Only Rémois had not opened his mouth since the commencement of the lunch; attentively, he watched his fiancée’s neighbors. The covetous gazes of Lesécant and Cordeau and the flaring of their nostrils, opening to the subtle perfume of violets that emanated from her gracious person, ended up irritating the young man.
Those two fellows decidedly made his hair prickle; he sensed that they were only waiting for an opportunity to pronounce their praise. He had a fervent desire to tell them what he thought, to say to them: There are scientists, Messieurs, and “scientists”: the true and the false, those who work and those who adorn themselves with the glory of others! But he kept silent, fearful of annoying the worthy Noirmont.
They were now on the coffee.
Discomfited by the penetrating gaze of the artist, and vexed at not having been able to display his merits in Hélène’s eyes, Lesécant decided to attack the painter.
“You haven’t said anything, Monsieur Rémois. Do you, by chance, agree with certain orators who believe, or profess to believe, in the bankruptcy of science? Do you not share our enthusiasm, our faith in and our love for the great benefactress of the human race?
“My dear doctor,” riposted the young man slowly, “would you believe me if I argued for the bankruptcy of commerce? You wouldn’t would you? You’d tell me that as long as there were buyers and sellers….”
“Subtleties! That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I can make to your question. Certainly, I have the greatest respect for science…but I’m still fearful of the consequences of its progress.”
“The consequences of progress are all beautiful, Monsieur. All of them you hear, all! Thus, I who am speaking, basing myself on the curious observations made in 1885 by the naturalist Bouvier17 relative to the third eye of vertebrates, am very close to rendering sight to the blind. Oh, if I had been able to find an experimental subject, it would already be done!”
Raising his head, looking into the vague distance, like Napoléon on the eve of Austerlitz, Lesécant was buoyant, very glad to have finally unveiled that sensational project.
He had set light to the powder keg. Standing up on his long legs, Cordeau, his gaze ecstatic, his head held high, gesticulating, proclaimed: “My colleague is right; we scientists, braving the skeptics, crushing them with our sovereign scorn, heedless of sarcasms, go forth toward the goals of which we have dreamed. He wants to restore sight to the blind: a noble aim. Personally, I want to give generosity to the miserly, joy to the morose, strength to the weak, audacity to the timorous, grace to the clumsy, intelligence to the stupid, gentleness to the ferocious, and—the criterium of my sublime psychic sera—honesty to the most inveterate thieves. I’m ready; experimentation will soon confirm my theory, and then, incredulous Monsieur, will you deny the power of the scientist, will you fear the consequences of progress? A child is born with a psychic flaw: no more education, no more correction—hold the whip and deploy the serum!”
Dazed by the vehemence of his improvisation, which he had been chewing over for more than an hour—as our sincerity as a historian obliges us to reveal—and proud of having produced his “effect,” Cordeau sat down, his head tilted backwards, directing a challenging gaze at Rémois.
“Why, Messieurs, what fire! Have I cast doubt on the sincerity of your knowledge? Believe that I admire you. If you hadn’t obliged me to, I wouldn’t have said anything...being, after all, merely a modest artist in love with art. Isn’t art the collaborator of science?”
Immediately, the doctors became irritated.
“Art!”
“It doesn’t exist!”
“What are you praising with your art? Convention! Pure convention!”
“Poets! Nature is more poetic than you!”
“Painters, sculptors…you only give us pale copies of the beauties of nature.”
“Yes, yes, Monsieur…leave us alone with your art. Nature does better than you, always better….”
“Artists!”
“Plagiarists!”
Under the avalanche of interjections, the violence of which might have been attributable to the excellent wine cellar of the Villa Moderne, Rémois contented himself with smiling. “It’s true that Nature is the Mistress of us all, artists and scientists alike. I can only reply that Nature cures more sick people than physicians….”
Red-faced, the surgeon and the psychologist were about to reply hotly, as things were going from bad to worse—to the great alarm of Noirmont, who dared not intervene—when, with admirable composure and a dexterity that only women possess, Hélène cut the polemic short.
“Come on, Messieurs, it’s very bad to argue when there’s good coffee in front of one. You’ll let it go cold…and however artistic our cook might be, I doubt that he possesses enough science to render the aroma to reheated mocha.”
The calm that had been momentarily compromised was re-established as if by magic.
When lunch was over, they went out to visit the property.
Noirmont showed the wonderstruck doctors the stables, the cowshed, the sheepfold and the piggery, where a scrupulous neatness reigned everywhere. Instead of the disagreeable ammoniac emanations of the livestock, the visitors breathed in the vicinity of the Villa Moderne a slight perfume of chlorine, which flattered the nostrils instead.
Cordeau made that observation.
“Another benefit of the fairy electricity,” Noirmont replied. “Everywhere that sanitation is obligatory, or even useful, I make use of electrolyzed seawater. In the vast reservoir that you can see over there, I manufacture my seawater and pass it through the electrolytic apparatus.18
“The cleaning of the stables and animal sheds, and the grooming of the horses and the livestock is carried out exclusively with that water, and I’m absolutely adamant about the health of my animals. Foot-and-mouth disease, sheep-pox, glanders—all those nasty and redoubtable diseases that decimate herds are not to be feared here. It’s the perfect and least costly sanitation. I’ve promised myself on my return to America to make use of it for the township of the mine that will house a thousand workers.”
