Only one, among all those happy men, was not satisfied. Etienne Aubert had been forced to capitulate with what he called his father’s social lunacy, and he was already feeling the beneficial effect, but, disturbed in his authoritarian theories, he was suffering, understanding that he would never be able to treat the workers of our era as he wished. To take them backwards, when they were increasingly glimpsing the possibility of an elevation in their conditions would be difficult. The bosses were too few in the face of the laborious masses, the multitudes of workers, and Antoine Aubert’s example, and that cowardice on the part of a boss disgusted his son.
Not being able to oppose it, Etienne thought it wiser, for the moment, to go with the flow, to march alongside his father and even if necessary, to appear to be marching ahead.
In addition to the factory, however, there was the new household. Affectionately treated by the new Madame Aubert as a son, and by Ulette as a brother, Etienne could not help coveting the woman, so lovely and exquisite, whom he had desired so ardently when he had seen her for the first time without knowing her. The libertine relationship that he maintained with Josette Coutan, who had become entirely the great socialite, did not cure him of that lust. Etienne combined the two different characters of his parents; from his father he inherited intelligence and a love of work, but the discontented and critical spirit of his mother was far more accentuated in him, along with the need to dominate.
The young and pretty wife who seemed to give his father a conjugal exaltation, in a sensory frenzy, was for him a nonsense, a sacrilege against nature, a spoliation. Was he, Etienne, veritably in love with her? No—but he desired her madly, recklessly, with an irritated passion, further exasperated because his father possessed her. He knew that the factory would be his one day. But when? And what about the possible children of that damnable marriage? Other heirs to the factory? Brothers and sisters?
Meanwhile, his new family did everything possible to be agreeable to him—but envy burrowed into him, a sentiment that he could not drive away or extirpate. He was being robbed, he, who had fought, had risked his life for long months while the old man, on the Quai de Javel, had amassed all the benefits of the war and distracted himself with Josette Coutan, the wife of his partner, who was at Salonika on the Eastern front. He had been robbed, yes, of that factory and that young widow, a miracle of grace and beauty, whose husband had also been killed in the immense massacre. And it was the old man, who had remained sheltered, who profited from everything.
Decidedly, his generation was a sacrificed generation, which the old had sent to death for five years, and which they had condemned afterwards to renunciation, to waiting for years, when it was necessary to enjoy the roses of life right away, without allowing them to fade and pass.
XIV. The Death of the Boss
It had been sufficient for Etienne to recommend the fitter Armand Baudard to his father as an old comrade of the war for the apache to be taken on in the workshops. Armand was a little out of practice, but he could have been incompetent without the factory owner dismissing him; it was sufficient that he had shared deprivations and dangers with his son.
Baudard promised himself that he would not spend very long at the factory. He intended, as soon as he was in possession of the large payoff, to retire to the province, near a river full of fish, where he could devote himself to his favorite pastime. Sans-Liquette was nearing thirty, and her charms were beginning to demand a great deal of artifice. Like the majority of Parisian women, she had a hankering for a cottage with chickens and rabbits, and a garden with flowers and butterflies in summer.
She had once worked as an assistant to a naturalist; she knew how to make the most magnificent butterflies of the Indies and Ceylon, which arrived in Paris mummified, almost come back to life between her fingers, by leaving them for a few days on a damp bed where their crumpled wings gradually recovered their suppleness and dazzling colors. She then extended the superb Lepidoptera on a board, flattening the dead and revivified wings and fixing them adroitly at the edges, delicate in hand, with minuscule pins, without damaging them. Skillfully, she repaired a slightly ragged wing with similar fragments taken from the damaged wing of another butterfly of the same species. Then she enclosed the marvelous resuscitated butterflies between two plates of glass, one flat and the other convex, and they had the prestige of life in their crystal coffins, minus the movement.
Since then, Sans-Liquette had become a prostitute, taking off her chemise so often that she hardly ever had it on—hence her nickname. But the butterflies of the Indies, which she had once caressed for nearly a year, had reinforced her appetite for nature, for flowers and fields. Baudard had hastened to offer to Sans-Liquette and himself a quiet existence, the repose, security and happiness of which they dreamed.
To gain all that, what was required? The death of Antoine Aubert, a boss—a treat, in fact. But how could it be done? However simple it might seem, arranging an accident in a factory is not easy. The boss spent a lot of time in the workshops every day, but was almost always accompanied by Louis Lafon or an overseer, and all the dangerous locations were carefully protected by guard rails and grilles. On the very first day, Baudard had seen the immense wheel providing impulsion, at the far end of the factory, but that flywheel, which was five meters in diameter, was half-buried in a metal frame and surrounded by a powerful grille rising to shoulder height. To be sure, anyone who fell beneath the rim of that formidable wheel would be rapidly crushed, but how could a robust man be made to fall there?
