Charles, continuing his experiments, measured the thicknesses by eye, planted his knife in the striated side of the plate—the side with the thousand luminous and dark stripes—two millimeters from one edge: the edge limiting the view of the little top room. And he detached the micaceous sheets with a dry click.
He saw Claude, less than 20 years of age, going into the depths of the grounds with a wheelbarrow.
Charles repeated the same operation close to the other edge, and then—and then!—as he had sectioned it only a few years from the present day, he perceived a young man leaning over stacks of paper in the little top room, the sight of whom shook him violently in all the fibers of his mental being.
He saw himself, three years earlier.
Everything had now been clarified, at least with respect to the optical properties of this marvelous material, natural or composed. It was such that light went through it, in every direction, like a window, but very slowly, at the rate of a fraction of a millimeter every 24 hours.
At this point in our story, we shall ask our readers to excuse us for continuing to simplify—perhaps excessively—everything related to the scientific aspect of this story. Everything has its place. There are many reports and technical works on the subject of the material that Charles Christiani had just discovered—or, rather, rediscovered—and which he baptized luminite. We shall refer lovers of detail and explanation—who, in any case, might already have derived fecund speculations from the elementary data that we have already furnished—to the scientific works in question. We do not think it necessary to our own concerns to descend any further into the depths of science, for we are merely a scribe charged with telling a curiously-developed love story, and nothing more. That is already, in itself, a sufficiently fine task, and one that enchants us.
Let us, therefore, set aside everything concerning chemistry and mathematics, not to mention the rest; and if any female reader has started sulking as she read the preceding pages, may we simply ask her to remember, for the moment, that luminite—as Charles Christiani baptized the retrospective substance—is something that produces the following result: because light passes through this material at an extremely decelerated speed., one sees, in looking through plates of luminite, things as they once were; and the thicker the plate is, the more distant is the past revealed on both sides of the plate.12
Having established that, let us take up the thread of events.
The first that offers itself to us for retracing occurred that same evening.
When night fell, Charles Christiani, who had not left his room all day, saw his ancestor César enter the little top room for the second time, as if instead of being in front of his mantelpiece, Charles had been up there watching what happened from outside the second floor of the tower. And with regard to that, he made the rather curious remark to himself that, even if the little top room had been empty of all its furniture in 1929, the luminite window-pane would have shown it to him as it was in 1829, as everything that we have reported trickled through it.
Now, everything in old César’s appearance indicated that he was making the final preparations for his departure. Much better placed than behind the little window in the loft, Charles could get as close to the plate as he desired. By that means, he could see the ridge-backed desk on which César had deposited his lamp as he came in.
The eccentric gentleman in green wrote a few pages with the aid of a goose-quill. At the foot of the fifth, he drew a line, in a rough manner. After which, adding the sheets he had just blackened to a whole stack of sheets, he placed all of them in a black-and-yellow-marbled cardboard box, whose three cords he knotted cleverly.
Getting up thereafter, he went to the bookcase, opened it, climbed on to a stool, took a considerable number of books off the highest shelf, and plunged his hand inside the item of furniture.
Charles, who was watching this in the lower pane of the window—the one which had been fixed beneath the other in the window-frame on the previous evening—changed plates and, in order to see better, continued his observation through the upper pane. He was thus placed on the same level as the top of the bookcase—which is to say, as comfortably as possible for seeing César’s hand slide a portion of the back of the bookcase that was slotted in grooves sideways. The wall then appeared—or, to be precise, a little door set in the wall.
That door also slid sideways, obedient to César’s hand, unmasking a cavity, a hiding-place hollowed out in the body of the wall. It was there that César deposited the box containing the manuscript.
He did not limit his actions to this placement, though. Having rummaged in the depths of the secret lodgment, he took something out.
What was it? A flat rectangular package wrapped in black cloth or black paper. It could have been a book, a volume in folio format…or a plate.
The sliding mechanism was brought into play; the cavity in the wall closed again—likewise the movable back of the bookcase. César replaced the books, and got down off the stool…
A few minutes later, he left the little top room, carrying the lamp and the black package…
Charles, in the darkness of his bedroom, in which the present crescent moon only spread a wan glow, could no longer see anything on the mantelpiece but two nocturnal scenes: on one side, the former grounds, whitened by the old Phoebe, who was silvering the bushes, its simple French pathways, its vineyard and its rustic summer-house; and on the other, the little top room, deserted and dormant.
Without losing a minute, in spite of the fatigue that was wearing him out, he took up a powerful lamp, lit it and rapidly went up to the second floor of the tower, to the doctored bookcase and the hiding-place in the wall.
It was quite natural that these secret dispositions had escaped him before, when he had undertaken the exploration and the rearrangement of the monumental item of furniture. The idea that a part of the back might be movable, capable of sliding laterally, supported by slots, had never occurred to him That characteristic had not been mentioned in any of the old papers that he had consulted; in particular, César Christiani’s memoirs did not contain a single word to encourage the suspicion that the hiding-place existed. The ancestor had, however, known perfectly well that the removal of the bookcase would unmask the little door; one could therefore conclude that he had intended to return to Silaz before dying and to take less precarious measures relative to that secret.
