“Oh, how inquisitive the fellow is!” says George then. “Shall we tell him?”
“Not worth while. He wouldn’t understand.”
“He wouldn’t understand.” “He wouldn’t dare.” “He wouldn’t know how.” They are constantly casting these phrases at him. He suffers horribly from being kept out of things. He cannot understand, indeed, why they give him the humiliating nickname of “Wanting”; and is indignant when he understands. What would not he give to be able to prove that he is not such a coward as they think.
“I cannot endure Boris,” said Ghéridanisol one day to Strouvilhou. “Why did you tell me to let him alone? He doesn’t want to be let alone as much as all that. He is always looking in my direction. … The other day he made us all split with laughter because he thought that a woman togged out in her bearskin meant wearing her furs. George jeered at him, and when at last Boris took it in I thought he was going to howl.”
Then Ghéridanisol pressed his cousin with questions and finally Strouvilhou gave him Boris’s talisman and explained its use.
A few days later, when Boris went into the schoolroom, he saw this paper, whose existence he had almost forgotten, lying on his desk. He had put it out of his mind with everything else that related to the “magic” of his early childhood, of which he was now ashamed. He did not at first recognize it, for Ghéridanisol had taken pains to frame the words of the incantation
“Gas … telephone … one hundred thousand roubles.”
with a large red and black border adorned with obscene little imps, who, it must be owned, were not at all badly drawn. This decoration gave the paper a fantastic—an infernal appearance, thought Ghéridanisol—which he calculated would be likely to upset Boris.
Perhaps it was done in play, but it succeeded beyond all expectation. Boris blushed crimson, said nothing, looked right and left, and failed to see Ghéridanisol, who was watching him from behind the door. Boris had no reason to suspect him, and could not understand how the talisman came to be there; it was as though it had fallen from heaven—or rather, risen up from hell. Boris was old enough to shrug his shoulders, no doubt, at these schoolboy bedevilments; but they stirred troubled waters. Boris took the talisman and slipped it into his pocket. All the rest of the day, the recollection of his “magic” practices haunted him. He struggled until evening with unholy solicitations and then, as there was no longer anything to support him in his struggle, he fell.
He felt that he was going to his ruin, sinking further and further away from Heaven; but he took pleasure in so falling—found in his very fall itself the stuff of his enjoyment.
And yet, in spite of his misery, in the depths of his dereliction, he kept such stores of tenderness, his companions’ contempt caused him suffering so keen, that he would have dared anything, however dangerous, however foolhardy, for the sake of a little consideration.
An opportunity soon offered.
After they had been obliged to give up their traffic in false coins, Ghéridanisol, George and Phiphi did not long remain unoccupied. The ridiculous pranks with which they amused themselves for the first few days were merely stopgaps. Ghéridanisol’s imagination soon invented something with more stuff to it.
The chief point about “The Brotherhood of Strong Men” at first consisted in the pleasure of keeping Boris out of it. But it soon occurred to Ghéridanisol that it would be far more perversely effective to let him in; he could be brought in this way to enter into engagements, by means of which he might gradually be led on to the performance of some monstrous act. From that moment Ghéridanisol was possessed by this idea; and as often happens in all kinds of enterprises, he thought much less of the object itself, than of how to bring it about; this seems trifling, but is perhaps the explanation of a considerable number of crimes. For that matter Ghéridanisol was ferocious; but he felt it prudent to hide his ferocity, at any rate from Phiphi. There was nothing cruel about Phiphi; he was convinced up to the last minute that the whole thing was nothing but a joke.
Every brotherhood must have its motto. Ghéridanisol, who had his idea, proposed: “The strong man cares nothing for life.” The motto was adopted and attributed to Cicero. George proposed that, as a sign of fellowship, they should tattoo it on their right arms; but Phiphi, who was afraid of being hurt, declared that good tattooers could only be found in seaports. Besides which, Ghéridanisol objected that tattooing would leave an indelible mark which might be inconvenient later on. After all, the sign of fellowship was not an absolute necessity; the members would content themselves with taking a solemn vow.
At the moment of starting the traffic in false coins, there had been talk of pledges, and it was on this occasion that George had produced his father’s letters. But this idea had dropped. Such children as these, very fortunately, have not much consistency. As a matter of fact, they settled practically nothing, either as to “conditions of membership” or as to “necessary qualifications.” What was the use, when it was taken for granted that all three of them were “in it,” and that Boris was “out of it”? On the other hand they decreed that “the person who flinched should be considered as a traitor, and forever excluded from the brotherhood.” Ghéridanisol, who had determined to make Boris come in, laid great stress upon this point.
It had to be admitted that without Boris the game would have been dull and the virtue
