The Dedalus Book of French Horror: The 19th Century (28 page)

In the interests of sparing me, my passions, the laws of marriage, and Berthe’s infidelity were all invoked. Ridiculous! I flushed with shame as I listened to these monstrous pratings. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, members of the bar, it is clear to see that, unlike myself, you have never lived face to face with a corpse of your own making! So there you have it then! These gentlemen have the death penalty available to them: but they daren’t apply it, and they daren’t abolish it. Completely lacking in courage, they ignominiously looked for excuses for me; they found them too, which was criminal on their part, they turned their backs and washed their hands.

Don’t you worry, all you Pilates: the sentence you didn’t have the courage to pass so as to set an example, I shall carry out myself. I have the right, don’t I? I am the master of my own life. Of no other lives, do you understand, but I am the master of this one, and I shall dispose of it. I don’t want it anymore. Good night.

It seems as if it were only yesterday, though these events occurred towards the beginning of 1788. We were dining at the home of a fellow-colleague from the
Académie française
, one who was known equally for his high-living and his wit. The company was large and somewhat mixed: courtiers, lawyers, writers, academicians, etc. As usual, we had rather over indulged ourselves. The Malmsey, which was served during dessert, added to the general gaiety and contributed not a little to the lowering of the tone of the occasion. In a word, we had arrived at the stage where anything goes provided it provokes a laugh. Chamfort
¹
read us some of his licentious and impious tales, and the ladies present, all of the very best society, listened without once having recourse to their fans. After that, there was a deluge of jokes at the expense of religion. Someone recited a passage from
La Pucelle
;
²
someone else repeated with approval Diderot’s
philosophical
couplet:

And the entrails of the last priest

Will wring the neck of the last king

A third person clambered to his feet and, raising his glass, shouted:
‘Yes, gentlemen, I am as convinced that God does not exist as I am that Homer was an utter idiot.’
And indeed he was as certain of the first proposition as the second; and, after that, we talked of Homer and God, and a number of the guests spoke up in favour of one or the other. The conversation then took a more serious turn. Everyone was full of admiration for the revolution that Voltaire had started, and it was agreed that this was his principal claim to fame. ‘He has left his mark on the century; his works are as popular in the servants’ quarters as they are in the drawing room.’ One of guests, barely able to restrain his mirth, recounted how his barber, even as he was powdering him, had said: ‘
Begging your pardon, sir, though I may be a mere lackey, I am as sceptical in matters of religion as the next man
.’ The consensus of opinion was that the revolution would burn itself out before long, that what was needed was for
superstition and fanaticism to give way to philosophy
, and that it was just a matter of predicting exactly when that would be and which of the present company would live to see the reign of reason. The oldest members complained that they had no such expectations; the younger members flattered themselves that they had every chance of so doing, and particularly praised the
Académie
for having led the way and for having been the inspiration, the bastion, and the driving force of freedom of thought.

One and one only of the guests had played no part in this delightful conversation, and even made one or two little sallies at the expense of our collective enthusiasm. That man was Cazotte, an affable if somewhat eccentric individual who, unfortunately for him, was much given to
illuministe
reveries.
³
He began to speak in a serious tone:

‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘do not distress yourselves, you shall all witness the
great and wonderful revolution
which you so desire. As you know, I am reputed to have the gift of being able to foretell the future: I tell you, you shall witness it, one and all.’

This remark was met with a familiar refrain: anyone could tell you that!

‘Perhaps. But a higher gift is required for what I am going to tell you now. Do you know where this revolution is leading, do you know what it shall mean for you, each one of you here tonight, and what will happen next, what the consequences, the very real consequences, will be?’

‘Ah ha!’ said Condorcet,
⁴
in that insinuating yet somewhat inane manner of his. ‘The philosopher should not allow himself to be put out of humour by a simple seer.’

‘You, M. de Condorcet, shall breathe your last stretched out on the paving stones of a dungeon. You shall die of a poison which you have swallowed in order to cheat the public executioner, a poison that the
happy
days ahead shall oblige you to carry about your person at all times.’