Charles thought, judiciously, that reading the manuscript would clarify this point—and many others.
He had no difficulty recovering the black-and-yellow box, whose cords were still cleverly knotted. And after that, he brought out of the lodgment several more-or-less flat packages similar to the one César had taken away a century ago, each meticulously wrapped in black cloth. He weighed them in his hands and presumed that they were plates of luminite. Nevertheless, before making sure of that, he thought it best to read the manuscript, not knowing why these presumed plates had been so carefully sheltered from the light.
We have had this exceedingly interesting account in our hands, which reveals everything that César Christiani knew, in 1829, concerning the substance that his thrice-great-grandson was to call luminite, and which he called optical glass, in a spirit in conformity with the language of his era as well as, let us admit, his ignorance of scientific matters and the import of words.
The amplitude of this document prohibits us from publishing it here in its entirety. We shall summarize it as best we can, regrettably depriving it, in so doing, of the astonishing verve that the corsair captain deployed therein and the truculent bonhomie with which his work is imprinted, imparting to it such a southern warmth that one cannot help reading his narration in the accent of his native region.
Day was breaking for the second time, without Charles Christiani having obtained a wink of sleep, when he finished learning that which we are about to condense, in a paroxysm of overexcitement.
VII. The “Stone That Remembers”
On May 28, 1814, the
three-master Finette, armed as a privateer, carrying 28 cannons, 130 crewmen and Captain César Christiani, was cruising in the Indian Ocean in order to impede English commerce by any means possible.
She was a pretty ship, sleek and slender in form, whose capacity for speed was as famous as the intrepidity of the coastal brethren who manned her. In the previous days, César had captured two important prizes and sent them to Port-Napoléon—the former Port-Louis—the capital of the Ile de France,13 manning them with parts of his crew under the command of two of his lieutenants.
As dusk was falling, the lookout on the topmast spotted several sails in the wind. A convoy of eight East India Company ships was identified, sailing under the protection of three warships, one of which would not be long delayed in separating itself. Without waiting for it, César came about and fled away from it.
He was not worried about the approach of the English ship, a stout frigate with at least 50 guns and 600 men, which was heading straight for the Finette with all sails aloft. The chase, he thought, would not be prolonged. The frigate would be eager to link up with its convoy again.
Long after sunset, however, the night being clear, the enemy could be seen laboring the sea at a distance of two cannon-shots, and slowly gaining. César realized that only his skill could save him. To fight would be to race to his doom. Trickery seemed impossible—and in these distant waters, he could not count on any French rescue. He therefore set the course in which the wind was most favorable to his retreat and fled southwards in that fashion, with the Englishman in his wake.
The latter, a remarkable speedy vessel, seemed to be firmly resolved to extend the chase to the point of boarding. Had the Finette been recognized? César supposed so, in view of the other ship’s obstinacy and the decision its master had taken to abandon the convoy. In response to the frigate’s call to heave to, the Finette had not, of course, shown its colors on the mizzen mast, and certainly was not displaying César Christiani’s guidon—a golden Christ on a red background—on the mainmast, but the corsair’s lines and speed were not unknown to any officer in the British navy, and it was a good bet that the commander of the accursed vessel was already rejoicing at the prospect of sending César Christiani and his crew to the English hulks.
There was no alternative to augmenting the speed of the Finette and distancing her from the Englishman, in order to get out of sight. César, who knew his ship from stem to stern and from the keel to the tops of the masts, ordered the sails to be dampened in order to give them more purchase on the wind. The seamen deployed the studding-sails and the royals, which meant that the vessel was covered by all its canvas. That expectable ploy not being sufficient, César had four carronades that were overloading the Finette’s decks thrown overboard. He ordered the trimming of the cargo, with the result that the ship was relieved of it; bales and packing-cases were thrown into the sea, six out of every dozen that had been lowered into the hold.
In spite of these efforts, the English frigate only lost a short distance—seeing which, César had recourse to drastic expedients. The carpenters unwedged the masts and removed the stanchions; the supercargoes emptied the reserve water-barrels. Thanks to these supreme measures, the lightened and more supple corsair, no longer offering any but feeble resistance to the swell and bending its flexible masts, bounded over the waves. Little by little, the Emperor’s mariners saw the inclined silhouette of the large vessel—aboard which César, though his telescope, had already distinguished the cannoneers putting their forward guns in place—drawing away.
The pursuit was not over, though. Far from giving up, the enemy, sticking to its prey, was hoping that some hazard of the sea would put her at its mercy. And, indeed, in consequence of the extreme measures that the Englishman had doubtless also taken, the Sun rose on an uncertain situation. Admittedly, the distance between the Finette’s bow and the stubborn frigate’s prow had increased further, but the latter, making as much speed as possible, did not seem to be despairing at all.
