The Blue Peril

by Maurice Renard

  “Don’t joke, Maxime,” his father went on. “Nothing’s certain, to be sure. What I’m about to say is doubtless only a means of translating my thoughts, nothing more…in any case, it’s by expressing the same idea in different forms that one succeeds in making it more precise, so as to judge it…but at the end of the day, everything is happening as if entities of every sort were being endowed, to put it bluntly, with the ability to fly, under the influence of some force or other, probably natural. I say natural because that force, having acted upon a bird—which scarcely had any need of it, since it could fly already—can only be a blind force of nature. Given that, what is astonishing in the fact that human beings, animated by evil instincts and pursuing some unknown objective, might profit from that suddenly-acquired faculty? What is astonishing about evil designs being engendered in the souls of honest men suddenly promoted to the status of lords of the air?”

  “With your theory,” Maxime replied, with a snigger, “you could explain the triple disappearance on the Colombier by Marie-Thérèse and my cousins flying off, without recourse to the hypothesis of kidnappers…”

  “No,” replied Monsieur Le Tellier, patiently. “In that case, they would have come back. Besides, the footprints in the snow reveal a drama, an abduction. No, that would be absurd—but I reply to you, even so, because it is scientific to examine all the arguments that present themselves.”

  “What do you make of my dirigible, then?”

  “It’s a balloon like any other. You aren’t familiar with all the models…then again, you didn’t see it clearly enough, because of the fog and its speed. In my opinion, it was piloted by one of those daredevils, those road-hogs who think the aerials routes belong to them. And that’s it. What do you say, Robert? You seem perplexed…”

  “Master…do you think, then, that my eagle was a veritable eagle?”

  “Yes, because Philibert’s pike was a real pike. From a distance, in the sky, a giant eagle or someone dressed as an eagle might, strictly speaking, be sustainable…but someone dressed as a pike? That’s lapsing into absurdity. But it’s getting dark now. Are you coming, Maxime? We’re supposed to be on watch with the searchlights. Have you got the carburate?”

  That night, the two guardians of the tower lighthouse, saddened by their lack of knowledge, meditated long and hard on science and ignorance…and the full Moon, at the height of its arc, seemed to them to be the mouth of a well of Babel, in whose depths human beings were agitating confusedly.

  XVI. The Dirigible Again

  “Come in! Oh, it’s you. Robert! Good day.”

  “Good day, Monsieur Maxime.”

  “Your lordship in my laboratory—that’s an event! What’s brought you here this morning?”

  Robert, visibly distraught, repeated listlessly: “An event!” And he added: “Quite a temperature, eh? Hot, for the season.”

  “There’s going to be a storm.”

  Maxime, who was seated in front of a mechanical diagram, resumed drawing, wondering what the secretary’s visit might signify.

  The three windows in the rotunda were wide open, but it was so hot that they did not succeed in creating the slightest current of air. A chaotic mass of leaden clouds encumbered the sky, which was as tumultuous as an aerial battlefield, as immobile as a sky in a painting. Beneath it, earthly things took on an ashen reflection. The plain, bristling with poplars, seemed to be bearing arms, awaiting some memorable event or important person. It was a fine stage-setting for a tragedy.

  Inside the laboratory, an unhealthy daylight whitened the glare of the aquaria and the glass cases. The fish—which were brightly lit, in order to enable Maxime the painter to capture their multitudinous nuances—maintained their positions in the water somnolently.

  Robert went to the glass cases in which mimicry displayed its bizarreries. From a distance, some of the cases seemed to be full of branches, grasses and shoots; at closer range, one perceived that a certain twig was a cunning caterpillar, a certain patch of bark a wily moth, or a certain exotic leaf an ingenious bug. But there were not only animals disguised as vegetables; there were also animals costumed as other animals. Other cases, in fact, lodged butterflies pinned in pairs; each member of each pair resembled the other sufficiently to be mistaken for it, and yet one was poisonous to small birds whereas the other, being inoffensive, owed its survival in modern times entirely to its resemblance to its venomous double. Unfortunately, it must be said, because Maxime had been occupied with other pastimes since childhood, and had lost interest in these, time had greatly modified his preparations; all the greenery had faded, and many of the little corpses had been infected by mould. Now, many of the similar creatures were beginning to differ.

