The Master of Light Read online

  The Scientific Marvel Fiction

  of the French H.-G. Wells

  THE MASTER OF LIGHT

  by

  Maurice Renard

  translated, annotated and introduced by

  Brian Stableford

  A Black Coat Press Book

  Introduction

  This is the fifth volume of a set of five, which includes most of the “scientific marvel fiction” of Maurice Renard, and some related works. It comprises a translation of the novel Le Maître de la lumière, which first appeared as a feuilleton serial in L’Intransigeant between March 8 and May 2 1933.

  The first volume of the series, Doctor Lerne, includes translations of the novella “Les Vacances de Monsieur Dupont,” first published in Fantômes et Fantoches [Phantoms and Marionettes] (Plon, 1905), the novel Le Docteur Lerne, sous-dieu (Mercure de France, 1908) and the essay “Du Roman merveilleux-scientifique et de son action sur l’intelligence du progrès,” first published in the sixth issue of Le Spectateur in October 1909.

  The second volume, A Man Among the Microbes and Other Stories, includes translations of the novel Un Home chez les microbes, the first version of which was written in 1907-08, although no version was actually published until Crès released one in 1928, and the entire contents of the collection Le Voyage Immobile suivi d’autres histoires singulières (Mercure de France, 1909).

  The third volume, The Blue Peril, comprises a translation of the novel Le Péril bleu (Louis Michaud, 1911).

  The fourth volume, The Doctored Man and Other Stories, includes translations of four stories from the collection Monsieur d’Outremort et autres histoires singulières (Louis Michaud, 1913), the novella “L’Homme truqué,” first published in Je Sais Tout in March 1921, and a miscellany of later short stories taken from various sources.

  The introduction to the first of the five volumes includes a general overview of Renard’s life and career in relation to his scientific marvel fiction, which I shall not reiterate here, confining the remainder of this brief introduction to the specific work featured in this volume. I shall, however, reserve discussion of the novel’s central speculative motif until an afterword, in order not to give too much of the plot away in advance.

  Renard’s intention to write a novel entitled Le Maître de la lumière, the 1933 version of which is here translated as The Master of Light, was first registered in the preliminary matter to the 1920 reprint of Le Péril bleu (tr. as The Blue Peril in volume three of the series). The title was included there in a list of four works “à paraître” [forthcoming] and explicitly labeled as a roman [novel].

  Whether Renard had actually done any work on the novel in question at that stage, or whether it was merely an idea he hoped and intended to develop, there is no way of knowing. All possibilities are open to conjecture, including the possibility that the novel he had in mind in 1920 actually had no connection other than its projected title with the one that was serialized in 1933, and the possibility that he had already produced of a version of the novel before or during the Great War. The likelihood is, however, that in 1920 he had already written at least part of a draft of the novel that was eventually revised for publication in 1933, the specific role played by a key event of the year 1930 in the published version being an artifact of the revision.

  It seems probable that Renard came up with the idea of the central speculative motif of Le Maître de la lumière after writing an earlier story, “Le Brouillard du 26 Octobre,” which was published in Monsieur d’Outremort et autres histoires singulières in 1913 and is translated in volume four of this series as “The Fog of October 26.” That story, which is set in 1907 and might have been written some years before its appearance in the collection, describes what its characters interpret as a sort of “mirage,” which allows scenes from the remote past to be seen in the present. Although that vision eventually turns out to be a conventional time-slip rather than an optical effect, the character’s attempts to reason it out in that fashion presumably reflected mental effort that Renard put in himself, in the hope of rationalizing the phenomenon he wanted to describe, and that mental effort was presumably not bounded by the story. The idea for Le Maître de la lumière might easily have resulted therefrom.

