Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions

by Brian Stableford

  “But where can we go? The kings, your uncles, seemed to be jealous of your father’s glory; they wouldn’t welcome us.”

  “Well then, let’s leave this land and go to yours. As long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy. Yes, you can now inflate the balloon that brought you here. Don’t hesitate—it’s deliverance!”

  “So be it. But we ought not to depart in secret as if we were being expelled. It’s necessary that our departure take place in broad daylight before the assembled people. I’ll make all the preparations for that. We’ll announce a captive ascension, which will prevent anyone from supposing that we’re thinking of fleeing, and once we’re in the air, I’ll cut the cable…unless they have the idea of cutting it themselves.

  And, in fact, in spite of the failure of the Betaville delegation, Remplume, as Princess Betinette had foreseen, raised his head again. He had regained the confidence of the malcontents by telling them that he recognized that Vatenlair really was an enchanter, but an evil enchanter, as was proven by the means that he had used to demonstrate his power. He said that there was nothing more to discuss with him and that the only thing to do was to suppress him. But how? He sought a means.

  A month after the visit of the conspirators to the king’s palace, Prince Enchanter summoned Ratatinus, his prefect of police.

  “Monsieur,” he said to him, “The malevolent rumors are recommencing, Remplume is active again. You knew that, and didn’t tell me.”

  “I swear to you, Prince, that the little plot that you stifled so skillfully no longer exists; I will even say that all the delegates to whom you granted an audience are now your most ardent defenders. As for Remplume, he no longer has the slightest influence.”

  “But he’s still talking and recommencing his petty calumnies. I warn you that I’m not in a humor to tolerate them, and I beg you to tell him to remain quiet, or I’ll do him a bad turn in my fashion that will close his mouth forever.”

  Ratatinus, who saw that the prince as beginning to get annoyed, warned Remplume, but the latter only laughed at the threat.

  “You’re wrong,” said Ratatinus. “I assure you that the Prince seemed to me to be firmly determined to repress any kind of conspiracy. He knows full well—I don’t know how, but not from me—that you’re creating agitation, that you’ve reunited your partisans, and I believe that it would be dangerous to stand up to him.”

  “Bah! You don’t know him. He’s not a man of government; as long as people admire his inventions, he’s satisfied. Believe me, he’s a vulgar scholar who wants to impose on us and is turning the whole country upside down. The oil merchants are ruined because of the gas and electricity; the horse-dealers too, because of velocipedes and automobiles; painters no longer make a sou because of the vulgarization of photography; all the workers are furious at seeing themselves replaced by machines of every sort; in sum, everyone’s complaining in low voices. But they’re beginning to have had enough of all these improvements, which have completely changed the customs of the land, and soon, you’ll see, they won’t be embarrassed to tell him so to his face. But this time, in spite of all his magic, we won’t stop half way, and we’ll overturn the usurper.”

  Ratatinus, frightened by Remplume’s determined attitude, made no reply, for he was very perplexed. If he did not carry out Vatenlair’s orders, he would lose his position, and if he carried them out by denouncing the conspirators again, he would risk losing it if, by chance, Remplume succeeded

  Finally, he said: “You understand, my dear fellow, that if I’ve warned you, it’s in your interest.”

  “Oh, I know that. But be careful, Ratatinus of looking after both the goat and the cabbage.”

  “What do you mean? You know very well that I won’t make any report on your actions.”

  “I don’t know anything; in any case, if it’s true, you’re not making me any on Vatenlair’s actions.”

  “You haven’t asked me for any.”

  “That’s true, but perhaps it would be good politics for you not to be so secretive.”

  Ratatinus took that as read.

  A few days later he took Remplume aside. “I know something,” he said. “The Prince has had his balloon removed from the attics of the palace and transported to the factory, where it’s being repaired.

  “Well, well,” said Remplume. “What is he going to do, then?”

  “I don’t know. You can’t say now that I haven’t warned you.”

  Remplume racked his brains to divine Vatenlair’s intentions, but he did not search for long. The day after Ratatinus’ indiscretion, immense posters covered the walls of the city; they were conceived thus:

  CITY OF BETAVILLE

  In recognition of the devotion and fidelity of the inhabitants of Betaville, Prince Enchanter invites them to a fête that will be held on the first of the month in the palace gardens. As well as diversions of all sorts that will be offered to them, they will witness a spectacle new to the land in the elevation of a

  CAPTIVE BALLOON

  which is to say, a balloon tethered to the ground by a cable, in the nacelle of which one can rise up without danger, and which will rise to a height of four hundred meters. At the end of the day, Prince Enchanter and the Queen will rise up in their turn, to show the people that they do not disdain to partake of their pleasures.

  Remplume read and reread the poster without being able to comprehend the objective that Vatenlair intended; in the end, he told himself that it was doubtless to render himself popular, and with an afterthought of vainglory, such as all inventors have. At the same time as he thought that, however, a less banal idea occurred to him. He imagined insinuating to the inhabitants that Vatenlair’s proposal to go up in a balloon was a trap, and that, in consequence, he engaged them not to risk themselves thus in the air. Then, he whispered to his accomplices, suggesting the idea of getting rid of Vatenlair while he was in the balloon by cutting the rope that retained the aerostat.

