“Our beautiful our magnificent sheep,” Laurence went on. “Nothing can compare with that. We manufacture sheep to refrigerate, magnificent, I tell you, because we have self-respect, my husband and I. They’re superb! Last month, my husband took me to see them in Australia, three hundred kilometers from Sydney. Job’s traveling. I spent four days with our sheep, flocks of twenty thousand, groomed bathed, shorn and pampered. It’s admirable! Oh, Suzanne, you who rhyme neatly, sing about them, those lambs, bounding frolicking and growing fat...”
“All the way to the fridge!” said Edouard Montgrabel.
“And Marcelle thinks she can compete with us with her synthetic sheep! Get away! We’ll fight, my dear, we’ll manufacture so many real legs of mutton that no one will give a thought to your synthetic mutton beans. Oh, chemistry!”
“A captivating and beneficent science!” Marcelle protested. “Anyway, wait for our syntheses before pronouncing. Isn’t that right, Suzanne?”
Suzanne was thinking about something else—doubtless the accursed lost handbag.
That evening, Monsieur Montgrabel only bought seven or eight people to the family dinner, among whom were the ex-député Larose; Monsieur Maklakof, a Russian associate, Madame Birchfield, the director of a large Anglo-French bank, Mercantile Union; a great aristocrat from the depths of India, the Maharajah of Pandjajabad; and Monsieur Galibert, the director of the telephono-cinematographic newspaper Le Flambeau, which appeared five times a day, in the morning, at noon, at six p.m., eight p.m. and eleven p.m.
During the meal, Monsieur Galibert remaining in connection with his editorial office—people still say “editorial” although the cinematic photographic component now takes a preponderant part in all periodicals—had the printer of the eleven p.m. edition on the tele, and sometimes that following morning’s printer as well.
Monsieur Galibert caused interesting things to pass over the screen, scenes captured by adventurous reporters: the repression of a Turkish revolt in Asia Minor and troubles in one of the petty communist republics of southern Russia. Beautiful speeches were heard—in Russian, of course.
From time to time, when Le Flambeau’s articles threatened to inhibit the conversation, Monsieur Galibert put the tele on mute. The images filing past, which one could watch with a distracted or interested eye, depending on circumstance, could not drown out the Japanese cousin witty remarks or the remarkable financial deductions of Madame Birchfield, who was discussing political economics, philosophy and feminism with Monsieur Montgrabel.
“Soon, there won’t be any politics anywhere,” said Madame Birchfield. “Here in France, since the adoption of the new electoral system based on corporate representation, professional groups, groups of the agricultural, working, commercial, intellectual and bourgeois classes, etc, with the study and discussion of interests by experts, pure—or, rather, impure—politics has been immediately diminished, and almost abolished...”
“Add to that, the Japanese cousin put in, “the feminine conquests, the female elector and her admissibility to all functions.”
“Certainly, I’ve long been won to the cause of feminist demands, insofar as they’re reasonable,” said Montgrabel. “Don’t you see in all my enterprises, not only numerous female employees but also women in eminent positions: female engineers, directors, administrators, etc.? Look, close at hand, at the wife of my son Edouard, a doctor of law and deputy head of general litigation. You can see that the feminist cause has always found a determined and active partisan in me. But let’s not go too far! I’m a little anxious...”
“We’re heading for an upheaval,” said Monsieur Larose, “toward a veritable reversal of roles.”
“There’s a recently-published book that seems to me to be a sort of manifesto,” said Maurice, “The Household of the Nation, by a Monsieur Camille Boissy, an unknown. Do you know this Camille Boissy, Monsieur Galibert? Is it a pseudonym?”
“I believe so,” said Monsieur Galibert. “Various suppositions have been made. Hang on—I’ll just ask our literary critics whether the secret has been penetrated...”
He got up to go to the tele. The film stopped in the middle of a riot in Tiflis, where the cameraman had just had his arm broken by a bullet. In place of the furious Tcherkesses around the correspondent, who was bandaging his wound, a fat clean-shaven man appeared: Le Flambeau’s critic, tranquilly rereading a page for the phono.