  Robert pointed this out to the young man, and continued: “They’re droll, all the same, these identities—a sort of zoological masquerade. The chameleon, in order to remain unperceived, can make itself red or green, according to whether it is set against a red or green background!”

  “Oh, yes. It’s the story of the lion, tawny against the tawny desert sands; it’s the story of the bear, white against the white snow of the pole. All of that is mimicry. But why should these tricks interest you, the spectator of constellations?”

  “Why not? There are presumably fish that dedicate themselves to mimicry?”

  “Nature is full of examples,” Maxime said, laughing. “Man himself cloaks the color of walls…but I see that you’re quite attentive, Robert. Do you, perhaps, suspect the sarvant of donning a night-blue costume in order to…”

  “What stupidity!” the secretary put in.

  “This little museum provided me with a great deal of diversion once…it determined my vocation as a biologist. Today, I’ve got other cats to skin…”

  “Is your work on the water-color plates going well?”

  “Not bad,” said Maxime, taking several of his works out of a box. “Oh, it’s not Van Ostade or Jan Steen17…it’s sufficient, that’s all. For the moment, though, I’ve given up painting fish.”

  “Ah—dissection!”

  “A certain amount of dissection, yes—but accessory to another, more captivating study. Am I boring you, Robert?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’ll understand. It’s for the museum of oceanography in Monaco. I’m trying to design an aquarium in which deep sea fishes can live normally. Our trawlers can easily catch them at a depth of more than 9000 meters, but decompression and the abrupt change of temperature damages them and causes them to burst. I’m trying to construct an enclosed living-space, in which the pressure and temperature are maintained. As you can see, I’m in the process of scribbling a plan involving pumps—but it’s not easy…the invention will have many consequences. Think about it! To reconstitute the vital environment of such different creatures! To be able to observe their authentic habits. To see them light up with multicolored phosphorescence in the darkness in which the tank will remain plunged, as in the eternal night of the submarine regions!”

  “Ah—that’s what you’re trying to do,” said Robert.

  Maxime, however, misinterpreted the excited tone of this interjection. He imagined that Robert was reproaching him for not employing himself with other, more urgent work. “Yes that’s it,” he replied, blushing. “And it’s forgivable. I’ve also tried to penetrate the mystery of the disappearances—except, you know, I have my own idea about that. It’ll be settled before long by the kidnappers themselves—the people in the autoballoon.”

  “Really? Really?” said Robert, completely absorbed in a reverie.

  “Oh, come on, Robert, be frank! You’re beating about the bush, talking about everything and nothing. What do you have to say me?”

  “I beg your pardon…ah, yes…you were saying? Exactly, exactly… I’ve…taken on a mission, as you’ve deduced.” He smiled. “A mission on behalf of Madame your mother. She’s frightened by your temerity. For some time, you’ve been going out every afternoon on to the mountain, with your painting equipment
. And, being unable to do anything herself, she’s delegated me to come and see you…”

  Maxime put his hands on Robert’s shoulders. “You’re very kind, old chap,” he said, “but I’m certain now that it’s a matter of a dirigible, and I reckon that in broad daylight, a man on the alert would be stupid to let himself be taken, just as he would be cowardly and contemptible to stay at home like a hare in its lair.”

  There was a silence, which Robert broke. “At least, then, follow my advice—dress in such a manner as to reproduce the appearance of one of the missing persons…”

  Maxime burst out laughing. “But that’s yet more mimicry! Honestly, Robert…”

  “I assure you that it’s necessary to be careful.”

  “Really! You’re wasting your time, old chap. A student painter like me has too much need of practice—and the mountain is too beautiful! Sumptuous and ever-changing; at every hour of the day, on every day of the month, one would think it the canvas of a different master. I have an exquisite little model up there: a twelve-year-old shepherdess, who poses for me in a stunning setting in a magnificent location. Oh, she’s not frightened, that one! She doesn’t spare a thought for the sarvants. Besides, her brother César, a clear-headed young herdsman, stands guard during the sittings…look here, of chap—I present to you Mademoiselle Césarine Jeantaz. Not lacking in juice, eh?”

