The Blue Peril

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by Maurice Renard


  In spite of the cataclysmic debacle which then ensued, in the name of the Blue Peril, rescuers ran forward—but the hypocritical object stopped their charge. They ran into it with considerable violence. They were crashing into emptiness, into nothing at all. They encountered an insurmountable absence. The air, on the attack, staved in their skulls.

  The police, with great difficulty, regained control. An officer intervened, had the two ranks of carriages cleared away, and set up a cordon of his men around the perfidious region, whose isolation was required. Thus was established a broad interval, which started from the Pavillon de Hanovre and extended for a dozen meters into the Chaussée d’Antin. The sight of the uniforms engendered confidence and released tongues. A revolutionary assembly would have been quieter. No one was talking about the race any longer; they were only talking about the Peril.

  Amid the impetuous chatter, ambulances and stretchers cut through the swarming crowds, and fruitless attempts were made to reach the unfortunates who were crushed against the ground by the now-impassable atmosphere.

  The Prefect of Police, who had just arrived, began to lose his assurance when a well-dressed gentleman, having elbowed his way through a veritable crush of his peers, was brought to him by an agent. The gentleman had an imposing appearance. He wore the white armband of an official steward and was clutching a red notebook to his breast. He was followed by another gentleman, in traveling costume. Someone recognized Monsieur le Tellier; his name sprang from mouth to mouth while the Prefect of Police, taking off his hat, placed himself under the newcomer’s orders.

  The astronomer exercised a kind of dictatorship. The fearful masses, sick with worry, had scented his competence and adopted him as their protector. He calmly riffled the pages of the red notebook, then stuck it in his pocket. Afterwards, escorted by a general staff of various personages, he set out to accomplish a tour of the impracticable space, striking it with the flat of his hand.

  At each slap, the air rendered a dull sound.

  A policeman imitated him. His comrades, reassured, similarly began to rap the impenetrable atmosphere, to the extent that the entire cordon was tapping away, seemingly undertaking an exercise in simulated riot control. The box in space, however, made a noise like a washboard. Monsieur Le Tellier hastened to put an end to it. The brief collective demonstration had sufficed, however, to reveal visually the presence of a large invisible object and the shape that it adopted at the height of the policemen. The public on the upper steps had grasped this at a glance, and, as the inexplicable cracking of the Pavillon had not been forgotten, imaginations took flight and the events changed shape.

  A large, invisible, oblong object had just fallen from the sky, after having collided the Prolétaire and tipped the blue bird over.

  Monsieur Le Tellier continued his round, still feeling his way, but at the two ends of the object he needed a stool to reach it; the extremities were raised; one of them, moreover, corresponded to the termination of the graze in the Hanovre’s rotunda, and that graze ended two meters above the pavement. The other extremity, in the Chaussée d’Antin, was the object of sustained attention on the astronomer’s part. A taller stool was passed overhead, from hand to hand, until it reached him. Monsieur Le Tellier gave a few orders, which were immediately transmitted. Bicycle couriers drew away.

  The examination of the object continued. According to the gestures and manipulation of the feeler, it seemed that it was terminated by two points, like a torpedo. It can be assumed that such a word cannot fail to give rise to apprehension. “Meteor” and “shooting star” had already been mentioned; that was nothing—but “torpedo” signified something manufactured! An explosive device! A bomb, in sum, and an enormous one! Were the sarvants anarchists? Nihilists determined to obliterate Paris?

  The central brigades and a battalion of the Republican Guard requested by Monsieur Le Tellier arrived at the appointed place in order to contain a confusion as dangerous as any riot. The troop regulated the flow of the citizens, pushed them back without any violence and cleared the Carrefour. The way was clear for the appearance of three scarlet automobiles, full of firemen with shiny helmets, which turned the corner of the Rue de la Michodière to the lugubrious tocsin of their two-note horns.

  A short time afterwards, more firemen arrived. These were carrying ropes and jacks. Monsieur Le Tellier asked them to form a circle and delivered a brief harangue, in a voice that his friends would not have recognized.