“But how do you manufacture your electricity?”
“A watercourse runs across my land; I make use of it. Look, over there, at that small building, where my machines are powered by a turbine. If I hadn’t had a natural motor at my disposal, I’d have employed steam, but I prefer water; it’s cleaner and more economical.”
When Noirmont and his guests came back to the villa it was dark. A magical spectacle awaited the visitors. The tall trees in the park, illuminated from below by intense beams of light, gave the eyes a joyous spectrum of greens.
“Acetylene,” said Noirmont. “On days—or, rather, nights—when I have visitors, I switch them on.”
“It’s dazzling,” said Lesécant and Cordeau, in chorus.
“Messieurs, salute the victorious future of gas, and perhaps of electricity. But before dinner I want to show you my cellars. Oh, the curious contest of illumination! The battle of light! I have all the combatants in my home. We do the cooking by gas; I light the villa, the outbuildings and the farm with electricity, and my gardens with liquefied acetylene. In the cellars it’s another matter. Take these little bottles; they’ll provide you with light.”
“Oh, yes,” observed Cordeau. “The method of the American engineer Tesla.”19
“I only use it on a small scale; the discovery isn’t yet perfected.”
In the cellar, following Noirmont’s instructions, the doctors brought their little bottles—in which there was as complete a vacuum as possible—into proximity with coils through which an alternating current was passing at high frequency, and to their great wonderment, they obtained a bright light, which enabled them to admire the perfect order of their friend’s cellar.
When they came back upstairs they begged him to change the villa’s name and call it the Magic Villa.
After an excellent and very calm dinner, during which they only talked about ind
ifferent matters, they made a tour of the gardens, smoking excellent cigars, while an electric organ hidden under the trees by a hornbeam hedge provided the illusion of a brilliant orchestra.
And under the influence of wellbeing, in the midst of beautiful verdant nature, everyone blessed the Science that lavishes its benefits upon us and helps us to enjoy life.
The next day, as they returned to Paris, and in spite of all the marvels that they had admired equally, Cordeau and Lesécant did not have a single word to say to one another.
Sulking in their corners, they closed their eyes, and before them, more beautiful than ever, cheerful and desirable, passed the silhouette of Mademoiselle Noirmont, whom they had bounced on their knees as a little girl twelve years before.
Sometimes, a shadow loomed up in front of the apparition: that of Rémois, the fiancé; and each of the doctors wondered how he could get rid of that spoiler who was getting in the way of his dream.
On arrival in Paris they parted without a friendly word, without even a banal handshake; they felt that they were rivals now, and not far from being enemies; because, it is necessary to say, Lesécant and Cordeau, who had lived until then indifferent to amour, had just been struck by “the thunderbolt.” They were not even giving a thought to the age difference that separated them from the gracious Hélène; they were both telling themselves that, after all, they had not yet passed fifty, and that they had a fortunate situation capable of tempting a spouse. Then again, they thought of themselves as handsome, and they thought of themselves as young.
Does not love make people blind?
Oh, Lesécant, it only requires but the presence of a beautiful child, a frail beauty, to take away your sight, you who are ambitious to render daylight to unfortunates condemned to darkness!
And you, Cordeau, there is no need of a psychic serum to inflame your icy heart!
O power of Cupid! A child, the cherished product of Nature, rules the world. True, the child has arrows!
III. The Shareholders
A fortnight after the house-warming, Paul Rémois and Hélène were talking about their plans for the future in the shade of the large trees on the grounds of the Villa Moderne.
In front of him, Rémois had a canvas on which he was making a study of the tree, rather distractedly. The young man was not paying much attention to it; his gaze lingered more frequently on his fiancée’s face than on his sketch.
At one moment, he dropped his brush, which picked up a sprinkling of sand, and took the young woman’s hand, which he felt tremble in his.
“Oh, how I love you, Hélène, and how happy I’ve been since the day when, timid and blushing, you confessed to me that you shared that love. I’d like to have you near me always. Whenever I leave you I’m afraid…afraid that you’ll escape me, afraid that our beautiful dream will vanish.”
Mademoiselle Noirmont smiled. “What silly fears, my friend. You know very well that we’ll be married in three months.”
“Three months!” Paul sighed. “That’s a long time!”
“It’s necessary to wait; my father needs the time to liquidate his business; you’re not unaware that between now and then he has to reimburse Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau, from whom he borrowed six hundred thousand francs for the exploitation of the Chittingham copper mine in Pennsylvania, for which he’d obtained the concession two years ago.”
“Yes, I know—those two ugly birds who usurp the consideration of society, sheltering their…unworthy machinations under the mantle of science.”
“That’s a harsh phrase.”