  Renard grew disillusioned with the possibility of publishing any more scientific marvel fiction within a year of placing that advertisement in Le Péril bleu, and shelved any work he had already done on the version of Le Maître de la lumière that he had previously hoped to complete. His eventual decision to resume work on it was probably prompted by the fact that a work that had been on the shelf even longer, Un Homme chez les microbes (tr. in volume two as A Man Among the Microbes), had finally reached print in 1928 thanks to Georges Crès, who had, by then, been his regular publisher for some years.

  Renard probably did not have Crès solely or immediately in mind when he planned the revised version of Le Maître de la lumière, because that publisher had also reprinted another work with a scientific marvel component, which had first appeared as a feuilleton serial in L’Intransigeant: Le Singe (1924; tr. as Blind Circle), written in collaboration with Albert Jean—who was probably the original author of a manuscript that Renard was commissioned to revise. The new version of Le Maître de la lumière was almost certainly written with a view to similar double publication, and designed with that in mind—although Crès did not, in fact, reprint it after its serialization and did not publish anything else by Renard after 1933, when he issued another work that the author had shelved before the Great War, the historical study Notre Dame Royale. It was left to Tallandier to reprint the serial in book form, but that did not happen until 1947, 14 years after the serialization and eight years after Renard’s death.

  Feuilleton serials were on their last legs in the 1930s, although Renard was to publish several more after Le Maître de la lumière—none of them in L’Intransigeant and none of them having any scientific marvel content—and the fundamental method of their construction had long been formularized. Newspapers had readers of both sexes, and it was widely believed that female readers were slightly more likely than their male counterparts to be interested in serial fiction, so that fiction had to be careful to appeal to both sexes. In practical terms, editorial wisdom specified that “appealing to both sexes” consisted of cleverly amalgamating the mystery/thriller fiction that male readers were generally supposed to prefer with the syrupy love stories to which female readers were held to be devoted, both components being liberally seasoned with melodrama and suspense in order to prevent reader interest from flagging. In effect, feuilletons had to do exactly the same sort of narrative labor as modern television soap operas.

  Renard had bent these rules and stretched these limits in the past, but he must have become keenly aware by 1933 of the hazards of so doing, and he obviously set out to plan the revised version of Le Maître de la lumière as a work that would tick all the feuilleton boxes—because if it did not, the unconventional move of adding a scientific marvel component to the mix would probably guarantee its rejection. Indeed, he apparently went further than the requirements of the day by adding in some components that harked all the way back to the heyday of feuilleton fiction, deliberately recalling some of its classic but long-obsolete clichés.

  Renard had long been a loyal member of the Société des Gens de Lettres—he was to be elected as its vice-president in 1935—and knew full well that a leading role in the early history of that organization had been taken by Paul Féval, the great pioneer of feuilleton crime fiction, in such works as Jean Diable (1861; tr. in a Black Coat Press edition as John Devil) and the Habits Noirs series (launched 1863; currently appearing in translation in Black Coat Press editions as The Blackcoats at the rate of one volume per
year). Le Maître de la lumière reproduces several of the key components of Féval’s works in this vein, including a Corsican vendetta, a key setting in the Boulevard du Temple, and the hoariest cliché of them all, which even Féval satirized in Les Habits Noirs as a “cardboard baby:” an ex-foundling whose true ancestry will ultimately be revealed in the course of the plot by virtue of meager relics found along with him.

  It is highly unlikely that Renard wrote Le Maître de la lumière in the same way that Féval other renowned feuilletonistes wrote their serials, making it up as they went along and delivering their copy on the eve of publication, often having written it that morning; it is much too intricately-plotted for that to have been the case. There are however, signs that he inserted extra explanations in response to editorial request, and sometimes stretched his copy in order to spin it out (by the time-honored method of inserting gratuitous sequences of terse dialogue), so he might well have been rewriting on a near-daily basis as he put narrative flesh on the bones of a detailed pre-existent plan.