  In the pale light he brandished a half-finished water-color, which was, as he claimed, genuinely “full of life”. In the middle of a herd of cows and a few goats, a young girl, sitting on a frock, was playing the accordion. Her delicate mouth, wide open, was suggestive of a song emitted at full volume.

  “It’s very pretty,” Robert said, appreciatively. “But Madame your mother is extremely worried…”

  “Tell her…oh la la! What a curse it is to have all these hens clucking! Well, tell her that I’ll finish this pastoral study tomorrow, and I’ll be well-behaved thereafter!”

  “Why not today? I’m not a clucking hen, though, and I’m not joking. You know full well that I have an idea…”

  “Spit it out, my dear chap—spit it out!”

  “Alas, you wouldn’t believe it any more that the flying men, the flying fish or the eagle flying without wings.”

  “You have no proof, then?”

  “I only have good reasons. That won’t be sufficient for you.”

  “In the end, though, Robert, if you know where my sister is…and the others…it would be criminal to remain silent. We have to go after them. Where can they be? Obviously, for my part, I haven’t the slightest idea. Where is the bandits’ lair? If only we had a means of seeing them flee in one direction or another! But they hide in the midst of dark nights, fogs, clouds. Look at that impenetrable vault of cloud—above that, the sarvants are free to fly around as they wish…great gods, Robert! What did I tell you?”

  Standing up, his eyes shining and his arm extended toward the sky, Maxime pointed to a dot in the clouds.

  Robert looked, excitedly. In one of the swirls of a large, sluggishly-moving, slate-grey cumulus cloud, an oblong shadow was discernible, diaphanous and phantasmal.

  “The dirigible!” murmured Maxime, very quietly—as if he were afraid of frightening the vision away.

  Robert shielded his eyes from the livid daylight. “Is that really the thing that you encountered?”

  “It’s definitely the same one—the gondola’s invisible. And if it isn’t the same one, what is it doing there, without moving, lying in ambush behind its cloud?”

  “Hmm,” said Robert, extremely interested.

  “For it’s definitely behind the cloud,” Maxime continued. “What we’re seeing is the shadow it casts. It’s nothing but a shadow on a swirl of cloud. They think they’re invisible. They have no suspicion that their shadow is betraying them. Come on—admit that I was right!”

  “Yes…yes, indeed,” said Robert, with more politeness than sincerity.

  “Ah! There’s the shadow growing paler, because the wind’s getting up and the swirl of cloud’s disintegrating…there’s nothing left.”

  A tempestuous gust of wind blew into the rotunda. The papers scattered, caught up in an eddy. The sudden shaking of branches was like the sound of the sea. The trees, becoming pallid as their leaves were inverted, bent before the force of the wind. Shutters clattered loudly. Dust-devils ran along the pathways. A vertical flash of lightning split the sky, and the clouds began to break up.

  Maxime, with his hair blowing in the wind, was on the lookout for the flight of the cumulus clouds to expose the aeronef—or for the corsairs to throw off ballast in order to climb above the storm…but the dirigible had departed, without employing that means.

  And the scenery became tragedy itself. The magnificence of the unleashed elements further magnified all the mysteries that were sensible there. The thunder rumbled, seemingly the din of the clouds racing pell-mell toward some unknown goal—and to complete the scene, a second lightning-bolt raced a zigzag course: the flourishing signature of the storm.

  XVII. Assumption

  Although the sky was still ominous and seemed to be keeping a further storm in reserve for the afternoon, Maxime—as much for the sake of bravado as personal inclination—took up his landscapist’s apparatus and set off for the mountain, in spite of unanimous reprobation.

  An hour later, wearied by the heat and his own diligence, he perceived the herd of ruminants and their young guardians in the distance.

