Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions

by Brian Stableford

  Marcel’s embarrassment was visible. Blushing, confused and discountenanced, he lowered his eyes and agitated on his chair, searching for a response.

  There were a few moments of painful silence. The affection he had for his parents and his self-esteem were engaged in a violent conflict in his heart.

  Marcel had, as they say, a bad head but a good heart; his pride could not hold out against the sad and grave expressions of Monsieur and Madame Vernoy.

  “Well, all right,” he said, abruptly making a decision. “I’ll tell you why I didn’t win any prizes this year and why I’m so discouraged.”

  “You might be more fortunate next year,” said Madame Vernoy, anxiously.

  “I had as much chance this year as in the previous ones. If I haven’t won any prizes, it’s because I haven’t tried.”

  “We’ve perceived that,” sighed Madame Vernoy. “But why that idleness?”

  “I haven’t tried because it’s futile. I could work myself to death, but I’ll never succeed in realizing my ambitious desires.”

  Monsieur Vernoy suppressed a start of surprise. The trouble was more profound than he had imagined.

  In a tone of sincere despair, Marcel continued: “Yes, study…hard work…are a sham. At school, I see nothing around me but the sons of millionaires, famous men or politicians. Whatever I do, I’ll never be able to rank alongside them in life, so what’s the point in wearing myself out? One way or another, the result will be the same: I’ll obtain some modest employment like yours, Papa. You merit better yourself, but you’re neither rich nor a schemer...”

  “Marcel,” Monsieur Vernoy replied, severely, “I’m sorry to discover in you a sentiment as base and despicable as jealousy. I’ve never inculcated such principles in you; I’ve never taught you to envy the good fortune of others, even when it’s unmerited. Certainly, the struggle for existence is harsh, but that’s why it’s necessary to show more courage. Even if they’re rich or the sons of illustrious fathers, the idle never obtain the first place in society.”

  “However, Father,” the young man replied, bitterly, “your own example...”

  “Precisely... Well, have you ever heard me complain? I’m quite happy as I am, and I don’t envy anyone.”

  Marcel, troubled in his naïve ambitious egotism, listened to his father with astonishment.

  “Does that surprise you?” said Monsieur Vernoy. “I’m happy, though, because I do my duty; and I’m more favored than many others, because I’ve chosen a task that pleases me, which is in conformity with my tastes and aptitudes. Know that we’re not in this base world simply to satisfy our appetite for wealth and domination; we ought to work disinterestedly, as the generations that preceded us have worked.”

  Monsieur Vernoy was animated. The flame of a generous ardor was shining in his gaze.

  “You don’t seem to realize,” he went on, “that the wellbeing and security that you enjoy, and the very brain that permits you to think, are the fruit of the effort and suffering of thousands of generations. Like all modern humans, you’re the creditor of the past; you owe gratitude to all those who preceded you: to the prehistoric man who was the first to carve a flint ax and undertake the destruction of large predators; to the pioneer who began to clear the forests, the heathlands and the marshes that covered the globe; to the poet and the philosopher who opened the domain of thought to humankind thousands of years before you.

  “It isn’t only the teachers who have tried patiently to sculpt the still-primitive block of your intelligence to whom you owe a debt. The glass from which you drink, the book that you read and the house in which you live are the results of inventions, and long and difficult cumulative effort. Alone, naked and unarmed, what would you be without the powerful human solidarity that has surrounded you since birth with a benevolent atmosphere? It’s that millenarian solidarity that permits you to live, but on condition that you render services in your turn, that you bring your stone to the common edifice—in brief, that you increase, for the Future, the heritage of the Past.”

  “I’ve never thought of that,” admitted Marcel, pensively.

  “The superiority that delivers a fortune, or the easy attainment of a sinecure, is illusory and deceptive. It doesn’t procure veritable happiness.”

  “But in that case,” said Marcel, increasingly attentive, “What is the veritable goal of life, and how can one be happy?”