  However the composition was orchestrated, though, there is no doubt that Le Maître de la lumière is a bravura performance of the feuilletoniste’s slightly-dubious art, featuring everything but the kitchen sink (L’Intransigeant was an ultra-conservative “family newspaper;” it had once serialized a reprint of Le Péril bleu, but would never have played host to the kind of scandalous eroticism paraded in Le Docteur Lerne). As an example of what it actually aspires to be—which is not at all the same as what the novel that Renard advertised in 1920 would presumably have aspired to be—it is carried off with consummate skill and not a little flair, and is therefore fully entitled to take its place as a significant addendum to the chronicle of Renard’s magnificent, but ultimately ill-fated, endeavors as a writer of scientific marvel fiction.

  This translation has been taken from the version of the novel reprinted in Maurice Renard: Romans et Contes Fantastiques, the omnibus published in 1990 by Robert Laffont. I have not been able to check it against any earlier addition, but the text appears to be quite clean, with only a few trivial typos.

  Brian Stableford

  THE MASTER OF LIGHT

  I. The Tender and Romantic Adventure

  This extraordinary story begins in a very ordinary manner.

  At the end of September 1929 the young historian Charles Christiani decided to spend a few days in La Rochelle. A historian specializing in the study of the Restoration and the reign of Louis-Philippe, at that time he had already published a well-regarded little book on Les Quatre Sergents de La Rochelle;1 he was writing another on the same subject and thought it necessary to return to the location in order to consult certain documents.

  It seems irrelevant to us to ask why the Christiani family had already returned to the Rue de Tournon in Paris at a time of year when the fortunate members of that society were still at the seaside, traveling or in the country. Autumn had begun morosely, and we believe that was the only reason for their slightly premature return—for Madame Christiani, her daughter and her son did not lack the means to lead the most expansive existence, and had rural retreats at their disposal in which more or less active vacations might be enjoyed. Two beautiful family properties, in fact, were available to their choice: the old Château de Silaz in Savoy, which they had forsaken completely, and a pleasant country house situated near Meaux, where they had spent the entire summer.

  For the moment, the noble and spacious apartment in the Rue de Tournon accommodated, in the Christianis, three people in perfect harmony. Madame Louise Christiani, née Bernardi, aged 50 years old, was the widow of Adrien Christiani, who had died for France in 1915. Her son Charles was 26. Her charming daughter Colomba, who was not yet 20, was responsible for the adjunction of a fourth character: Bertrand Valois, the darling of our dramatic authors and the happiest fiancé on the terrestrial globe.

  It ought to be noted that Madame Christiani attempted—without, however, insisting—to persuade her son to delay his departure for La Rochelle. That same morning, she had received a letter that seemed to require Charles to spend some time in Savoy, at the Château de Silaz, which they never visited except to take care of matters of farm-rents or repairs. This letter came from an old and devoted steward, Claude—pronounced Glaude if you wish to respect local usage. He spoke therein of various matters related to the management of the estate, saying that the presence of Monsieur Charles would be very useful in that respect, and that, in addition, he desired that presence for another reason, which he did not wish to explain because “Madame would laugh at him”—and yet, things were happening at Silaz that disturbed him and old Péronne: extraordinary things with which it was absolutely necessary to deal.

  “He sounds a little crazy,” said Madame Christiani. “Perhaps you’d do better, Charles, to go to Silaz first.”

  “No, Mama. You know Claude and Péronne. They’re worthy old souls, but simple and superstitious. I’ll wager that it concerns another story of some revenant, or sarvant,2 as they say. Believe me, it can wait—I’m certain of it. As I’ve notified the librarian at La Rochelle of my arrival, you’ll appreciate that I don’t want to make a bad impression on him because of these excellent but simple old folks. As for the business affairs—the real affairs—there’s obviously nothing urgent.

  “As you wish, my child. I leave it up to you. How long will you stay in La Rochelle?”