  The day of the fête finally arrived. In the palace gardens the balloon, inflated that morning, was swaying, retained by a cable wound around a windlass. An immense crowd surrounded the aerostat at a distance. A man who had been given instructions—the man in question was Rabotin—was standing next to the windlass with a crew of workmen. His apparent mission was to unwind the cable and wind it up when it had reached the extremity of its length. The nacelle was made of wicker. Underneath it but adhering to it and forming, so to speak, a lower story, a closed chamber had been established in which ballast and provisions for the voyage had been placed. Several cables hung own from the nacelle, including the guide rope and another one, rather long, terminated by rolled-up sheets and thinner cords.

  The queen and the prince soon arrived, followed by the principal individuals of the court. At that moment, Ratatinus, at the prince’s invitation, asked whether anyone wanted to make an ascension in the balloon, but no one volunteered. Remplume’s advice had been followed.

  The prince and the queen decided then to climb into the nacelle.

  Until then, Remplume had not shown himself, but when he saw the balloon rise up slowly, he emerged from hiding, and, with an ax in his hand, ran to the cable in order to sever it abruptly. But he had not taken two paces before he was seized by the men posted by the prince and tied up tightly with one of the cords falling from the nacelle. At the same time, the prince shouted: “Release all!”

  The balloon was seen to rise up swiftly, with Remplume underneath it, tied up like a sausage.

  The entire population uttered an immense clamor. It was perceived then that nothing any longer retained the balloon to the ground. The prince had detached it. But another clamor was heard; the rope that retained Remplume to the balloon had just been cut in its turn. The unfortunate astrologer was about to be broken by his fall. Nothing of the sort happened, however. Above his head, a hemisphere of cloth suddenly deployed, which softened his fall, while the unballasted aerostat soon disappeared in the sky.

  And since then, no more mention
has ever been heard of engineer Vatenlair and Princess Betinette. They probably came down in another unknown world or, perhaps, have even been able to recommence their experiments in fantastic realities

  There is, I think, no need to give our young readers explanations of the marvelous experiments that we have described. They are in the domain of modern science, which is making progress from day to day. They have all recognized, in passing, gas lighting, hypnotic suggestion, photography, cinematography, electricity, the phonograph, Röntgen rays, the submarine boat, automobilism, bicycles, projectors, the electromagnet22 and, finally, the balloon and the parachute. Remove those marvels from the domain of science, and they appear to emanate from magic. But in our day people no longer believe in fays or enchanters; even illusions no longer create illusion, and there no longer remains on earth a mortal as naïve as King Beta.

  Gustave Guitton: The Humans of the Year 3000

  (1907)

  I. On Vacation

  The village of Montbarzy, in the Ardennes, situated in the heart of the forest, is five leagues from the nearest railways station. Letters and news only reach that lost hamlet slowly. Its inhabitants—woodcutters, charcoal burners and cultivators—still live the contemplative and laborious existence that their ancestors lived a hundred years ago. They have retained mores full of simplicity.

  Montbarzy is one of the rare places in France where one can still live cheaply, on condition of being content with the local wine, milk, poultry and vegetables. Food and lodging cost three or four times less than in Paris.

  That was the principal reason why, for several years, Monsieur Vernoy, a deputy curator in the National Archives, had chosen the village for his annual vacation. The calm beauty of the landscape, the vivifying atmosphere of the woods of oaks and firs, the unalterable tranquility and profound peace that one enjoyed at Montbarzy were also advantages much appreciated by the archivist, curbed all year over dusty parchments.

  Monsieur Vernoy was accompanied by his wife and his only son, Marcel, who was about to reach his seventeenth year.

  As they did every year, the Vernoys stayed in the home of the Maire of the little commune, Monsieur Blancheron, who rented them the entire first floor of his house, three large rooms, for the modest sum of fifty francs a month.

  Monsieur le Maire, a woodcutter and shoemaker by profession, also kept one of those shops that one encounters in the depths of the country, filled with the most disparate goods: wooden clogs, images d’Épinal, throat pastilles, cotton thread, agricultural implements and salted herrings. Madame Blancheron, in spite of the occupation that the commerce in question provided, found the time to prepare simple but copious meals for the Vernoy family.

  Confidence and esteem were reciprocal between the Vernoys and the Blancherons. Every year the latter awaited impatiently the arrival of “the Parisians,” and only saw them depart with regret.

  Monsieur Vernoy was only veritably happy in Montbarzy. Only there did he feel relieved, as if of a heavy burden, of his administrative preoccupations and the everyday cares that assail the head of a family devoid of fortune with a meager salary. He abandoned his frock coat for a twill jacket, and, in the company of his wife and Marcel, there were long and fortifying walks in the woods, excursions to the famous sites in the vicinity, harvests of mushrooms and wild flowers, and picnics on the grass: a whole series of innocent and healthy distractions. The weeks of the vacation passed like a dream.