  “One can only be happy by means of one’s own effort, by the satisfaction of one’s own conscience. All the satisfactions of luxury and vanity aren’t worth as much as the calm pleasure of duty accomplished. And that intimate serenity, that profound satisfaction, is only obtained by rendering oneself useful to others, in the measure of one’s abilities. For me, there are several sorts of superiority, as there are several sorts of happiness. The artisan, who works manually, ought to be esteemed, and perhaps happy, in his humble condition. Above him is placed the man who, by virtue of his intelligence and his capacity for organization and work, procures wellbeing for a number of his peers. At a superior level is the man who, by means of an invention or an act of courage, adds to the grandeur and wealth of his homeland. But the man who surpasses them all is one who enables humankind entire to take a step forward on the path of progress.

  “What you’re telling me, Father, appears to me to be all very well in theory, but very vague and abstract. I’d understand it better with a few examples.”

  “You only have to look around you. Do you think that the likes of Bernard Palissy, Pascal, Denis Papin, Jacquart, Hugo or Pasteur didn’t have, in the bitter struggle that they sustained against the prejudices of their times, higher and more beautiful enjoyments than the majority of men? The scientist and the artist, poor but passionate about their work, experience a thousand joys that the ignorant and idle rich will never know.”

  Marcel remained silent. Monsieur Vernoy added: “I don’t have the pretention of changing your ideas at a stroke and modifying your egotistic prejudices instantaneously; I only implore you to reflect on what I’ve said, and I’m convinced that, with your intelligence and common sense, you won’t take long to perceive that I’m right, that my theory is the only sound one.”

  Marcel scowled, nodded his head affirmatively, and withdrew, far more annoyed than convinced.

  II. The Misadventure of an Angler

  As a veritable Parisian, Monsieur Vernoy took a naïve pleasure in all rural activities. He delighted in seeing vegetables growing and fruits ripening, on the espaliers and beanpoles in Monsieur Blancheron’s garden. Insects, flowers and minerals interested him equally. Far from the dusty paper of the Archives, he felt that he had the soul of a botanist, a geologist, or even a horticulturalist.

  Sometimes, with a geologist’s hammer at his waist and the green box of a naturalist slung over his shoulder, he launched himself into the woods and over the hills. Sometimes, he spent entire hours poring over an anthill or posted in the vicinity of a beehive. And he took pleasure in observing that animals, when they live in a society, are sometimes more prudent and better organized than human beings.

  Madame Vernoy, although she did not understand her husband’s theoretical and technical side, almost always accompanied him, amused by the innumerable anecdotes with which the archivist’s memory was ornamented.

  In addition, the two spouses had another source of distractions in the conversation of the peasants of Montbarzy, who showed a great deal of respect to “the Parisians” and consulted them in a host of special cases. Many a time, the logic of the archivist and the conciliatory mildness of Madame Vernoy had put an end to quarrels or prevented lawsuits. All the details of the lives of the people of Montbarzy interested them, and, as everyone has weaknesses, they often lent a complaisant ear to the gossip of the peasants.

  There was one topic that returned incessantly to conversations: the person and the way of life of Monsieur Belzevor. The owner of the Château de Montbarzy served as a pretext for perpetual commentary in the village; he led an
absolutely claustral existence. Devoted to scientific research, he never emerged from the enclosure of his park. People spoke with a respect mingled with an almost superstitious dread about the laboratory, the greenhouses and the luxurious and bizarre furniture of the Château de Montbarzy.

  Because of his solitary existence and a few cures that he had operated in desperate cases, Monsieur Belzevor was not far from being considered as a sorcerer in the locale. Monsieur Vernoy, admiring the facility with which legends are created in simple souls, contented himself with smiling at those tales. He knew, in fact, that Monsieur Belzevor—an eccentric, original in his private life—was fundamentally a man of the highest science, universally appreciated for important discoveries in toxicology. He was a rich inventor, habituated to satisfying all his whims, but not a diabolical individual, as the majority of the inhabitants of Montbarzy imagined.

