by Theo Varlet
“And anyway, it can’t be kept,” Madame Taquet concluded. “You have to eat it fresh or it turns, like milk.”
When the concierge had gone, I cast an eye over the papers. I’ve already mentioned the complete stoppage of services on the Metro and the tramways. On the electric railways, État, Orléans, complete disorganization and traffic from the capital virtually suspended. At the P.L.M., numerous aerial telegraphic wires had been broken between Paris and Villeneuve-Saint-Georges by a surcharge of the Lichen. The Midi expresses were running two hours late, at present, and down south between Marseilles and Nice, in the zone invaded by the Xenobiota, the disruption was even worse.
I had just read that the Conseil des Ministres was meeting to discuss the situation, and that the new parliamentary sessions had been brought forward to October 25, when the tubular carillon standing in for a bell at the door of my apartment rang.
Aurore already? A quarter of an hour early? I ran...
It was Luce de Ricourt, with her brother.
I must have let them see my lack of enthusiasm with regard to that visit, as untimely as it was unexpected, and Luce seemed to take a malign pleasure in it.
“You weren’t expecting us, eh, my dear Tonton? Are we disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Come in. What brings you to Paris? I thought you were in Cassis until October 30.”
It was only then that I noticed that Géo was carrying a voluminous parcel. He gave it to me.
“Your canvases, which the manager of the Hôtel Cendrillon entrusted me with the responsibility of bringing to you, at my request. I thought that more prudent than letting him send them.”
My irritation eased before this service, rendered with such good grace, and I bore the intrusion with greater indulgence. Meanwhile, Luce had gone ahead into my studio like a gust of wind. She came to a halt in front of the recently-begun portrait.
“Hey, Tonton! That’s the ‘pretty young astronaut,’ as Messieurs the journalists put it. And I’ll wager that you’re waiting for her, for a sitting?”
“Yes, but...”
“But now that we’re here, you won’t throw us out? Thanks. We’ll leave you soon—but before then, do you know what you ought to do if you were kind? Introduce us to Mademoiselle Lescure. Ever since I saw her in the distance in Cassis, on your arm, I’ve been dying to make her acquaintance.”
Impossible to refuse. While dreading some trap on Luce’s part, whose mild tone was uncharacteristic, I resigned myself to introducing her to the person who must appear to her to be a triumphant rival, and against who she must be nurturing a solid antagonism.
At the precise moment when I acquiesced, someone else rang: Aurore.
In spite of Luce’s affected effusions, there was a moment of embarrassment. To put an end to it, Géo explained their exodus from Cassis. On the very day of my own departure, October 17, the lights of the hotel had begun to manifest contamination. On the 18th, there had been no bread, for half a day, the bakers of Cassis all using electric kneading-machines whose motors had mysteriously broken down. Moreover, Madame de Ricourt had a pathological horror of fleas, and after having scratched herself two nights running, her complaints and lamentations had forced the decision to return…for the newspapers were only advertizing the invasion of Marseilles by the Lichen as yet, and they imagined that Paris was unaffected. Having left on the morning of October 19, they had arrived yesterday afternoon, Luce taking turns with her brother at the steering-wheel. They would have made the journey in considerably less time, had it not been for repeated breakdowns due to the formation of lichen on the headlights.
“It was hardly worth the trouble of changing abodes!” Géo concluded. “But you need to speak to our friend the doctor. The nurses must have talked—Madame Alburtin too, no doubt—and the Cassidians quickly held him responsible for the perturbations of the electric lighting and other accidents. The attitude of the population had become so hostile, by the time we left, that the brave fellow hardly dared show his face any longer. People were refusing to work for him; he had all the difficulty in the world finding someone to pack up and transport Mademoiselle Lescure’s apparatus to the station.”
“Poor Doctor!” murmured Aurore. “When was that?”
“The evening of our departure, I think—the 18th. The crates ought to be waiting for you now at the Gare de Paris. Anyway, the damage was done; Cassis no longer had a single unaffected house. The hoteliers are furious and heartbroken; the foreigners have all left for La Ciotat, Bandol, Saint-Cyr…and it was only after Chalons that we realized that we’d find the same thing in Paris. Just as bad—and worse! For what was only a petty inconvenience down there, in a village, risks turning into a catastrophe in a big city, where everything depends on electricity.”