“Camille Boissy?” he said, when he was brought up to date. “Still unknown. In my opinion, he must be some old white-bearded philosopher governed by his housekeeper and quite content to be. The mystery is overexciting public curiosity. To try to obtain revelations regarding the identity of the author, we’ve inserted into Le Flambeau a series of supposed portraits as varied as possible. The mystery remains impenetrable, the author isn’t owning up. I’m sticking to my old philosopher. There’s been talk of a female socialite...”
“Put up those portraits again, please. It will amuse us momentarily.”
“Yes, let’s see them again, please,” Suzanne requested. “They’ve been mentioned to me, but I haven’t seen...”
Le Flambeau’s critic disappeared from the screen, and was almost immediately replaced by a gigantic question mark alongside the noble head of an old man.
The venerable male head disappeared, immediately replaced by a woman with a triple chin over a replete bosom, a severe face with spectacles and her hair in a small chignon at the top of her head.
“Our investigation,” the tele continued, “is continuing in spite of our lack of success, and we are still hoping that Camille Boissy, in whom we recognize a great value as a thinker and writer, will not want to persist in an anonymity that is causing his readers and admirers chagrin.”
Monsieur Montgrabel was no longer listening. He was chatting with the Maharajah and trying to find words of consolation for the distress that feminist doctrines had brought to the aristocratic castes of India, particularly at the court of Pandjajabad.
V. Between Paris and Java. A Tiger Hunt
Java! Rocks charred almost red, rosy ground, from which hot radiations and vapors were emitted, traversed by rivers that seemed to be fuming in the sunlight, and a superabundance of violent verdure.
Charles Montgrabel has been in Java for two months, caught up by important technical studies. His life, during these voyages—far too frequent for his liking—has no lack of the unexpected, picturesque colors and even petty incidents, but he no longer finds the same pleasure in all that movement, unexpectedness and changes of horizon as he did before his marriage.
The best moment, for him, was the hour that he was able to devote every day to his family, via the tele—a very brief moment, one hour in twenty-four!
Suzanne, for her part, affirmed to him that it was also the sweetest moment of the day. His absence was almost abolished; she recovered the patience to await his return. But for some time, she had seemed distracted or nervous, and when the anxious Charles had spoken to his mother about Suzanne’s apparent preoccupation, Madame Montgrabel had told him that she had perceived it herself, without being able to find a reason for the changes she had noticed in her daughter-in-law. Decidedly, it was time to go home.
Charles, in a white jacket, looks good in a colonial helmet; the climate has not affected him. He is sitting at a folding table, under the veranda of his collapsible house, buried in exuberant verdure, which projects fans or sprays of long green points in all directions.
Some way behind him the prow of a miniplane is visible, posed in a space cleared of all vegetation, and in the cockpit is the head of a man working on the engine.
Charles is impatient. He has been ringing for some time. Finally, the screen clears. Suzanne appears, in the white décor of her bedroom, with the two children, who come running, joy on their faces.
Suzanne has to hold them to prevent them from hurling themselves at the tele screen, at the risk of breaking the apparatus.
“Hold on,” said Charles, “otherwise you won’t
see the little monkey that I’m bringing you soon.”
“The little monkey! The little monkey!” the children cried, manifesting an even more excited joy at that news. “Right away! Bring it right away, Papa!”
“Imprudent!” said Suzanne. “You’ve spoken too soon. They won’t give us a moment’s peace...”
“Can’t you hear the beating of my heart, my dear Suzanne?”
“No,” Suzanne replied. “The tele is an imperfect instrument; but we can see you, the children and I. We’re very well. And you?”
“Not bad. Anyway, I’m coming back. I won’t be sorry to return. It seems to me that I’m being somewhat forgotten, in Paris...”
“Oh!”
“Yes—today, again, I’ve come to the tele three times, uselessly. Only the chambermaid...”
“Oh!” said Suzanne.
“My dear Suzanne, another two days and I’ll be leaving Java! You can see, my pilot is inspecting the engine, in order to take me to Batavia, where the dirigible is waiting for me. After that, three days of travel, stopovers at Ceylon and Bombay, and then to Cairo, where I have someone to see. And then Paris! That’s the program.”
