In 1965

by Albert Robida

  “Everything still going well en route?” asked Suzanne. “No hitches?”

  “No, a perfect crossing, no incidents. I’m very glad to arrive. Far away from you, I worked hard in order to bring my return forward. I think I got a few good ideas, but I was in a hurry to get back. Yes, I was in haste. I’ve had enough of long absences. It’s definitely bad or everyone. I’ve had enough of it!”

  Charles’ voice had changed completely. Suzanne and he looked at one another, and each of them thought that they discerned more anxiety than joy in the other’s eyes.

  “Come on,” said Charles. “You seem worried...yes, worried. What’s the matter?”

  “No, no, I’m joyful. Just a little emotional...”

  “But yes, something’s wrong. What is it that isn’t going well? There are no health problems, and the rest is secondary Tell me the rest, quickly!”

  Suzanne remained mute for a moment. Finally, she decided.

  “There is something, yes,” she said, lowering her head. “It’s me who…who…has to confess to you...”

  “Something to confess to me!” Charles cried. “What? What is it?”

  Suzanne still hesitated, her gaze lost in space, but the landscape filing past rapidly below reminded her that they would soon arrive in Paris. It was necessary to have said everything before disembarkation.

  “Perhaps you’ve heard mention of a book that appeared a few months ago, The Household of the Nation...”

  “Too much in recent days.”

  “That’s unfortunate. If you knew that I...”

  “But in sum, what is it?” cried Charles. “For a week, every time I’ve been summoned to the tele by Maman or my brothers, it always ends up being a question of this Camille Boissy. I’ve sensed something troubling in the ambiguities and the reticence…disturbing, even. What have I to do with this Camille Boissy? My father has also said something to me, in a constrained manner...”

  Suzanne hid her face behind Pierrette’s blonde curls.

  “Come on, quickly, what is it? You know him, then?”

  “Only too well, alas!”

  “What?” Charles had stood up, red in the face,

  “Yes, much too well. The author of that absurd book…is…forgive me, Charles…I…I’m guilty…in sum, Camille Boissy…is me!”

  “Boissy is you? He’s you?”

  “It’s me who wrote it, that book...and published it, alas!”

  Charles looked at Suzanne for a long time. That saddened face, those eyes in which tears were pearling, stirred his heart. He drew the children on to his knees and strove to smile.

  “Good, I’ve come back to sort all that out. If my father is discontented, there must be, in that inconvenient…masterpiece, something embarrassing for us. Is the real name of the audacious Camille Boissy known, then? Has the success of the explosive book intoxicated you, and you haven’t been able to keep quiet? But is that really all? Everything?”

  Again, his face darkened. The almost musical modulations of a siren interrupted him; they were arriving. Numerous footfalls could be heard in the walkways, shouts and whistle-blasts directing the maneuvers.

  “The Eiffel Tower!” said the children.

  “Paris!” said Charles. “Let’s go! Let’s not talk about it anymore. We’ll see about it later!”

  Very gently, with scarcely a slight quivering of the engines, the dirigible descended toward the great flight-pad of Issy-les-Moulineaux. There, in the middle of an immense landing-field, five enormous hangars could be seen, forming a circle, meeting at the center, at the base of the flight-pad, a little Eiffel Tower carrying the vast flight-pad at a height of five hundred meters.

  There were eight great flight-pads like that for the important lines, distributed in favorable spots around Paris, and others were planned.

  There was a great deal of movement around the flight-pad. Numerous aircraft of every sort were awaiting passengers on the second platform. A pleasure dirigible hired by some nabob of finance was swaying up above, ready to fly to Scotland for a hunting expedition. There was a great animation aboard, where the passengers were celebrating the departure noisily.

  Down below, a huge freight-dirigible was projecting, outside its hangar a prow reminiscent of the head of some prehistoric monster quitting its cave in order to run at the multitude of Myrmidons, busy human ants swarming around it.

  Having already arrived five minutes earlier, the miniplane was waiting on the platform to take its masters back to the house.

  X. Jean-Marie Jézéquel, Submarine Shepherd.

  The Good Idea

  “Jean-Marie, I’m so glad!”

  “Me too, Annette, but you’ve taken a long time to get through.”

  “Couldn’t. A snag, I don’t know what, in the apartment teles. Not working.”

  “We’re taking on fuel at the Ouessant post, and I’m taking advantage of it. All going well? Good!”

  “You look good Jean-Marie.”

  “You too, always lovelier. People dress well in Paris. People become elegant—that worries me.”

  “That’s necessary, you know, Jean-Marie, at the Montgrabel house...”

  “See you soon, Annette!”