There was great astonishment at this, until it was remembered that Cazotte was prone to day-dreaming, and so everyone laughed the more loudly.

‘M. Cazotte, the story you have just recounted is less amusing than your
Devil in Love
. What in God’s name has filled your head with dungeons, poison and public executioners? What have these things to do with
philosophy
and the
reign of reason
?’

‘I shall tell you: it is in the name of philosophy, humanity, liberty, it will be during the reign of reason, that you shall end your days in the manner I have just described.
Reign of Reason!
What an appropriate expression, for reason will have its own temples; not only that, but throughout the whole of France there shall be no other temples than those of reason.’

‘If you ask me,’ butted in Chamfort, with a sarcastic smile, ‘it is unlikely that they will ask you to become one of its priests.’

‘Very true, M. Chamfort. But, quite rightly, they shall ask you to do so. You shall make twenty-two slashes in your own wrists with a razor-blade, yet you shall not die until some months later.’

Everyone looked around uneasily before laughing.

‘You, M. Vicq-d’Azyr, you shall not open your veins yourself; but after being bled by a doctor during an attack of gout, you shall open the wound six times in the space of a single day in order to be sure of achieving your purpose; and you shall pass away that same night. For you, M. de Nicolaï, it is the scaffold; for you likewise, M. Bailly; and also for you, M. de Malesherbes …’

‘Thank God for that,’ interjected Roucher. ‘I though M. Cazotte only had it in for the
Académie
. We’ve been decimated. What about me though?’

‘You shall die on the scaffold.’

A cry went up around the table: ‘A wager! He has sworn to exterminate us one by one.’

‘No, it is not I who have made such a wager.’

‘Then we shall be overwhelmed by the Turks and the Tartars?’

‘Not at all. I told you: you shall be governed by
philosophy
alone, by
reason
alone. Those who treat you thus will be all
philosophers
, will repeat the same nonsense that you have been trotting out for the last hour, make use of the same maxims, cite the same passages from Diderot and
La Pucelle
.’

‘He’s quite mad, of course,’ the guests whispered to each other (for Cazotte maintained the same serious expression). ‘Besides, you can tell he’s pulling our leg; there is always something marvellous about his jokes.’

‘Yes,’ replied Chamfort, ‘but with him the marvellous is not funny; it is gallows-humour. So, when is all this due to happen?’

‘Everything I have foretold shall occur within the next six years.’

‘It will be a miracle if it does,’ I said. ‘But I trust I shall not to be left out.’

‘You shall be the object of the greatest miracle of all: you shall be converted to Christianity.’

Gasps of surprise.

‘Ah!’ said Chamfort. ‘That’s reassuring to know. If none of us are to perish until La Harpe is converted to Christianity, then we shall all be immortal.’

‘All I can say,’ said the duchess de Grammont, ‘is that I am pleased we women won’t be mixed up in your
revolutions
. Not that we shan’t dabble a bit, of course, but then our sex is our protection …’

‘Your sex, my lady, shall be of no benefit to you this time; and try as you might not to become involved, you shall be treated no differently from the men.’

‘Come, come, M. Cazotte! You are predicting the end of the world.’

‘Am I? I am not sure. What I do know though is that you, my lady, will be led to the scaffold, you and many other ladies with you, in the tumbrel with your hands tied behind your back.’

‘At the very least I would have hoped for a coach draped in black crêpe.’

‘No, my lady; many ladies of higher rank than yourself shall make the journey in a simple tumbrel with their hands tied behind their backs.’

‘Higher rank than I? What! The royal princesses?’

‘Higher still …’

A movement of revulsion passed through those gathered together, and the brow of our host darkened. The joke had gone too far now. Madame de Grammont, in order to avoid further embarrassment, pretended not to hear this last remark and merely replied in a bantering tone:

‘Even you would not deprive me of my confessor.’