“What joy! In five or six days you’ll be here!”
“And I’m sufficiently content with my voyage. The Japanese and Australian engineers have been charming; I’ve been able to study their installations at Merapi, and other volcanoes in Surabaya, which should furnish energy, light and heat to Australia. They’ve had to overcome enormous difficulties: the climate, the constitution of the soil, seismic shocks, distance, and wild forests where tigers roam.”
“Tigers! Oh my God!”
“Don’t worry. A tiger-hunt was organized for this very day. You’ll see that—I filmed the entire hunt. When you’ve dined, shortly, I’ll put the film on the tele. The children can stay, you won’t have too much emotion—there was no danger. Three dozen tigers were troubling the construction yards, and it was decided to get rid of the importunate beasts. With the Japanese and Australian engineers and a few guests invited from Batavia we assembled our miniplanes. At dawn, when the tigers, having returned from their nocturnal hunts, were sleeping peacefully, airplanes went to deposit a dinmaker on the rocks, in the middle of their lair—a formidable instrument specially made for such hunts, whose frightful music—oh, my ears!—can be heard for ten leagues around, at the same time as a few asphyxiating gas shells were fired, to force the wretched beats to come out, in case the concert proved insufficient. And there were our tigers, maddened and bewildered, surging from the thickets, bounding, mewling, coughing and sneezing, in the midst of a swarm of other animals no less frightful, including some rather fine snakes.”
“Imprudent!” cried Suzanne, covering her eyes.
“Vine snakes?” said Pierrette, interested, drawing closer.
“Don’t come any further, my dear Pierrette, you’ll get hurt,” said Charles Montgrabel. “Yes, tigers and snakes of every size. And we were all there, but twenty meters up in the air, calmly and peacefully, in our circle of miniplanes, above our companies of tigers, increasingly panicked. We had no difficulty in shooting them with explosive bullets. A matter of a quarter of an hour, and the entire area was cleared. The final score amounted to four families with their progeniture: fourteen young tigers, already fully grown, more than a dozen snakes, and small game. Then we had lunch on the terrain, in the middle of our victims. It was very cheerful. There were several ladies, wives of our Japanese and Australian colleagues. I should have brought you with me.”
“Thanks,” said Suzanne.
“And me too,” said Pierrette.
“Yes, when you’re a bit older. I called you this morning to invite you to watch the hunt, but you’d gone out again. The chambermaid told me that you’d gone to the Lost Property Office to ask for a handbag dropped from a plane, and that it was the sixth time you’d gone to the office. Why not limit yourself to telephoning?”
Suzanne blushed.
“It was very precious, then, that handbag? Your jewels, perhaps? It’s not my letters since I have no need to write to tell you that it’s very annoying to be so far away from all of you—particularly you, Madame!”
“No, no...” Suzanne, embarrassed, blushed ever redder. Her husband saw her confusion and started to laugh.
“Right! I’ve got it—some little manuscript? Catastrophe! Sonnets to the moon, lost! Have you thought of offering a reward?”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” said Suzanne swiftly. “Let’s talk about your return instead.”
“One more week, and we’ll be reunited. In any case, my father called me to the tele briefly yesterday; he also asked me to hasten my return. He has certain projects that he wants to talk to me about.”
“He claims to have a great need for repose; he wants to rid himself of the cares of direction, to quit the business, presently prosperous in all directions. The great Montgrabel Company will become, he says, Montgrabel Sons, Sons-in-law and Daughters-in law, successors...”
“That’s right. He’s summoning us to a council to make the decisions.”
“And Mother is rather anxious. These aspirations to repose don’t augur anything good for her. She thinks that Father is, on the contrary, hatching new projects and simply getting ready to direct his activity into something new.”
“That’s more than probable,” said Charles, laughing. “He mentioned something to me very vaguely, nothing precise, and then changed the subject.”
“It’s Mother, most of all, who has need of repose.”