  Monsieur and Madame Vernoy would have been perfectly happy if it were not for the chagrin that Marcel was causing them, whose ill humor and mutism persisted. Initially touched by the paternal reprimands, he had quickly forgotten them. He did not modify his way of life at all. He departed in the morning, whatever the weather, and only returned at meal times, sometimes soaked by rain, sometimes covered in mud, his clothing ripped and his hands covered in scratches.

  Persuaded that his son was taking advantage of those solitary excursions in order to think seriously, Monsieur Vernoy did not address any remonstration to him. After a week, however, he did not take long to perceive that Marcel had not mended his ways at all. Still as somber, as sly and as economical in speech, the young man did not manifest any species of confidence toward his parents. He did not give any evidence of the frank repentance that makes everything forgivable.

  In reality, Marcel, a precociously discouraged ambitious youth, was filling the void of his days with long walks through the rocks and clearings, but he soon wearied of those aimless excursions, and was attracted by fishing and hunting.

  In a forested region like that of Montbarzy, everyone is something of a poacher. Perfidiously advised by an aged village marauder, the schoolboy soon knew how one places a snare and how one extends a deep fishing line. Either by virtue of lack of skill or bad luck, Marcel was rarely fortunate in his expeditions, but so far as he was concerned, that was one more reason for obstinate persistence. He put into the project of becoming a skilled poacher the same determination that he had once put into obtaining to marks for a composition.

  Thus far, Marcel had not taken the risk of trespassing on private property, but he succumbed to a temptation stronger than the rest. It was said that there were marvelous rabbit warrens and fish ponds in the grounds of the Château de Montbarzy, but since they belonged to Monsieur Belzevor, no fisherman or hunter had dared to penetrate them. Marcel’s imagination was stimulated,

  That Monsieur Belzevor, he thought, is doubtless an old library and laboratory rat; he must have a profound scorn for sports. I’d swear that game and fish are pullulating on his land as in a veritable earthly paradise. And then, a person of that sort can’t mount a very attentive surveillance of his property.

  Having convinced himself by that reasoning, whose indelicacy his parents would certainly have criticized, Marcel got up very early one morning. He was carrying in his wicker basket all the equipment of an angler.

  The village was still asleep. Marcel only encountered a few woodcutters, who were setting off to work with their axes over their shoulders. They greeted the young man with a sympathetic bonjour and their heavy and regular step drew away. Secretly ashamed of what he was about to do, Marcel only breathed freely when he was in the heart of the forest.

  Half an hour after leaving Monsieur Blancheron’s house, he arrived at the foot of the high ivy-covered walls surrounding the park of the château. It was child’s play for him to reach the crest of the wall, aiding himself with branches and fissures, and then to slide down on the other side, to the great detriment of his breeches and boots.

  He crossed a ditch encumbered by brushwood and found himself in the park, with foliage beaded with dew, from which the matinal perfume of wild flowers was exhaled. His heart beating with emotion, he followed a path, and then another, perceived the white façade of the château in front of him and turned back abruptly.

  The park seemed abandoned. The trees, where garlands of clematis and honeysuckle dangled, did not seem ever to have been pruned. Under the pressure of holly and ferns, the paths were effaced. Flocks of birds fled, chirping, in front of the indiscreet visitor.

  Marcel was delighted with his escapade. “Oh,” he murmured, “this is a veritable fairy tale château.” He did not lose sight of the practical objective of his expedition, however. After a few minutes’ research, he arrived at the edge of a pond bordered with reeds and arrowheads, encumbered by nenuphars with broad green leaves and silver and gold flowers.

  A stream alimented the large expanse of water, and beneath the foliage of the aquatic plants the backs of fishes could be seen gleaming like flashes of steel.

  Marcel Vernoy immediately set to work.

  He chose his spot and unpacked his devices; and after carefully checking his hooks, he attached his line to a tree root, promising himself that he would come back in half an hour.

  Meanwhile, Doctor Belzevor, having spent the night working in his laboratory, as was his custom, had decided to make a tour of the park before going to bed, in order to cool his brow, which was burning with a studious fever, in the breath of the pleasant morning breeze. The peace of the solitude was only troubled by birdsong, the murmur of insects awakened by the early sunlight, and the rustle of plants.