Even so tenacious an ardor, however, had to give way to the marine science of Captain César, stimulated by his love of liberty. By dusk, after 24 hours of exhausting flight, a vigorous “hurrah” went up from the Finette. On the horizon, now very tiny in the distance, the frigate came about. Its gleaming fireports were visible as it turned.
To imagine that César would immediately cease sailing at top speed would have been to underestimate him. He maintained his progress, and, in addition, “took a false route” in order to deceive the other vessel’s possible return. Thus, veering further to the east, he plunged deeper into waters that are the deserts of the liquid world.
In the morning, while he was meditating on his misadventure and deploring the loss of all the drinkable water of which necessity had compelled him to disemburden himself, he took his bearings and his expression darkened.
We should note here that nowhere in his narrative, even though it was secret, did Captain César Christiani indicate the position in which he found himself at dawn on that May 30, 1814. In addition, it should be stated that in his non-secret memoirs, the episode of the English frigate is only mentioned in passing and excites no curiosity.
That point, the intersection of a meridian and a parallel, remains unknown. The location determined by the hypothetical encounter of a line of longitude and a line of latitude would have been able to serve as a basis for ulterior research. Quite apart from the fact that César suspected subsequently that he had not operated his sextant correctly, however, we believe that he retained until his death the hope of remaining the one and only master of light.
He was, therefore, reflecting joylessly upon the annoyance of being at the end of the earth, beneath a hot Sun, with 100 stout fellows of every color—great lovers of coffee, rum and bishop,14 to be sure, but who, a week hence, would welcome drinking-water with loud acclamation. Now, he did not have much drinking water, and of wind, he had even less.
Meanwhile, the island appeared, so appropriately that César wondered whether he might be dreaming, or whether the man on watch might be dreaming in announcing the sight of land. The island, however, was no dream birthed by desire, and even though the ship’s charts made no mention of it, it was there, verdant and mountainous, accompanied by half a dozen islets of more cheerful aspect.
The whole lot was no more than a hundredth of the size of Corsica, but the sight of it was as pleasant as that of a welcoming harbor. César, sniffing the fine odor of soil and foliage that was coming from the island, and seeing seagulls and coots flying around his masts, thanked Heaven for having steered him toward that little volcanic archipelago.
It was obviously volcanic. As the Finette drew closer, the captain’s telescope clarified the ashen aspect of its mountainous heights and the nature of certain plumes of smoke—singularly numerous, it is true—which he had taken at first for evidence of habitation. They were only fumaroles, emerging from rocky crevices.
The isle was none the less inhabited; in the distance, the natives, who had no suspicion that they were being spied on through a telescope, were watching the Finette approach. They disappeared as if by magic when she moored in a hospitable bay, dropping anchor at a depths of nine fathoms on to a bed of smooth sand.
César immediately sent 15 armed sailors ashore to find provisions of water and wood. He leapt into the launch himself, equipped with his hunting-rifle and a game-bag.
The heat was intense. There was not a cloud in the blinding sky. The beach on which they landed seemed deserted. The little troop followed the course of a little stream that flowed into the sea; closer to its source, the water would be better.
The stream emerged from a forest, so they went into the woods. A place was soon found that was as propitious for the extraction of water as for the felling of a few trees—to which his men proceeded, under the authority of a junior officer. César moved away, drawn by his instinct as a hunter of woods and seas.
“There is nothing more beautiful,” he says, “than that magnificent f
orest, in which the Sun’s rays filtered through the most diverse foliage, playing among enormous and charming flowers, while a thousand songbirds flew forth from every direction, showing off their sumptuous plumage.”
He killed a few of them, taking care not to wander so far that he could no longer hear the sound of the workers’ axes striking the trees they were felling. But those noises and the detonations of his rifle had guided a band of indigenes to their vicinity, and just as César was taking aim at a multicolored bird on a branch, he was suddenly grabbed, tied up and gagged, and carried away on the shoulders of little yellow men who moved at a marvelously rapid trot.
They were akin to the Javanese, not at all barbaric although very primitive. Slender and delicately muscled, they wore dark blue sashes twisted around their loins. César soon made the acquaintance of their dwellings, which presented the particularity of being semi-subterranean. They were constructed from light, rather elegant straw, matched to cool cavities hollowed out in the ground.
It was into one of these caves that César was invited to descend. The indigenes treated him gently, even politely. His gag and his bonds had been removed. He went down the stairway that was indicated to him with a fairly good grace; its entrance was in a large, very orderly room in a large house of straw and bamboo.
Before going into this fragile edifice, César had had time to observe that the village was situated in a clearing at the foot of the principal mountain. At the foot of the stairway he was pushed, without rudeness, into a cavernous space and was surprised to find it very brightly lit.
The door, or rather the screen, was closed behind him. He was left alone. He took a few steps toward the center of his prison, vaguely doubting that it was a true prison, since there were openings to the exterior in several places.
Immediately, however, an inexplicable fact filled him with a sudden perplexity—which, given the circumstances, mingled anxiety with mistrust.
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