“As soon as I get back we’ll arrange everything, a nice rest cure in the country, by the sea or in the mountains, for all of you: for the children, a cruise in a villa-dirigible in the sea air, above the Atlantic. That sounds nice to me, and I’ll be there. But here’s Bizot, my pilot, asking for me to cast a last glance over the miniplane’s engine.”
In fact, the pilot had come forward; his voice was audible, a trifle faintly.
“If you’d like to check, Monsieur,” he said, “the engine’s drawing well, the carburetion is perfect.”
“I’ll go see,” Charles replied. “We can take a few turns around the house.”
In the tele, he was seen to plunge into the background and bend over the apparatus; the music of the engine was faintly perceptible in the bedroom, functioning out there in the other hemisphere on Javanese soil. The purr stopped, and Charles came back to his family.
“Everything’s ready,” he said. “Now I have to go to work. Let’s kiss. Until tomorrow, Suzannette! And above all, no more distractions!”
A rain of kisses departed from the bedroom bound for Java, and Java did its best to respond in the tele.
Suzanne returned the children to the nursery, where they were obtaining, while playing, their first notions of foreign languages with Franco-Anglo-Italo-Spanish nursemaids, which an extraordinary international twitter in the nursery, a fantastic lingua franca, especially when Marcelle’s and Laurence’s children and those of the Japanese cousin arrived, with Dutch, Russian, Swedish or Japanese nursemaids. It was a miniature Tower of Babel
It is true that the same Babelesque mixture was found among all the domestic staff, as well as in the forcibly internationalized offices, in accordance with the principle that it is quicker to consult an interpreter than a dictionary.
VI. Social Changes and Political Ameliorations.
The Secretarial Spokesman
Monsieur Montgrabel’s study is immense! And it is also flanked by an annex to the right and one to the left, which gives it the appearance of a gallery illuminated by large arched bay windows. The entire wing of the house occupied by the offices is a construction in reinforced concrete, iron and artificial granite, intelligently employed. Sacrifice has been made to old methods of construction for the habitation proper, linked to the office section, above the first floor, by walkways.
In the center of the building, the large flying platform looms up, rising to forty meters. Another flight-pad, l
ess decorative, only rises up thirty-some meters, on the business side, for the coming and goings of the offices. That is certainly the more animated; planes are always circling it like a flock of birds seeking to alight, and the music of engines is a perpetual hum.
It is a little ministry, that Montgrabel house. All the numerous affairs and enterprises of the firm necessitate a general staff of directors, agents, engineers and technicians of every sort, a considerable number of male and female employees, as many of the latter in senior posts as in the minor personnel.
A large garden frames those buildings with its opulent shade and florid clumps. Madame Montgrabel, who retains old-fashioned tastes, has obtained in a sheltered corner of that garden, with some difficulty, a secluded corner where she grows flowers, when her affairs permit, and where she plays with her grandchildren: Pierrette and Gustave, the children of her eldest son, and those of her other sons, all still babies, who are not yet interested in the aircraft flying over the quarter and prefer the frolics of chickens—for, in a sumptuous chicken-run that qualifies as an aviary, Madame Montgrabel breeds chickens: simple hens that lay very ordinary eggs in their beautiful apartments.
From the high central flight-pad, above the tall trees hiding that aviary and Madame Montgrabel’s rustic weaknesses, one overlooks the entire Parisian region, the quarters of wealth and luxury, which form a kind of new city from the Champs-Élysées to Saint-Cloud and Rueil, similar in places to an immense park with beautiful undulations of verdure, dotted with the white and pink masses of pavilions, turrets, cupolas and terraces of ultra-refined mansions. Closer than the ancient quarters, on the contrary, there are islets of foliage lost in the midst of opulent architectures born after the great worldwide quakes, the most formidable that the planet has suffered in the course of the centuries, when all the beneficiaries of the enormous tidal wave of wealth-displacement that resulted therefrom—a golden flood for some, breakage and shipwreck for others, for the many who could only save poor flotsam—the newly rich of all classes wanted to stabilize and install their fortunes in sumptuous frames worthy of them.
In 1965 Page 5