangements can be made for lecture-tours, in New York, Philadelphia and San Francisco to begin with. After that, we’ll see.”

  “We’ll have to combat hundreds of sects and petty chapels. It will be difficult to supplant the Bible in the Union; it’s deeply rooted there.”

  “We won’t mount a frontal attack right away, and I think it would be wise to make use of skillfully-drawn cuttings. The Bible is a mess of old junk and absurdities, from which one can draw all kinds of deductions. We’ll find some favorable texts therein.”

  “In that case,” said Ormus, “I think we can head for Egypt in mid-January.”

  “And I’ll make every effort,” said Adsum, “to discover the real tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amun.”

  PART TWO: THE PHARAOH’S KISS

  I. The Arrival in Egypt

  As soon as they had passed through the Strait of Messina the travelers perceived a new world opening before them. The warm and perfumed atmosphere already reeked of the Orient. In the Liparian archipelago they went past the orange-gardens of Panarea and Stromboli. The dawn rose, blonde and gilded, over lapis-lazuli waves; violet spangles glittered on the waves, scarcely fringed by a fine lace of foam, while the snowy summit of volcano on the horizon—Etna—sparkled like a splendid diamond in the light of the rising sun.

  On the ninth of January 1928, Diana set foot on Egyptian soil, with her two companions. Ten years previously, she had made that classic voyage in the company of the Duke of Rutland, and had conserved a rather disgusted memory of it. That journey through the cosmopolitan palaces, with so little relationship to Egyptian life, had not encouraged her to recommence it in the same conditions; finding Alexandria too worldly, she had preferred to disembark at Rosette.

  Three automobiles had been loaded on to the largest of the billionairess’s yachts, the Pharaoh—caravans of a sort, designed for speed and habitation—the first for the Duchess and her chambermaid, the second for Adsum and Ormus, and the third for the kitchen and the servants, three of whom were chauffeurs and one a cook. These motor-caravans were a masterpiece of comfort and luxury. Everyone, in accordance with their status, was comfortably accommodated, with the least possible embarrassment.

  The disembarkation of the automobiles took some time. Ormus decided to hire a dahabieh to go up the Nile as far as Cairo. The yacht would go through the isthmus of Suez, and reach Djibouti via the Red Sea, where it would wait for the travelers.

  Rosette—or Rachid, to give it its Arab name—was a cluster of tall houses of alternating black, red and yellow bricks, pleasantly aligned. The inhabitants having no taste for regularity or uniformity, the overall effect was a veritably fantastic confusion in which cement, brick and wood competed in polychromatic harmonies. Antal Fodor had telegraphed from there to Cairo to hire the dahabieh and the response was immediate; the Ibis would be in Rosette the following morning.

  After a stroll in the town, they went back aboard the yacht for dinner.

  “I like Rosette much more than Alexandria,” said the Duchess, as she sat down at the table. “Here, one is truly on the threshold of the Orient, whereas in Alexandria, which is an inn for the world, one rubs shoulders with all races.”

  “And not typical,” Adsum replied, “for the majority of those who visit Egypt are enfeebled or worn out cosmopolitans who retain no special characteristics.”

  “Is a fortune a cause of degeneration then, Master?”

  “Yes. Furthermore, marriage between old aristocracies enfeebles their produce. Proof: the representatives of surviving monarchies are all rachitic or idiotic.”

  “It’s a good thing for them, then, when decrepit aristocrats marry a daughter of an energetic race along with a fine dowry.”

  “Energy is rare nowadays. What is gained through sports is lost again through alcohol and narcotics—although it hardly matters that the physical strength of humans is diminishing; only the intelligence interests us. The health and strength of the body can only give impulsion to the mind, though. All three of us are healthy, handsome and sturdy, and our mentality is worthy of its envelope.”

  “Tell me, my Father, do you think we should stay in Cairo for a while?”

  “Yes, for I haven’t seen El Kaïra since the fifteenth century. I was then the caliph Ibn-Qualcum,18 but I suppose nothing much remains of the work I accomplished in that epoch.”

  “Well, we’ll stay there as long as you please. Tomorrow, the automobiles and the dahabieh will be at our disposal, and we can rent a domicile that suits us, for I’m averse to palaces. Can you imagine that ten years ago, instead of excursions, we spent an entire week at a tennis tournament in the grounds of the hotel where we were staying.”

  “That’s how aimless people travel.”

  At that moment, John Maryatt, the captain of the yacht, came into the room. “The weather is superb. Would Madame the Duchess like to take advantage of it for a moonlight trip?”

  “That’s a good idea, Captain.”

  A quarter of an hour later, Diana, Adsum and Ormus took their places in a steam-launch. The sea was smooth and transparent. The stars were reflected therein, giving
the impression of traveling between two skies.

  When they reached Abukir, few lights were shining on the shore. The large wooden cabins, fitted out as rustic lodgings, were only inhabited in summer; the village, which was quite extensive, had thus been deserted by its tenants. Only a few poor Arabs stayed there all year round. The casinos were also closed. Only one, near the airfield, cast the melancholy pallor of its lights over the Nile, along with the distant sounds of a mechanical piano. Beyond the low-lying town the Lakes of Edkou and, further away, Mariotis were visible.

  II. In the Dahabieh

  When they awoke the following morning, a bizarre song attracted the attention of the travelers: a nostalgic tune measured by the rhythm of the oars: “Hey! Hey! Allah, oûa Mohammed rassoul Allah!”—which meant “Courage, brothers, Mohammed is the elect of Allah.”

  It was the captain, the Reïs, of the dahabieh hired the previous evening, who was coming in a launch to receive his orders. John Maryatt greeted him, and while they waited for the passengers to get up, the two men walked up and down the deck smoking cigars.

  The Reïs, a Nubian, was superb; about thirty, alert and well-built, he was a head taller than Maryatt. He was an independent captain, the owner of the dahabieh, the Ibis. His majestic bearing, his handsome face, his jet-black moustache and his immense eyes, like black diamonds, gave him the air of one of those fierce pirates of which Europe had so much trouble purging the Mediterranean. His lips were thick and sensuous, and his costume was embroidered with gold. He identified himself simply as Ahmed—and the rich foreigners who had hired the dahabieh were obliged to pay for its owner too.