The mechanic could not see any better means of achieving his objective, however. The mesh surrounding the flywheel had a gate in order to permit the gears and the axletree to be cleaned and greased while the machines were stopped, and it was one of the overseers who had the key. For Badaurd, the duplication of that key was the ABC of his métier. Furthermore, at the back of the factory, immediately behind the machinery, were the storage bays of the raw materials for the manufacturing processes, with the consequence that the boss, in order to go home to the detached building on the Quai de Javel, had to go past the machinery.
That gave rise to a plan. It was necessary for Baudard to coincide a moment when he was able to go to the stores to fetch a metal bar with the time that the boss was going home; and every day, the factory owner left his office at quarter to noon to go to lunch.
Baudard fixed the day of the execution for the following Friday.
That very Friday, Aubert, having received a well-filled basket of bass, lobsters and oysters from a friend who had retired to Dieppe, had invited Etienne to lunch. The latter had accepted, arranging his travels in order to be at the factory at lunchtime, for his father liked punctuality. The last of his business meetings was at Saint-Cloud, so the young man, after having obtained a fairly substantial order, came back joyfully by automobile—and, as the day was fine, the July sun splendid but not yet too hot, he stopped for an aperitif at the Pavillon d’Armenonville. At that moment, he was certainly not thinking about the recognition of debt for half a million that he had signed on stamped paper.
At eleven-twenty he climbed briskly back into the auto and took the wheel with his gloved hands, in order to be at the Quai de Javel for quarter to twelve. His intention was to arrive at the office in time to deposit the new order there. Entering by the communicating door behind the machinery, Etienne saw his father, who was heading in his direction after having crossed the factory floor.
What happened then was rapid and horrible.
Just as Antoine Aubert was about to go past the great wheel, Armand Baudard emerged swiftly from the metal storage room with a heavy iron bar on his shoulder. Antoine recognized the recently-hired worker, his son’s protégé; delighted by the prospect of the good lunch that he was about to have with his young wife and grown-up son, he gave him a friendly salute and stood aside to let him pass.
Baudard returned the salute with his free hand, but at the moment when he passed the boss, he swiveled, with lightning-fast movement,
and the heavy bar struck the old man violently on the back of the neck.
Knocked unconscious, he collapsed without a sound.
Having put down the bar alongside the grille, Baudard swiftly took a key out of his pocket, opened the gate, seized the old man and shoved him under the enormous wheel. There was a dull thud and the cracking of crushed bones. Having closed the gate without locking it again, the murderer headed unhurriedly toward the workshop and resumed the place at the lathe where he was working at the moment.
The horrible crime had been committed before the eyes of Etienne, who was its instigator. Trembling in every limb, he stood there for some time, frozen, as if crushed.
It was the factory siren signaling midday that wrenched him from his daze. In the distance, at the extremity of the galley, he heard the hubbub of the workers running to the washbasins before going out to get their meals. Then, shaking himself, he passed his hand over his forehead several times, as if to efface a bloody stain, and then slowly retraced is steps.
As he went into the house, Ulette flung her arms around his neck. “Bonjour, Etienne, have you seen Father? He’s late today.”
“I’ve only just arrived, and I haven’t been to the factory, Ulette.”
He had pronounced those words with difficulty, his jaws convulsively clenched.
“What’s the matter, big brother? You’re all pale.”
“I’m not feeling well. I’ve got a bout of fever coming on—a relic of the war.”
The door of the dining room opened. Madame Aubert appeared on the threshold. “It’s you, Etienne! What—your father isn’t with you?”
“No, I’ve just gotten back. I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to go and see what’s keeping him.”
Relieved to escape the presence of the young widow, Etienne hastened back to the factory. “I’ll go with you, big brother!” shouted Ulette. And she ran ahead of him, skipping.
He felt faint at the idea of going past the flywheel, now stopped. He went alongside the terrible groove, not knowing what he ought to do, but following the little girl.
Suddenly, something cold and sticky fell onto his forehead. He put his hand up to it and brought it back covered with blood. A tragic howl escaped from his contracted throat, and he fell to his knees.
Ulette, who had turned round, stared, petrified, her frightened eyes going from the young man to a transmission belt above them. Held by the shred of a garment was an arm, or rather a bloody, hideous rag from which heavy drops of blood were dripping.
Etienne collapsed, and remained collapsed, under the somber debris that was staining him with coagulated blood.
Etienne’s frightful, Aeschylian scream had been heard. A number of fathers of families who lived too far away to go home for lunch, had been authorized to bring their food in and eat their meal in a refectory next door to the washroom. Lafon, who detested restaurants, and whose wife was away visiting her sister, was among that number. Soon they all surrounded Etienne and Ulette.
“A man has fallen into the flywheel!” cried Lafon. “How could that happen? But the gate isn’t locked!” He addressed two workers: “Carry Monsieur Etienne away—and you, Jouvenet, take the child home. I’ll go down into the well. You, Bernard, run to fetch the Commissaire de Police. I’m afraid that it might be the Boss.”
“Monsieur Aubert!” said the workers, horrified.
“He’s the only one who passes this way at this hour. Let’s go! The matter needs to be clarified.”