  “Patience, my poor Jean-Marie. You have a good wage...”

  “And no opportunities to spend it at a depth of twenty-five or thirty-meters,” Jean-Marie interrupted, laughing.

  “So much the better in all respects. That will give us more savings for the marriage.”

  That conversation was taking place at the tele in Monsieur Montgrabel’s study, to which Monsieur, coming in unexpectedly, was listening, his hand on the knob of the door, which stood ajar.

  Monsieur Montgrabel seemed to be in a slightly bad mood, but nothing serious. During the three days since his son Charles had returned, life in the house had resumed its habitual course. Everything was working out quite well. Every evening, Monsieur Montgrabel conferred with his sons and settled with them all the questions relative to current business. The majority were so important that he could not see himself being free of all preoccupation and completely free in his movements for some time.

  Madame Montgrabel was demanding that he keep his promise of a long period of complete vacation, and absolute rest cure. He had made a formal engagement, and it was necessary to keep his word without further delay. On the other hand, certain annoyances were threatening to become aggravated. There was still that unfortunate book of Suzanne’s! The newspapers appeared to be on the right track; there had certainly been partial indiscretions regarding the identity of the author, for it now seemed universally admitted that Camille Boissy was a woman. Now, a quantity of magazines and pamphlets were arriving at the house every day, in which there was always some allusion to Camille Boissy.

  After remaining at the door for two minutes, he opened it entirely and went in, just as Jean-Marie was saying: “Yes, Annette, it will be nice, then—the good life in Cézembre. Me occupied with administrative material, in order to come home cheerfully at noon and in the evening, to my wife, in our little house. I can already see us there…”

  Annette uttered an exclamation which cut off the happy Jean-Mruire’s speech.

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” she said, turning round, slightly confused, toward Monsieur Montgrabel. “It’s just that...”

  “What?” said Monsieur Montgrabel.

  “It’s just that the teles in the house have broken down; only those in the office are working, and I was worried about my fiancé.”

  “Oh, that’s your fiancé?” said Monsieur Montgrabel. “Don’t run away.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, Jean-Marie Jézéquel of Saint-Malo. Like me...”

  Jean-Marie, slightly nonplussed, had taken off his cap and was standing at attention in the tele.

  “We’re going to be married in eighteen months...”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard. He looks like a good fellow, Jean-Marie Jézéquel, very nice. Don’t run away. Tell me, where is he, at this moment? It’s quite r
ugged, that rocky beach on the tele. Where is it?”

  “Ouessant, Monsieur,” Jean-Marie replied himself.

  “Yes, not bad. A slightly rough sea, in spite of the good weather, a fine coast, very jagged, and solitary. What are you doing in Ouessant, fishing? You’re a sailor?”

  “A submarine shepherd, Monsieur.”

  “What?”

  “Excuse me—that’s what we call ourselves, in jest. I belong to the administration of Submarine Agriculture and Fisheries, quartermaster aboard submersible number four.”

  “Ah!” said Monsieur Montgrabel. “I’ve heard mention of that. Yes, yes…the methodical exploitation studied by the ministry, the management of the sea-bed on the coasts and at sea, the organization of fisheries, husbandry and surveillance.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, the husbandry and surveillance of fish in the submarine pastures, the destruction of porpoises and other predatory species. That’s why we’re known as submarine shepherds.”

  “And you’re comfortable aboard your submersible number four? Life isn’t too hard?”

  “We’re very comfortable. We have more distractions than landlubbers or surface fishermen imagine. I wouldn’t change places with a forester on land.

  “Hang on!” said Monsieur Montgrabel. “That’s an idea, yes, a good idea…!”

  Leaving Annette slightly bewildered, and Jean-Marie still standing at attention, he quit his study and, without going into any of the offices, headed for his wife’s apartment.

  H found Madame Montgrabel very busy, arranging boxes, filing mountains of files and closing drawers.

  “Excellent, my love!” he said. “You’ve finally began your preparations for moving. I’ve begun, it won’t take long.”

  “And where are we going?” asked Madame Montgrabel, leaving her rearrangements.

  “I propose a charming, delightful location, new for us, not too frequented. Various aspects, the picturesque and the unexpected, numerous distractions, fishing, even hunting. Perfect calm, freshness. No hindrances. An ideal holiday location, in sum!”

  “That will be excellent for Suzanne, very sad for Charles, who appears morose and tormented. It’s necessary to elevate them from their chagrin,” Madame Montgrabel replied. “Eventually, things will sort themselves out. Where is it, this ideal holiday location?”

  “On the sea-bed.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not joking. I’ll explain…but wait a minute, while I see, before we rejoice, whether there isn’t some snag...”