  “Gentlemen, the Prefect of Police has brought you here to carry out a task that is scarcely banal. A little while ago, a voluminous object fell on Paris. It is up to you to clear the public highway. This object you will not be able to see. It is there, within the closed cordon of policemen surrounding it, there on that layer of stricken unfortunates—it is what has crushed them.

  “I tell you that it is invisible; don’t be afraid—for scientists, that’s perfectly natural. Simply tell yourself that the object has the benefit of absolute transparency; that will help you to understand. What is it, exactly? We don’t know—and it’s very important that we find out. So I’ve decided, with the agreement of the authorities, to have the object transported to the Grand Palais, where we shall be able to study it at leisure.37

  “It’s large—but I have every reason to suppose that it isn’t as heavy as one might think. It’s shaped like a weaver’s shuttle the size of a dirigible balloon—without a gondola. It’s a spindle, which is square in the middle and whose ends are two tapering, pointed cones, exactly like a de luxe Havana cigar. I call your attention to the end that is in the Chaussée d’Antin; it is…ornamented…with a…contraption…with which it is necessary to take care.

  “I think I can assure you that there is no danger. However, although the object is made of a substance very solid to the touch, I beg you to act with a great deal of prudence, as if your cargo were as fragile as glassware and as if death might emerge from the slightest crack…

  “Let us go closer. It is stuck cross-wise, obstructing the Carrefour, as you can see. I’m now on the other side, and have to shout to make myself heard—it stops sound waves, but not rays of light.

  “Let’s get to work!”

  The officers distributed the men to the left and right of the invisible object. Fifty ropes were slipped underneath it, between the victims of crushing. Each sapper grasped the end of a cable, and a captain ordered: “Heave…ho!”

  The ropes stiffened, lifting up their mysterious burden, but each one adapted to the profile of its point of application, so that the fifty ropes displayed the boat-like form that weighed upon them. Nothing could have been odder than those lines, taut but not rectilinear.

  The firemen made an adjustment that prevented an inextricable convulsive tangle, then, in collaboration with town sergeants, sustaining the invisible load like Atlas and shrugging their shoulders—which effort perpetuated the support of the nothing—their two parallel files started marching in the direction of the Opéra.

  A squadron of municipal guards flanked the grotesque convoy. The infantry of the garrison formed a line along the route, holding back—with difficulty—the flocks of street urchins and shop-girls, office-workers and hooligans which accumulated pell-mell. A legend was propagated through the groups, born of the misinterpretation of Monsieur Le Tellier’s speech as much as his title of astronomer; it was said that a dirigible balloon made of rock-crystal had arrived from the Moon, manned by Selenites, which could not be seen by the naked eye. Presented in these terms, the adventure provoked guffaws of laughter; the fear of being duped gave rise to the suspicion of a hoax, in which some of them would believe until their dying day.

  From the heights of the mezzanine floors in the Rue de la Paix an efflorescence of clothes-fitters and models, and a babbling host of couturiers and milliners, leaned out of windows to watch the passage of…whatever was passing by. Bewilderment silenced them. “Well, what’s all this? Oh, a funeral procession! Where’s the hearse?” The notion of the invisible was
beyond their reach.

  In the Rue de Rivoli, an errand-boy threw a marble over the ropes “to see whether they were pulling his leg”. The marble ricocheted off a helmet. The scamp was arrested for the edification of the plebs.

  The cortège advanced. In the Place de la Concorde, six generations of Parisians, provincials and foreigners surrounded it, like shifting sand amassing in dunes behind the ranks of soldiers with their weapons grounded. The crowd gave the impression of humankind entire. Monsieur Le Tellier and the Prefect of Police marched at the head. When they had completed their route, the former consulted the red notebook. He was overheard, in front of the obelisk, sending guards on horseback to the nearby Ministry of Marine, to the naval dockyard at Grenelle, and to the school of advanced aeronautics, with instructions to gather as many naval officers as possible at the Grand Palais.