  “In La Rochelle itself, exactly two days—but my intention is to make a small detour as I return to the Ile d’Oléron, with which I’m unfamiliar. I’ve just learned from the concierge that Luc de Certeuil is there. He’s competing in a tennis tournament at Saint-Trojan; it’s a good opportunity for me…”

  “Luc de Certeuil…” Madame Christiani pronounced, without the slightest enthusiasm—with a rather marked reprobation, in fact.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mama. I don’t have any excessive affection for him—but let’s not exaggerate. He’s like many others, neither better nor worse; I’ll be happy to find someone I know on that unknown isle, and I know that he’ll be very happy to see me.”

  “Of course!” said Madame Christiani, while a gleam of irritation shone in her dark eyes—and, with a gesture that revealed her annoyance, she smoothed the blue-tinted hatbands that framed her suntanned Mediterranean visage. She did not like Luc de Certeuil. He had a three-room apartment in the building overlooking the courtyard. Charles, who did not go out much, would doubtless never had met him save for that circumstance, of which the other had taken advantage to cultivate his friendship. Luc was a good-looking man devoid of scruples, a sportsman and a dancer. He was attractive to women in spite of his disconcerting gaze. Madame Christiani, being mistrustful and resolute, had kept him at a distance until her daughter Colomba was engaged.

  “At any rate,” she said, “do you think you can be in Silaz within a week?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good. I’ll write to tell Claude that.”

  This dialogue took place on a Monday. The following Thursday, at 2 p.m., Charles Christiani, accompanied by the librarian—who had greatly facilitated his investigations—came into La Rochelle harbor looking for the steam-yacht Boyardville, which was about to depart for the Ile d’Oléron.

  His companion, Monsieur Palanque, the municipal librarian, pointed it out to him: a steamship of more imposing dimensions than Charles had imagined. The vessel, lying alongside the quay, was animated by that human effervescence which always precedes crossings, however insignificant they might be. With a racket of unraveling chains, derricks were lowering cargo through the hatchways of the hold. Passengers were going across the gangplank.

  For many years, the Boyardville had been making a daily voyage from La Rochelle to Boyardville on the Ile d’Oléron and back, stopping off at the Ile d’Aix when the sea permitted—which is to say, usually. The timetable of departures varied according to the tide. The duration of the voyage, in either direction, was about two hours, sometimes more.

  Monsieur Palanque acc
ompanied the young historian on to the deck. The latter deposited his suitcase against the wall of the first-class lounge and reserved one of those pliant armchairs known as “transatlantic.”

  The weather, without being splendid, left nothing to be desired. Although the sky lacked purity, the Sun was bright enough to cast shadows and to bathe the incomparable scene of La Rochelle harbor, with its ancient walls and historic towers, in warm light.

  “In Boyardville,” said Monsieur Palanque, “you’ll easily find a cab that will get you to Saint-Trojan in less than half an hour. In summer, there’s probably a coach-service as well.”

  “I could have notified the friend I’m going to meet of my arrival. He never goes anywhere except by automobile—and at top speed, moreover!—but he would have felt obliged to come and collect me in Boyardville, and I always try not to put people out.”

  Monsieur Palanque, who was looking at Charles Christiani in the most ordinary fashion imaginable, caught sight of an abrupt change in his interlocutor’s expression: a momentary disturbance, immediately suppressed, and a glint in the eyes of the sort produced by suddenly-awakened attention. Involuntarily, Monsieur Palanque followed the direction of the other’s gaze as it was drawn to some unexpected and undoubtedly more interesting particularity—and thus discovered the object of that intensified curiosity.

  Two young women, discreetly but perfectly elegant, were just setting foot on deck, having crossed the gangplank.

  Two young women? A momentary examination modified the initial judgment. The blonde, yes, that one was a woman—but the brunette could not be any more than a girl; she bore the exquisite hallmarks of juvenile splendor in her beauty.

  “Here are some pleasant traveling companions!” said the worthy Monsieur Palanque, as if he were congratulating the fortunate passenger.