  The pastureland was both grandiose and cheerful. The hemmed-in meadow formed a vale, gracefully hollowed out like the curves of a garlanded hammock. One of its edges rose up in a rocky wall, launching forth to continue the mountain; cyclopean crenellations, mingled with brushwood, cut out its crown. The other side, much less steep and bounded by the edge of a wood, inclined almost immediately in the other direction, its plane of rocks, green oaks and giant box-trees declining all the way to Mirastel. Innumerable narcissi perfumed the luxuriant pasture. It was strewn here and there with grey outcrops of rock, and on one of them, where her brother César had just perched her, Césarine Jeantaz had already taken up her pose and was fingering her accordion, chanting a waltz—for everything that peasants sing becomes or remains a chant, whether it be Viens Poupoule, the Marseillaise or the Dies Irae. She interjected her “Bonjour, Monsieur!” between two notes, and César bowed to the Moncheu.

  Maxime was soon installed on his camp-stool, in the shade of the first trees of the wood, with the boy by his side.

  “Keep a careful lookout!” he said, to salve his conscience.

  “Have no fear!” replied the indoctrinated César, in Savorêt. “I’ll see them coming!”

  The exquisite girl let her tiny feet dangle, in their coarse clogs with lime-wood soles. An old straw hat shaded the blonde shock of her hair. Between her red hands, the accordion stretched, and then folded up, marking out with the same lively rhythm the indefatigable sequence of monotonous songs. Around her, the cows and the goats dispersed, sounding their bells—and the bells of the narcissi pealed out their perfume.

  “Keep a careful lookout!” Maxime repeated, astonished by his own suspicious unease.

  César’s eyes never quit the cloud-laden sky, which seemed to slide by in a single piece, under the pressure of a furnace-wind. Sometimes the crenellations of the wall were confused by a cloud lower than the others.

  At the sound of a violently-agitated cow-bell, Maxime looked away from the singer.

  “Hey!” said the herdsman. “What’s got into Rodzetta?”

  Rodzetta was a russet goat, which, having drawn some distance away, came back at a gallop, bounding and bleating. Did it not….did it not have the appearance of fleeing? Of being pursued?

  Maxime raised his eyes, and was reassured. The sky was deserted; it was still flowing uniformly, like an inverted river of molten lead, low and warm, but deserted. Césarine sang competitively…but her chant was abruptly transformed into a piercing cry. The accordion fell silent, and dropped…<
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  Standing up on the rock, gesturing madly, as if convulsed by an attack of epilepsy or a sinister attack of St. Vitus’ Dance, the little girl struck out at the air in every direction, uttering frightful howls. Her cries and the panicked tintinnabulation prevented Maxime from hearing the sarvants humming, but he sensed their proximity by the vibratory disturbance of his rib-cage…

  The sky, the vale, and the wall were deserted, however! He was about to hurl himself forward to assault the rock and rescue the child when an unexpected spectacle petrified him, mouth agape with terror and surprise. A sibylline delirium still possessed the girl. Horribly pale, a frail pythoness maltreated by rapture, fighting against the sudden malaise that was brutalizing her, she was now lifted up several centimeters above the monolith, with nothing there to hold her up!

  Then, all of a sudden, she stopped screaming, doubtless due to the effect of fatigue; her voice was no longer audible. She was still trying to make herself heard; she seemed to be howling, but no sound emerged from her mouth! And as the herd had fled, the velvety nocturnal hum droned at its leisure.

  Maxime drew upon all his muscles and all his strength in an effort to master the fright that was paralyzing him. Alas—a lamentable marvel!—before he could move. Césarine Jeantaz, projected with incredible force, rose up into the sky like a ball, and disappeared.

  The opaque continuously-flowing cloud continued in its course. A tumult was produced therein, and then died down—and that was all. The misfortune had unfolded with such promptitude that the accordion released by Césarine was only just coming to a stop among the narcissi.

  Maxime recovered from his stupor then, but fear still gripped his entrails. Confronted by that prodigious outrage, he—the naval officer, hero of many a skirmish with the Tuareg, who had fought with a smile on his face against murderous water and deadly fire—ran away with his hands over his eyes, leaving behind his camp-stool, his canvas, his palette and little César fainted on the grass.