  Questions were raining down on the rope-bearers, but their orders rendered them mute. They had the impression that they were transporting a vast apparatus, relatively light but offering a great deal of resistance and inertia, which they privately attributed to its cubic capacity.

  Between the Chevaux de Marly, the hurrying column hesitated. Beneath visors of metal or leather, faces petrified with alarm turned away. An increasing murmur was audible in the distance…

  But it was not the advent of a second disaster—it was the race! The competitors were coming back! They had forgotten all about them…

  Two atoms were emerging from the depths of the sky: two chimerical and authentic dragons, offspring of human beings and science, fighting graciously and with gusto, arriving amid a wake of cheers more beautiful than any symphony.

  The Epervier had pulled ahead of the Prolétaire! It sank toward the finish-line, an arrow in its speed, a crossbow in its appearance. The cannon gravely consecrated the victory of the blue bird.

  By virtue of an exchange of destinies, Captain Santus retired into obscurity, and Monsieur Le Tellier replaced him on the podium of renown, next to Monsieur d’Agnès—but Paris did not know that both these idols, apparently so different, had but one thought in their heads, one love in their hearts and one name on their lips: Marie-Thérèse.

  XI. Continuation of the Journal

  Busy with the guidance of his apparatus, the pilot of the Epervier had not noticed any sign of the general commotion. He learned of the miraculous event after landing his aircraft in the midst of a sparse crowd. The agglomeration had ranged in the direction of the Grand Palais, where the centripetal star of Parisian movement was now converging. The Pont Alexandre drew out the marching crowd; the Duc d’Agnès took the same route.

  Not everyone who wanted to could enter the strictly forbidden edifice. The 131st line regiment was guarding the entrances against a shameless and innumerable crowd. The aviator presented himself to the colonel door-keeper at the same time as three naval officers. Having had their entitlements validated, they passed through.

  The tranquility of the deserted, excessively cathedralesque hall, scarcely cheered up by chirping sparrows, contrasted bizarrely with the forced gathering outside. At that time of the year, the temple of exhibitions and horse-shows was liberated. At the center of its immense floor was a huddled group of infinitely small gentlemen. To one side, pygmy agents and insectile foremen were sitting on the ground, seemingly resting.

  The Duc d’Agnès knew perfectly well that it was a matter of some invisible object; he was not in the least surprised not to be able to see anything. Within the group, he recognized Doctor Monbardeau and Monsieur Le Tellier, chatting to the Prefect of Police.

  “Well,” said the latter, “if you’re absolutely determined, read it.”

  “It’s indispensable,” Monsieur Le Tellier retorted. “I demand, urgently, that no one should touch the object until we have acquainted ourselves with the entire contents of the journal. That will surely enable us to avoid snags, and perhaps accidents.”

  “So be it,” agreed the Prefect of Police. Addressing his officers, he said: “Let your men have a meal, gentlemen.”

  The voices, initially shrill, were amplified by cavernous and thunderous echoes which burst forth from the angles of the architecture.

  “Ah, Monsieur!” said the astronomer, on seeing the Duc. “Come in! Congratulations! Let us tell you a story!”

  The young victor welcomed the congratulations with a smile, and did not weep at the story which apprised him of the death of Robert Collin—but what intrigued him most of all was the invisible object—the thing that had shaken him so rudely above the Pavillon de Hanovre. “Where is it?” he said. “Where is it?”

  “Walk straight ahead,” instructed Monsieur Le Tellier, “toward that cast-iron pillar; you’ll run into it.” Then, in a secretive murmur, he added: “There’s some kind of propeller at the rear, you know.”

  Monsieur d’Agnès walked forward, holding his arms out in front of him, like someone moving in the dark, or a blind man, and came up against something hard, smooth and cold, which did not exist so far as his eyes were concerned. Monsieur Le Tellier showed him an imprint in the dust, shaped like a boat, like a prelate’s ogival seal. He told him that it was caused by the base of the strange object, and showed him the poor little sparrows lying all around it, which had flown into it and broken their heads on the invisible rampart.