  Monsieur Vernoy, his tall stature slightly curbed, had an angular profile and prominent cheekbones. His slightly curly hair was going gray. His gestures were slightly jerky, and the gaze of his blue eyes revealed a resigned and pensive mildness. Sober in speech, morose and sullen when in Paris, he became exuberant and cheerful in the country. His good humor was even proverbial among the inhabitants of Montbarzy.

  Everyone, but particularly Monsieur Blancheron, was surprised, that year, to see Monsieur Vernoy arrive with a melancholy expression that they had never seen before. They thought that he was ill. They asked him. He replied, with slight annoyance, that he was quite well, thus cutting off any further questions.

  In fact, Monsieur Vernoy was under the impact of preoccupations caused by abrupt changes in the character and behavior of his son Marcel.

  Previously, the young man had been cited as an example to his comrades. He was considered as a brilliant pupil. In the end of the year examinations and in compositions his fellows tried in vain to compete with him for first place. The teachers only talked about Marcel Vernoy, already crowned several times in general competitions, as an exceptional student, equally well endowed for the sciences and letters.

  To the great surprise of everyone, the young man had been suddenly discouraged. Without yet being classed among the dunces, he did not do his homework and only learned enough of his lessons to avoid punishment. He seemed to be uninterested in the eventual success of his studies. His end of the year report was very poor. A long note in the head teacher’s handwriting had informed Monsieur Vernoy of that deplorable state of affairs.

  The parents had also remarked a complete change in their son’s character. Ordinarily cheerful, Marcel had become somber, preoccupied, and even sly.

  Previously, he had kept his father and mother up to date with his class work, his reading and the slightest incidents of his life as a schoolboy. Now he was reserved, scarcely responding to his father’s affectionate questions, and as soon as meals were concluded he ran to shut himself in his bedroom, skimped his homework and spent hours reading novels, looking out into the street, and dreaming.

  Madame Vernoy, as anxious as her husband, tried in vain to react. Ordinarily very affectionate with his mother, the young man only responded to her admonitions with surly retorts, affirming that nothing had changed in him; he had only been less happy than in previous years, that was all.

  The mother was not duped by that lack of confidence. Without letting anything be seen of the chagrin she felt, she redoubled her persistence and her coaxing. It was futile; Marcel remained idle, morose and secretive.

  Monsieur Vernoy, whose duty it was to give proof of authority, did not have the courage, so afflicted was he, struck in the heart in his paternal affection and in his dearest hopes. He did not address any reprimand to his son, convinced that the crisis of indolence would soon pass, but he tried in vain to dissimulate his sadness.

  He had thought that the country air, the joy of the vacation and the pleasure of a change of scene might return all of Marcel’s former frankness and laborious ardor. On the contrary, the sojourn in Montbarzy only augmented the schoolboy’s melancholy discouragement.

  One day, having arrived in Montbarzy a week before, the Vernoys were finishing the morning meal in the room with the old oak furniture smelling pleasantly of wax and lavender, which they had made into their dining room. It was midday. Without waiting for the coffee to be served, Marcel had already departed for one of his customary solitary walks. The father and mother remained silent.

  Finally, Madame Vernoy exclaimed: “My God, what can be wrong with that poor child?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Monsieur Vernoy, shaking his head in a discouraged manner. “At present, Marcel is going through a grave crisis. What makes me despair is that I can’t help him, with my advice, to recover his mental equilibrium. For some time now, he no longer confides in me.”

  “Once,” the mother murmured, sadly, “he didn’t hide anything from me. Now he hides everything.”

  “It takes so little at his age, alas, to transform the best student into a slacker and the most obedient and submissive child into an unruly one.”

  “A bad book or a bad acquaintance can sometimes have the deadliest influence.”

  “If only he’d consent to explain the reasons for his discouragement to me,” exclaimed Monsieur Vernoy, impatiently, “perhaps I could succeed in repairing the damage...”

  The Vernoys’ conversation was abruptly interrupted by Marcel’s return. He had forgotten his knife—a solid k
nife equipped with a saw-blade, which he used to cut walking-sticks or fishing-rods in the woods.

  Marcel was about to leave again when his father blocked his passage.

  “You’re in a hurry,” he said.

  “I’m going for a walk,” the boy replied, sullenly.

  “You can go in a little while. I need to talk to you seriously. Give me the pleasure of sitting down and listened to me attentively.”

  In spite of the annoyance he felt, the young man took a seat.

  Monsieur Vernoy looked his son in the face, and in a voice pierced with contained emotion, he said: “Listen, my dear friend, you’re no longer a child; you’ve reached an age at which one is responsible for one’s actions, when one directs oneself in life. You’re almost a man; it’s as a man what I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m listening, Father,” said Marcel, with more politeness than respect.

  Monsieur Vernoy continued: “You know the care and solicitude with which your mother and I have surrounded your first steps and have occupied ourselves with your education. Why, for some months, have you completely changed in our regard? Not only don’t you work any longer, but instead of making us party, as you once did, to your annoyances or pleasures, you enclose yourself egotistically within yourself. I don’t want either to punish you or to reprimand you; I’m simply appealing to your frankness. What’s wrong? What strange thing is happening in your young brain?