‘No, my lady, you shall have no confessor; neither you, nor anyone else; the last victim to have a confessor, and that by special favour, will be …’

He paused for a moment. ‘So then! Who is the fortunate mortal for whom such a favour shall be granted? It is the last one he will ever receive; and he is the king of France.’

The master of the house rose to his feet brusquely, and everyone else with him. He went up to M. Cazotte and said to him in an angry tone: ‘My dear M. Cazotte, this rather lugubrious joke has gone far enough; I will not have my guests compromised.’

Cazotte made no reply and had started to take his leave when Madame de Grammont, wishing to avoid a scene at all costs and restore some gaiety to the proceedings, approached him and said:

‘Mighty seer, you have revealed the future to us. Now tell us what it holds in store for you.’

There was a moment of silence and everyone averted their eyes.

‘Have you read the account of the Siege of Jerusalem in Josephus?’

‘Certainly. Hasn’t everyone read it? But let us imagine that I am not familiar with the passage.’

‘Well, my lady, during the siege, a man walked around the battlements of Jerusalem for seven days in succession, in full view of attackers and defenders alike, shouting in a fearful voice:
Woe unto Jerusalem!
On the seventh day, he shouted:
Woe unto Jerusalem! Woe unto myself!
And at that moment, an enormous stone, catapulted from one of the enemy siege-engines, smashed him to pieces.’

On that note, M. Cazotte bowed to the company and left.

  
1
   Nicolas Sébastien Roch
de Chamfort
(1741–1794) is now remembered only for his
Maximes, caractères et anecdotes
, published after his death. An ardent supporter of the French Revolution, his bitterness and disillusionment with high society is clearly reflected in this work. Having fallen under suspicion during the Terror, he took his own life.

  
2
   
La Pucelle
(
d’Orléans
)
(1762). Ribald epic poem by Voltaire intended to ridicule the Catholic doctrine of virginity and the belief in saints and miracles.

  
3
   
Jacques Cazotte
(1719–1792). As well as being a man of letters (remembered principally for
Le Diable amoureux
), Cazotte was interested in occult philosophy. The allusion here is to the mystical doctrines of Louis-Claude de Saint-Martin (1743–1803). By developing his or her latent faculties, the
illuministe
was supposed to be capable of understanding the mysteries of divine creation.

  
4
   Antoine Nicolas de
Condorcet
(1743–1794). Mathematician and philosopher and later an ardent partisan of the French Revolution. He took poison to avoid the guillotine in the manner La Harpe suggests.

The winter will be long and bleak. Nature has a dismal aspect. That of the social world scarcely less so. You dread the tedium of the theatre. You dread the tedium of concerts. You dread above all the tedium of social gatherings. What you must do is have a fire lit, a big, bright fire, flames dancing and crackling, and dim the lamps a little now that their light is no longer needed; order your servant, should you happen to have one, to come in only when the bell is rung. With everything thus arranged, I urge you to recount or else to listen to stories, in the midst of your family and friends, for I have not imagined you to be alone. If you are alone, however, tell some stories to yourself. This is a different kind of pleasure, and it has indeed its reward. I have tasted a little of everything, and I have truly never enjoyed anything more.

But if what interests you are stories of the fantastic, I must warn you that this kind of story demands more art and judgement than is ordinarily imagined, and, in the first place, there are several varieties of fantastic tale.

There is the false fantastic tale, whose charm derives from the twinned credulity of the teller and the listener, like Perrault’s fairy tales, the underestimated masterpiece of a century of masterpieces.

There is the ambiguous fantastic tale, which leaves the mind suspended in dreamy melancholy doubt, lulling it like a melody, rocking it like a dream.

There is the true fantastic tale, which is supreme above all, because it deeply stirs the heart, though not at the cost of sacrificing reason; and what I mean by the
true fantastic tale
– for a conjunction of words such as this needs must be explained – is the narration of an event held to be materially impossible while yet having taken place for all to see. This kind is rare in truth, so rare, so rare that today I can recall no other example but the story of Hélène Gillet.