“In sum, dear Mademoiselle,” Luce interjected, with a perfidiously affable and pitying expression, “Professor Nathan was spot on—you’ve made a sad gift to humanity there. We were already beginning to suspect, since the War, that the discoveries of science aren’t all good…but tell me that you’ve brought back lunar gold by way of compensation.”
Aurore shivered. “Indeed, I ought to be considered as a criminal...”
Was that allusion to lunar gold an involuntary gaffe on Luce’s part, or a spiteful remark? Given the haste with which Géo interrupted, I inclined to the second hypothesis. Alburtin must have told them that the Rocket hadn’t reached the Moon.
“Personally,” said Géo, “I don’t think public opinion will be tempted to accuse you, Mademoiselle. People do know, thanks to the revelations of the Press, that the initial seed-germs of the Lichen were brought back from space by Mademoiselle Lescure’s Rocket, but the great majority of average Frenchmen don’t ‘realize’ the connection. For the greater number, the cosmozoans are an impersonal myth, one of those book-learned givens that interest people without them thinking too much about it, as with so many articles popularizing science—and even those who remember something about them only retain the memory parrot-fashion.
“All things considered, it’s fortunate that Monsieur Nathan’s fine article has been little understood by the masses. People believe in cosmozoans as an act of faith, but they remain devoid of any measurable relationship with the Lichen, a material fact that they only know as a natural calamity, similar to an epidemic, a food or an earthquake. The Lichen that’s blocking the tunnels of the Metro and the gracious astronaut they’ve seen on the screen or in portraits, can’t have anything in common, in popular opinion. Only educated people like us succeed in establishing a causal relationship between the abundance of Xenobiota and the meteorites harvested by Mademoiselle Lescure, but they couldn’t possibly think of holding you ‘responsible’—and we know better than anyone else how futile it would be to hold it against you.”
“You talk like a book, Géo,” said his sister, deadpan.
Aurore looked at her defender gratefully. “That’s reassuring, Monsieur. I feared hostile manifestations when my father and Lendor J. Cheyne arrive this afternoon.”
Luce had been waiting for that. “My dear Mademoiselle, you must introduce me to Monsieur Lendor J. Cheyne, whom I’d very much like to meet. His American speculation on…lunar gold”—her tone was as if she had added: which doesn’t exist—is utterly intoxicating. What time, then, is he arriving at Le Bourget?”
“Three o’clock.”
“You’re willing to do it, aren’t you?” Luce insisted.
“Yes—but how?”
Géo cut in. “There’s one thing we can do. My boss, Hénault-Feltrie, who has just phoned me, will be at Le Bourget this afternoon to welcome Messieurs Cheyne and Lescure on behalf of French Astronautics. I’ll take you in my turbo, and even with the four of you, we’ll still have room to bring them back to Paris. In spite of everything, that will be doing them a favor, for I don’t think the Parisians, without being precisely hostile, will have a warm welcome reserved for them...”
I hoped that Aurore would turn the plan down, but she nodd
ed her head silently—and Géo concluded: “That’s settled, then. And we’ll have lunch together.”
I hoped to see the intruders leave, which would leave us alone, but Luce hadn’t finished. She wanted to choose a few canvases from the “coves” her brother had brought back. She had a coup on the Bourse under way, which was certain of success, and was in haste to invest some money.
The discussion of the choice of paintings took place with Aurore’s collaboration. She took so much pleasure in it that I suspected that she was glad of the opportunity that deprived her of a tête-à-tête with me, in spite of the promise she had made the day before. She wasn’t sure of her good comrade!
When the interminable discussions were concluded, by the purchase of four canvases—for which Luce paid me by check—it was half past eleven. Aurore and Luce seemed to be on the best of terms. That annoyed me, but I experienced nevertheless a secret pleasure in considering them thus, in confrontation with one another.