“What? Rather say that I’m putting it mildly. Those two men who claim to be your father’s friends lent him money—which he could certainly have found elsewhere. They simply bet on the luck and talent of the engineer. Then they see you, they want you—oh, my Hélène!—and without knowing whether their ultimatum will mean ruin for Monsieur Noirmont, they demand your hand or the reimbursement of their loan within three months.”
“Each of them is armed with the contract that he made with Papa, because—don’t you know?—they don’t know that they’re co-partners.”
“That’s funny.”
“Yes, they’ve both demanded simultaneously that my father doesn’t address himself to the other.”
“They have very particular views about camaraderie. And your father has gone above and beyond?”
“Of course; he wanted the two friends to get a good return.”
“Good! Indeed—last year they received fifteen per cent interest, and in ten years, their shares would have increased in value by a third without them opening their purse.”
“Unless he reimburses them before then, in accordance with their wishes. My father insisted on introducing that clause into the contract in anticipation of possibilities. If things had gone badly, he would have paid off the shareholders with his own capital….”
“Monsieur Noirmont is the most honest of men; Hélène, you have the right to be proud of him….” After a pause, Paul added: “Well, it’s tomorrow that they’re coming to obtain the answer. I confess to you that, without being malevolent. I’d like to see the faces of those Messieurs….”
He did not have time to finish; a domestic ran up fearfully. “M’sieu, mam’zelle, come quickly! M’sieur Noirmont has fallen….”
The young people ran to the villa at top speed. The engineer was lying on the floor in his study, unconscious. His clenched right hand was clutching a telegram, and blood was running from a wound on his head, inflicted when he had fallen against the corner of his desk.
Hélène, frightened and tearful, fearing for the life of the father she adored, ran to the garage.
“William, take the brake, go to Laigle and come back as fast as you can with a doctor. Quickly, quickly, my good William!”
Without asking for any explanation, the American got in the car, and a few minutes later he was traveling at top speed along the road to Laigle.
In the meantime, Rémois, greatly affected but conserving his presence of mind nevertheless, aided by the domestics, carried Monsieur Noirmont to his bed; then, left alone beside the injured man, he bandaged the wound, which was close to the temple.
At that moment when Hélène came back the injured man opened his eyes, but he did not appear to have any consciousness of the people who were with him; his gaze was vague, his respiration painful.
The young woman ran to him and covered him with caresses. “Come round, Father…speak, speak….”
Rémois tried to reassure her, but she did not listen.
“Papa, dear Papa, it’s me, your little Hélène. Oh, I beg you, tell me that you recognize me….”
Noirmont raised himself up slightly, and, surrounding his child with his arms, had a violent crisis of tears. Then, as the sobs eased, he murmured a few words.
“Finished!... Ruined!... Cataclysm…oh! Poor darling…!”
And he continued to weep abundantly.
The young couple remained silent, allowing the salutary crisis to continue its course.
When the crisis had passed, Monsieur Noirmont handed Rémois the telegram that he was still holding, crumpled between his fingers.
“Read it, my friend.”
Paul obeyed, his voice hesitant with emotion: “Chittingham, third July. Lightning struck dynamite store. Thirty dead. Factory in ashes, Barrage collapsed. Workyard flooded. Materiel destroyed. Details by letter. John Fester.”
“Well?” queried the engineer, shaking his head dolorously.
The artist understood that his response might be a sovereign balm; with a great force of will, he made his voice firm. “Why so desolate? Apart from the thirty unfortunate victims, everything can be repaired. You still have the concession…it’s a case of force majeure, there can’t be a forfeiture. Come on, Monsieur Noirmont. I have two hundred thousand francs that came to me from my mother’s inheritance; they’re yours. It’s a nucleus. You’ll find bankers out there who won’t hesitate to support you with their credit. No wea
kness! Come on! We’re here—Hélène and I—to help you in the struggle.”
“Kind heart!” murmured Noirmont. “Your devotion is, alas, futile. I owe six hundred thousand francs to Lesécant and Cordeau. I had to supply six hundred tons of minerals to a foundry in Chicago by the end of August, under a penalty of two hundred thousand francs plus fifty dollars per week of delay. And everything is destroyed—everything! You can see…”
“You can oblige your shareholders to be patient. With my two hundred thousand francs to ward off immediate necessities, fulfill your contract with the Chicago factory…and who knows? But this isn’t the moment to talk business. You need rest.”
“Rest!”
“Yes, yes. The doctor who’s coming will demand that of you, at all costs.”
Brought at great haste by the motor-brake, the doctor soon arrived. He was a very observant old practitioner, modest but talkative. He examined his client attentively.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s trivial. There’s been an emotional shock, followed by a nervous crisis.”
He looked at the head wound. “A scratch…a bad scratch. If the blood hadn’t flowed, it might have been serious. Anyway, it will all be all right. You’ll be on your feet tomorrow, Monsieur Noirmont—but you need to rest.”
“I can’t sleep, Doctor…my head’s on fire…if you knew….”
“Calm down, calm down. You need sleep; if necessary, I’ll help you with that. Do you have lime, a little laudanum?”
The Revolt of the Machines Page 15