Eric Chevillard - Palafox

But then, dear Madame — this crude reply emanating from the general, unsurprising in its crudity even if his kepi stung with stars gives him, from afar, the appearance of a poet lost in his astral dream — do tell us why Palafox only kneels to drink, only joins his hands to break open nuts, and doesn’t pretend to follow any sort of religious practice? Why, among the animals who secrete their lairs into being, those who, more than all their counterparts, should give thanks to their creator, not one of them ever thought it useful to burden themselves with a steeple?

The following reply, from out of the mouth of Baruglio, is just as upsetting — Unless, dear Madame, Palafox is not himself descended from Olympus in the shape of an animal to seduce and carry off Maureen, so great is the beauty of this young mortal, in which case I would wager on Zeus whose tricks we can see in Palafox, this new metamorphosis would betray him as surely as his emblematic lightening-bolt, were he to wield it in our presence, one more metamorphosis in a long line of others, the swan that Leda loved, the eagle that ravished Ganymede, the white bull with gold horns that carried off Europa, the cuckoo that perched on Hera’s lap, the serpent that married Persephone, the jig is up, I have unmasked the God of gods.

More seriously, professor Pierpont will say a few words on the subject of metempsychosis — he clears his throat, that done, he thanks us for putting our pencil sharpeners away, yes, we’re listening — so the fallen souls will be sent to do penitence on the Earth, prisoners of the crude animal envelope in which they are sealed, dominated by basic instincts, condemned to ruminate hay. Think about that before destroying Palafox. Perhaps he shelters the humiliated soul of a sinner that we will expose, in cutting his punishment short, to God knows what worse torments, eternal damnation, trial by fire, eternal wandering in a misty, ruined land. You will doubtless think that this believed assassin, this barbarian, this debauched monk, this bag-thief, after all, merits no pity, but — and there Pierpont slips, just as the hippo inevitably occurs in the mind of he who thinks of the rhino, as we have already noticed, and then storms the lips, in the same way the professor raises the initial subject of metempsychosis, and soon mentions an entirely different hypothesis, reincarnation, as if his knowledge of zoology made him an expert there too — he could also be a righteous man, one of our valiant ancestors, Fontechevade, or your dear wife, Buffoon, in a transitional situation, awaiting his next human incarnation: to destroy Palafox would then be a crime that we would ourselves pay for, in our lives to come.

Madame Fontechevade blushes three times over, out of shame, anger and urticaria, three very nearly imperceptible reactions on this naturally crimson face, opens her mouth to speak next, and a terrible racket of broken dishes reaches our ears, at the same moment, from the neighboring room, priority given over to events, the general’s wife understands. Out of respect for all those who delighted to hear her, were there one such person, comfortably settled in the salon, feet up near the hearth, here, in quick order, is what Madame Fontechevade should have said: by sacrificing Palafox to the gods, we will obtain their mercy for our faults and their support in battle. And now, please join us next door. Taking advantage of our inattention, but of course metaphysics owes everything to scatterbrains, Palafox slipped into the blue salon where Algernon displays his earthenware, his unique artifacts, Hannongs, Clérissys, Fontanas, Masséot Abaquenes. Each day, our friend dusts them, he washes his hands in milk before picking them up, elbows held tightly to sides, he keeps a lid on his gestures, handles the items carefully, like delicate little girls, they are the apple of his eye. The rare visitors admitted in the blue salon are given a thousand instructions on the threshold, roll up your sleeves, make sure your laces are tied, step prudently forward, move like a fox but with your tail tucked in, please, sneeze into your pocket and don’t even breathe. Even a butterfly could do damage in here, even a mosquito, and so here’s Palafox. The pachyderm has broken everything, tureens, tea-pots, mustard bowls, compote cozies, sugar bowls, hanaps, ewers, Delft plates, treasures of Urbino, wig-holders, shaving bowls, tobacco-holders. Sugar-sprinklers and saltshakers pulverized, the animal upsets all the tables, rattles the walls, shelves collapse, two decorative polychrome pharmacy jars, with stickers on their bellies reading Onc. of Mercury and Elec. of Theriac, break at Olympia’s feet. Algernon is livid, the veins in his temples seem drawn with manganese violet, like the arabesques and leaves of eighteenth century Strasburg ornamentalists, while three hairs stuck to his forehead imitate the cracks in the enamel — it must be that his heart has stopped beating, or that Algernon will fall in pieces as well, among the white shards of his pottery. Swanscombe pieces together the two halves of a bidet bowl, then adjusts them so as to reconstitute the group of musical angels which decorate the background, it’s reparable. We can also save an oil-vessel and its cruets, not, though, a handle and the two tops, a cup and saucer, and two painted plates, the first representing a circle of Chinese children beneath a sky full of birds, lightly nicked, and the other, intact, Mirabeau’s tomb beneath an unreadable revolutionary phrase, all around it three kinds of alternating emblems, a sword, a cross, a bouquet, a sword, a cross, a bouquet, a sword, a cross.

Palafox signed his death sentence, the sentence that satisfied everyone, including Madame Swanscombe, including Maureen and Olympia now disillusioned, let us now presently decide the means of execution. Just try and quarter an eel, we renounce the pike as well since it wouldn’t impress an armadillo, the axe which brushes against the turtle, and the noose, of course, the giraffe is everything but gallows-food. He deserves to die a rat’s death, but we don’t want to use poison, we aren’t assassins, instead let’s give these two boxes to Franc-Nohain, his wife’s a pain, the young woman he’s provided for for the past three years has just blown in his hair, the day before yesterday, for the first time, and he’s pretty confident about what will come next. Rifle, garrote, cleaver, Sadarnac only has eyes for the trident. Perhaps the pyre, why not, since the salamander, (if we have enough time and room left to tear down one more silly belief), and without claiming to compare logs and coal, grills as well as anything else over a fire. But Ziegler’s suggestion, to disembowel Palafox, is the most seductive of all, the examination of his entrails will offer us so much new knowledge and far more than what may be gained by watching his behavior, and from which investigation we will be able to choose a strategy to repel the enemy that has occupied two thirds of our territory already, at last word, sewing death and despair, and its exotic grain in our furrowed earth, which spreads in a forced march in the direction of our coasts. The gods gave us Palafox for this purpose, so that we could know their wishes, all their future plans for the world, he shares with a fist of stars the secret of our destiny, open him up, let us discover it all, lean over him quickly, explore the fateful viscera, the heart, the stomach, the liver, the kidneys, pull them all into the light. The Roman priests, the haruspicants, who practiced this form of divination best of all recommended the veal, the colt, the lamb: grab Palafox.

But we will learn nothing. Fontechevade struck too hard. The green blood, or whatever, this juice on the wall, a bitter scent of moisture and cold wax, Palafox squashed will harm no one again. We want to see, Algernon steps in, note the death throes, aggression follows resentment. Cadavers fresh from existence do not lose their fighting reflexes immediately, their organs are bathed in venom, draw back, these posthumous nervous crises offer a unique sort of violence, entirely excusable, but dangerous for those nearby, don’t get eaten now that it’s finally over and done. And yet the animal has resigned himself to death. He is dead, Maureen says (and this final parenthesis will have to be pretty airtight to contain the tears, pure pearls that roll down her cheeks, shining still while falling with a crystal brilliance, but which form on this notebook without stains or deletions little lakes of black ink, courage, my child). Fontechevade can put his shoe back on. There really isn’t anything to fear now. Not even that of having nothing else to do. Excellent idea, Olympia: we’ll stuff Palafox.