Returning to her speculative projects, Luce said to her new friend: “I’ve taken a position on electrics going down and a rise in oil…on account, unfortunately. If I had a few hundred thousand available, I’d buy up all the oil shares on the market. You don’t keep track of the Bourse? Nor you, of course, Tonton? Well, Royal Dutch went up to 400 francs yesterday, and Shell went past 700.”
As she made these wretchedly venal statements, Luce became excited, taking on the supreme and complete expression of her beauty. More than ever, I understood why I had been taken in by her for so long; I detested the baseness of what she was saying, the sentiments within her…at the exact moment, when the resplendence of her physiognomy and expression, forced me to admire her, with an artist’s emotion: Titian’s red-haired Danae beneath the shower of gold!
And Aurore, as disdainful as me of those contingencies, took refuge in a politely indifferent smile...Aurore, whose ingenious, supple and simple grace enchanted all the antennae of my humanity!
That little game of contrasts, savored in secret, helped me again, a little later, to put on a good face for our hosts during lunch…and then again, can a painter be surly toward the collector who has just bought four of his canvases, at a good price, and whose check is in his wallet?
XI. At Le Bourget
The “turbo,” flat out on the Route de Flandre. An ingrate suburb of country inns. A Sunday crows on the pathways. Zebi-carts surrounded by samplers. No trams. Taxis and buses trailing their raged goiters of lichen. And since the Porte de La Villette, so many cars broken down by the roadside!
“Failed spark-plugs, all that,” Géo tells us, with a dexterous twitch of the steering wheel to avoid a Cadillac that had just come to a stop in front of us, without signaling. “Personally, I’ve got a funnel that Alburtin gave me—to sprinkle the spark-plugs with salt water…sodium chloride…that slows down the growth of the lichen and renders breakdowns less frequent. It’s only a palliative, though. You’ll see—cars will end up blocked, like everything else…and aircraft too.
Between the enormous grey hangars that we pass on the left, the first glimpse of the leprous plain of the airport, where planes, near and distant, are taxiing along the ground, or landing with the graceful agility of ballerinas. An enormous crowd is piled up along the railings. At the gates, Republican Guardsmen on foot or on horseback. It’s necessary to stop, to give the password.
Having parked the turbo, Géo guides us toward the Aero-Club pavilion. The cock shows ten to three. A loudspeaker announces that the aircraft carrying Messieurs Oswald Lescure and Lendor Cheyne has just flown over Mantes and will be here in a quarter of an hour.
In front of the pavilion, two groups are waiting. One, consisting of about 20 journalists, cameramen and photographers—almost all of them young men in soft hats and trench-coats—seems sharp and purposive. The other comprises a dozen earnest gentlemen, almost all old, sporting red ribbons or rosettes in their buttonholes, and two or three ladies, similarly decorated.
“My boss, Monsieur Hénault-Feltrie,” Géo announced in a low voice, directing Aurore’s gaze toward a solid quadragenarian who is chatting with Professor Nathan. “Under what name shall I introduce you, Mademoiselle?”
My companion straightened up. “Under my real name, Monsieur!” Aside, she finishes: “Enough lies!”
At the name of Aurore Lescure, Monsieur Hénault-Feltie, celebrated aviator and president of the Ligue Astronautique de France, bowed mutely and, as if getting ready to ask an embarrassing and delicate question, hesitated for two seconds with a smile in which I thought I can detect skepticism and irony—a smile that humiliated me, reminding me of a scrap of an article that I had read, signed Hénault-Feltrie, demonstrating the impossibility of reaching the Moon in Rocket MG-17, especially in five hours.
Monsieur Nathan, in his turn, greeted my companion, and said, in a prim tone: “I was expecting you yesterday, Mademoiselle.”
Relieved by the diversion, she told him the story of our Metro accident, while Luce took possession of Monsieur Hénult-Feltrie.
Detaching themselves from their group, however, journalists were dispersing themselves around us, all ears. Objective lenses were aimed at Aurore and Nathan, pens blackening notebooks or pads—and on their faces, half-smiles, sly and conspiratorial. In one of the reporters, I thought I recognized the fake valet de chambre from the Hôtel Métropole, who was whispering in his neighbor’s ear while looking at me. The latter approached me and said to me straight out: “Monsieur Gaston Delvart? Would you like to give me a few words about yourself…and Mademoiselle Aurore Lescure, whom you’ve been escorting in Paris?”