  Monsieur Belzevor was savoring the calm beauty of that corner of nature religiously when the sound of trodden foliage and broken branches caused him to prick up his ears. What! the proprietor said to himself. Has some poacher come to visit my rabbits? That would be rather astonishing, given the reputation of a terrible sorcerer that the people of the region have been kind enough to given me.

  Dr. Belzevor set himself to lie in wait behind an oak tree. He expected to see some vagabond covered in rags, or some peasant in a blouse and clogs, so he was quite surprised to see that the scoundrel who had not hesitated to cross the boundary of the park was a young man coquettishly clad in a maroon suit and coiffed with an elegant sportsman’s hat. His collar and cravat were irreproachable, his physiognomy full of mildness and intelligence.

  Those blue eyes and that fine profile aren’t those of a professional malefactor, the doctor said to himself. I’m certainly dealing with some truant from college, to whom it might perhaps be useful to give a good lesson.

  Monsieur Belzevor waited until Marcel had finished setting his lines. Then, emerging abruptly from hiding, he advanced toward the young man.

  Marcel almost uttered a cry of fright on seeing, two paces away from him, the strange person who appeared to have surged forth, as if miraculously, from a dense thicket of acacias and hawthorns.

  Monsieur Belzevor, with his short stature and his clean-shaven face, brightened by two dark eyes sparkling with vivacity, seemed imprecise in his antiquity. His complexion was faded and his brow was furrowed by numerous wrinkles, but his hair was still unusually black and his eyes, animated by a juvenile gleam, disconcerted the observer. Was he thirty years old or sixty? It was impossible to tell.

  His attire was implacably correct. Coiffed in a soft silk-lined hat, with varnished shoes and yellow gloves, Monsieur Belzevor was clad in a black jacket with a slightly pretentious cut, and pearl gray trousers with gaiters. A malicious smile uncovered his exceedingly white teeth.

  Marcel was so alarmed by that apparition that he did not have the presence of mind to flee. Ashamed and blushing, he remained in front of the doctor like a guilty man awaiting his sentence.

  “I see,” said Monsieur Belzevor, sarcastically, “that you’re an early riser, young man. Unfortunately, so am I.”

  “Monsieur…,” stammered Marcel, piteously, taking off his cap.
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  “I shall take account of your age, this time, and let you go without putting you in the hands of the gendarmes, but don’t come back here again. What is your name?”

  “Marcel Vernoy.”

  “You’re doubtless at school?”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” the young man murmured, in a voice as faint as a breath.

  “Well, you’re not making your masters any compliment for the lessons in morality they’ve given you. Either their morality is deplorable or you haven’t profited from their instruction. I incline toward the second hypothesis.”

  Marcel was plunged in confusion. Mechanically, he twisted his cap between his fingers. He would have liked, as the saying has it, to be a hundred feet underground, having disappeared through a trap-door, as he had seen done is fantasy plays at the Châtelet.

  Dr. Belzevor took pity on his embarrassment. “That’s all right,” he said. “Go away.”

  Marcel had set forth, crestfallen, in the direction of the wall of the park, when the doctor called him back.

  “You’ll have too much difficulty getting out that way,” he said. “Leave honestly through the gate. The domestics will think that I’ve had a slightly early and somewhat unexpected visit, that’s all.”

  Discountenanced, Marcel followed his guide, without saying a word. They were approaching the majestic wrought iron gate that opened on to the main road when Dr. Belzevor changed his mind for a second time.

  “By the way,” he said, “now I think about it, what about your lines? I wouldn’t like to confiscate your apparatus, like a simple gamekeeper.”

  To the great joy of the doctor, Marcel bit his fingernails in his shame, his rage and his wounded pride. He was obliged to submit to the torture of returning all the way to the pond. Then, under the shrewd gaze of the doctor, he lifted the five lines from the depths in which he had just extended them.