  “Notice that the draught we were able to feel is no longer perceptible,” he concluded. “The object is intercepting it. On reading Robert’s journal, we shall marvel at the shelter provided by this singular screen…”

  He opened the red notebook. His audience gathered around. Monsieur Le Tellier leaned back casually into the void, and resumed his reading from the beginning. He revisited the formation of the cylinder of ice around the bewildered Robert, rising toward the zenith, then the disappearance of the unexpected jar. Finally, he repeated the memorable passage at which he had been interrupted by the popular clamor:

  It was then that I tried to take up my binoculars in order to observe that spot—but I recalled that they had slipped out of my hands in the first moments of my fainting fit. I felt a keen irritation when, to my profound amazement, I perceived them nearby, lying in a circular pool of water, in which I had collapsed myself—a large liquid disk about four meters in diameter, exactly like visible water in an invisible tub. That round puddle was carrying me like the flying carpet in the Persian fable. I was taking an obligatory hip-bath therein, but I was grateful for the illusion of support that gave my eyes something to rest on, thus delivering me from vertigo. Beyond it—for it was clear and calm—the blurred Earth was growing paler.

  I understood that the water came from the melting of the cylinder. And since it was there, as round and flat as a millstone, there had to be an invisible floor underneath it that was supporting us—the pool, me and my binoculars. The ice—dear Lord!—had formed on the interior of a material cylinder, permanent but invisible: a turret-elevator with the aid of which the inhabitants of that square patch brought their prisoners up to them! I was neither in a column of aspired atmosphere nor a magnetic fluid, but in an invisible elevator powered by an unknown force: a sealed vase in which the pressure and temperature were maintained equal to those down below, and where, in consequence, the barometer and the thermometer always indicated the same figures. And a little while before, when the ice had made its appearance, when I had fainted—what had caused it? A breakdown! A simple breakdown of the machinery!

  I was stunned for some time. We astronomers are long used to marveling at various invisible objects,38 however, so how admiring could I be of a box that was, after all, no more for my eyes than a real elevator had always been for my nose—which is to say, imperceptible—no more than oxygen, for example, had always been for them, but which was for my hands well and truly hard, polished, rounded and cold, and which, tapped with a finger, sounded for my ears. That did not prevent me from drying my binoculars with my handkerchief, in order to look at the square patch where the ingenious skip was doubtless going to deposit me. The skip wa
s certainly being hauled up, for there could be no question of aerostats at such altitudes, even ones inflated with pure hydrogen and much less heavy than air. Invisible halyards? Hertzian currents? Magnetic attraction? One or the other. It was the spot that would transport me to another planet…

  I reasoned in that manner, but I was mistaken. The higher I climbed, the more accentuated became the southward displacement of the spot, which presented itself in the form of a brown square checkered with colorless lines. I was therefore heading somewhere else—and that annoyed me.

  The terrestrial horizon had appeared in the course of my ascent. To the south, the west and the north it was tinted with a characteristic blue-green. The seas! I must be prodigiously high up! Having made approximate numerical calculations, I found that we must be 40 kilometers from the ground. Another ten kilometers and I would reach a zone…

  Damn it! I thought. It’s there that science situates…let’s see, then, what does science have say about the atmosphere that is relevant to me? The atmosphere: a gaseous layer that envelopes the Earth and follows it in all its movements. Its thickness is not known with certainty. All that is known for sure is that it does not vanish into the void. Its theoretical limit is 10,000 leagues; estimates vary from 70 kilometers to 40,000!

  What is known from reliable evidence is that there are two distinct layers in the atmosphere. One, the lower, in contact with the ground, measures about 50 kilometers in depth. It is rich, unstable, traversed by clouds and tormented by winds. It is the environment that supports terrestrial life, and it is what people mean when they talk about “the atmosphere.” This layer rarefies as it becomes more distant from the Earth and it becomes a vacuum at about 50 meters—not an absolute vacuum, nor the ether, but a relative vacuum, such as one can obtain with a pump.

 

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