Should I get upset? No—better to improvise a few vague banalities...
The metallic drone of the loudspeaker announced that the plane from Cherbourg was in sight. Two large biplanes, one red and one blue, were converging on the airport, the red one from an English Company—the London mail—the blue one, ours.
The blue airplane touched down, taxied, came to a stop less than 30 meters away. The mechanics ran forward, wedging the wheels and positioning the stepladder. Almost intermingled now with the crowd of reporters, our group remained in suspense.
At the door of the passenger-cabin an unmistakable Yank appears, bare-headed, his physiognomy reminiscent of the famous Lindbergh, but with features less frank and less open, without that juvenile charm. Having disembarked, he helped a white-haired old man with a waxy complexion and the luminous eyes of genius to get down.
“Father!” cried Aurore—and heedless of protocol, she ran to meet him, amid the Hip, Hip, Hurrahs! launched by the most boyish of the journalists, amid the clicking of shutters and the rattle of “rolling” cameras capturing the passionate embrace of father and daughter…and then the ostentatious handshake, vigorous but devoid of affection, that she exchanged with her fiancé.
A flurry of introductions, names thrown out by Hénault-Feltrie, Nathan, Géo: Madame Camille Flammarion,26 Madame Curie, Mademoiselle de Ricourt, Monsieur Lequin of the Air Ministry, Monsieur Dusautoy, President of the Press Syndicate...
The reporters, insinuating themselves between shoulders, added to the hubbub and the confusion. In the distance, against the railings of the enclosure, the crazed crowd howled…cheers or boos; it was impossible to tell. People only began to greet one another once assembled in the Aero-Club Hall, around glasses of champagne.
Official toasts: welcome to French soil the valiant champions of American astronautics…everyone, in turn, added his petty couplet.
The phlegmatic Lendor J. Cheyne, bowed like an automaton and emptied his glass every time. He excused himself, in an implausible gibberish, for “not speaking French very well” and handed the floor to Oswald Lescure, who thanked everyone collectively and individually with a few phrases learned by heart. He was not very fluent in French either. Then the individual conversations began, laying bait for the advantage of the journalists, some of whom had sneaked into the room.
Aurore had taken her father’s arm affectionately. He was ra
diant, gazing at her fondly. She undertook to introduce me once again to him and to Cheyne, making me almost her savior on the occasion of the accident, which she described. But I did not know a word of English—she translated for me as she went along—and that was doubtless one of the reasons that alienated me from their good graces. In spite of the old man’s accolade and protestations of gratitude—also translated, which rendered them slightly ridiculous—and the Yank’s pump-like handshake, I sensed immediately that they were not sincere. I had indeed been Aurore’s savior; I had captured her trust and amity—and for the father, as for the fiancé, I was also the enemy, capable of getting in the way of the jealous affection of the former and the plans and interests of the latter. There were unmistakable premonitions in that. Aurore must have sensed it too, for she darted a pained and disappointed glance at me.
Luce, similarly introduced into the intimates’ corner, was considering Lendor J. Cheyne with an evident admiration. To begin with, he confronted her with his traditional insensitivity to feminine homage, but he melted when she began speaking to him in English at close range, in a voice that was contained but warm. All I could understand was the word “businessman.”
How I regretted my ignorance! Judging by the Yank’s interested expression and Luce’s volubility and conquering smile, I divined that he was saying important things within range of my hearing—but I did not suspect the importance that the association of those two individuals was to have on my own future. Luce was resplendent in the perfection of the beauty that came upon her when she talked about business. The Yank manifested a slight anxiety on seeing a reporter prowling around them with ears pricked, who apparently understood English, and they both began to talk in whispers. At one moment, Cheyne started in surprise, but after a few tense seconds, a reply from Luce caused his face to clear, and he grimaced a mute smile, as if he were half-admitting some enormous joke.