And, lifting the steel trapdoor, Lafon set foot on the steel ladder descending to the bottom of the pit. An odor of blood was mingled with those of oil and soap. Through the open trapdoor, the bright daylight illuminated the bottom of the concrete well sheathing the gigantic wheel. A mass of flesh and fabric appeared, ripped, torn apart and crushed. Only the head, as if it had been cut off deliberately, lay in a corner.
“It’s really him!” stammered Lafon, when he had climbed back up the ladder. “What a terrible misfortune!”
“The door must have been left open,” said a worker. “The boss must have wanted to close it. He had a dizzy spell, and fell under the wheel.”
XV. The Door to Oblivion
At that moment, the group parted, giving passage to Madame Aubert. Warned by the worker who had brought Ulette back, the young window had come running, frightened.
Lafon threw himself in front of her. “Don’t come any closer, Madame! It’s too horrible. Alas! We’ve all suffered an irreparable loss.”
“Antoine! Antoine! I want to see!”
“I beg you, Madame—it’s a frightful spectacle. Monsieur Aubert has fallen under that wheel and has been literally crushed.”
Fearfully, the unfortunate woman looked alternately at the murderous wheel and the men surrounding it. Suddenly, her eyes encountered the arm suspended from the belt, projected. Her eyes revulsed and she collapsed, prey to a nervous crisis.
“A physician! Quickly, a physician! It doesn’t matter who.”
Three men, glad to escape the atrocious scene, ran outside. Aided by four others, Lafon carried Madame Aubert to the house, and left her in the care of her chambermaid. As they went past the dining room they could see the places elegantly set, the opened oysters awaiting the diners in the beautiful light of midday. The contrast struck them all with horror, and although they had only had a few mouthfuls of their meals, they felt their stomachs clenched by an ever-increasing anguish.
The Commissaire finally arrived, in a rather bad mod. His secretary had come to fetch him from his home, where he was in the dining room. The affair was too important to be handed over to a subordinate. Cursing, he had answered the call of obligatory duty.
In the hall, the workers, returned from lunch, were talking in low voices about what had happened. The overseers were interrogating one another, wondering what to do. Finally, Lafon proposed going to obtain instructions from Monsieur Etienne.
For some time already, the son had recovered consciousness of the situation, but he was still feigning weakness in order to give him time to recover the necessary composure. When Lafon appeared, he seemed to make a great effort and sat up on the divan where he had been laid down. He extended his hand toward the senior overseer.
“Oh, my friend…my friend…! This blow has broken me. My poor Papa!”
“Courage, Monsieur. We’re all at the mercy of an accident.”
“I’ve found myself as weak as a little girl. But where’s my stepmother? What a hard blow for her, too!”
“I left Madame Aubert prey to a nervous crisis in the hands of her chambermaid and sent for a physician.”
“Thank you, Lafon—a thousand thanks. Fortunately, my friend, you were here.”
At that moment, two physicians summoned by the workers arrived. They were taken to the boss’s wife. Meanwhile, the Commissaire, having established the customary details, seemed to have concluded that it was an accident due to lack of surveillance. The overseer in charge of the keys had affirmed that the gate was securely locked. The machinery had, as usual, been inspected the previous Saturday, after the departure of the workers at noon—they worked the English week. That afternoon, under his direction, the manual workers had proceeded with the general cleaning and greasing. The cage of the flywheel had definitely been locked, since no one had perceived in six days that it was open.
“The undeniable fact is, however, that it was open today. Where is the key?”
“In my drawer, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“Well, I want to see whether it’s still there.”
They went into the workshops. The key was found in its place. At that moment, Etienne, supported by Lafon, joined the group around the Commissaire.
“Permit me, Monsieur Raynaud, to release the workers. I don’t think you need them all for your investigation.”
“No—only those who were present when the funereal discovery was made.”
“Very well, Monsieur le Commissaire.” He tur
ned to the overseer. “Would you please send everyone home, my friend. Tomorrow, Saturday, they’ll be paid as usual, and this week will be paid in full, as will next week. We’ll fix a time for the return to work tomorrow.”
Lafon bowed and went out to fulfill that mission. Privately, he was rather surprised by Etienne’s sudden amiability. Previously, the esteem that Antoine Aubert had had for him had never had the approval of the son.
After all, the worthy man thought, I was here at the appropriate time. Great sadness bring hearts together.
The Commissaire had resumed his investigation. The open gate was still the enigmatic element of the drama. After enquiring about the work in progress, it was concluded that the accidental opening had been caused by the repeated shocks of the pile driver that had been used the previous day. Monsieur Aubert, passing the gate, had tried to close it. A sudden dizziness perhaps caused by the charming fatigues of his marriage…and that was that.
As there was nothing left to do after that conclusion but to remove the Boss’s remains from the well, when that frightful work had been done, Louis Lafon and Pierre Engelard, the overseer with the keys, left together, their hearts aching.
“Do you believe in the conclusion of the police, Lafon?” asked Engelard.
“Hmm! We’ve made use of the pile driver millions of times, and the gate has never opened on its own because of the vibration. It’s true that that’s not conclusive. Things that have never happened before do happen.”
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