  Monsieur Montgrabel ran into a drawing office to one side. The employees had gone to lunch, it was possible to talk freely at the tele.

  He rang urgently.

  “B.X.Z. 28-4? General Yachting Company... Yes, very good. Is that you, Monsieur Didier? All going well…? Yes, thanks. Tell me, I’d like to hire...”

  “Like the other year, Monsieur, one of our big yachts?”

  “No, a submersible this time. Do you have a good submersible yacht?”

  “Yes, certainly, several, in fact...”

  Behind her husband, Madame Montgrabel followed the conversation. She was beginning to understand. In the tele Monsieur Didier could be seen in the process of bringing out large, brightly-colored photographs from a box-file, representing boats of all categories: yachts, hydroplanes, airboats, submarines, etc.

  “This is the best of our submarines,” said Monsieur Didier, presenting a photograph. “The Espadon, an excellent vessel. I know nothing approaching it, even in America. Quite new, scarcely three years…first-class crew. Commandant Guénard has been sailing with the submarine fleet for ten years; he’s a likeable man and very strong, full of resources...”

  “Very good, very good! I’ll take the Espadon for six weeks; notify him. Where s it moored?”

  “Roscoff.”

  “Thank you; we’ll be there tomorrow evening. Thank you, Monsieur Didier; I must run to make preparations.”

  “You don’t need hydroplanes?”

  “One or two, and I’ll bring our aircottage. Thank you, and au revoir.”

  Monsieur Montgrabel turned round.

  “Well, it’s done,” he said. “You heard? I’ve rented the Espadon. As I was certain of having your approval, I decided immediately, for fear of seeing the boat hired by people in a hurry...”

  Madame Montgrabel reflected. Her husband started giving her an account of the explanations given to him a little while ago by Jean-Marie Jézéquel. It was necessary to have seen it! Monsieur Montgrabel reproached himself for not having thought sooner of a holiday in a submarine.

  “With stations wherever we wish, ports of call when required, a pied-à-terre when the Breton or Norman bays tempt us. And if, by chance, I have a little trip to make to Paris, the miniplane will be there. Quickly, to the trunks and the packing. I’m in haste to find myself one…no, in…the Espadon.”

  Monsieur Montgrabel departed like a whirlwind, immediately summoning his chiefs of staff.

  As he was about to go into his office he bumped into a young man in a corridor, who had just emerged from the large elevator and was negotiating with the employees.

  “Pardon me. I’m a reporter for La Minute and I’ve been instructed to ask you what you think about the questions raised by a recent book, The Household of the Nation...”

  Monsieur Montgrabel started, his eyebrows frowning.

  “The Household of the Nation?” He said, in a furious tone. “Don’t know it. Please excuse me…no time to read…pleased to have met you...”

  It was definitely necessary to leave as soon as possible. In five or six weeks the fuss around the exasperating volume would have calmed down, people would be talking about something else. Charles would have the time, during the vacation, to give Suzanne a good talking to, to demonstrate her imprudence and make her return to harmless poetry.

  The best thing, Montgrabel thought, would be to find some worthy fellow who would declare himself to be the author of the book. We’ll see…we’ll think about that aboard the Espadon. To work!

  The following afternoon, the Brittany tube, always crowded at that time of year, took the entire family away by means of a seaside express. So comfortable, and entered so swiftly into habit, the electric tubes, substitute for the old railways, now used primarily for merchandise, except for small local lines. They travel so marvelously. In two and a half or three hours, the express tube, in spite of stopping in the big cities as well as the junction stations for the coast, deposits its passengers in Brest.

  Monsieur Montgrabel had a reserved compartment screwed on to the end of the train. At quarter past six, the family descended at Morlaix, where the miniplane was waiting at the station flight-pad to take everyone to Roscoff.

  The weather being marvelous and the temperature mild, the flight was good. The sea was unfurling gently and lapping the rocks of the coast and the inlets of the Morlaix shore with roseate waves. Near Kérouzéré, in one of the prettiest inlets of fine sand, framed by a curtain of pines, Monsieur Montgrabel’s superb aircottage was reposing softly, giving the impression of a huge basking shark.

  A thread of smoke was rising into the blue. Already, the table had been laid for dinner in the open air, in the atmosphere of the littoral seaweeds and the coastal pines, between pretty blocks of ruddy rock, directly before the sun, which was declining with a slow majesty, extinguishing its radiance in the illuminated sea.

  “Magnificent!” exclaimed Monsieur Montgrabel, leaping out of the miniplane. “I said so—it’s beginning well.”

  “Splendid!” said Charles, with a child in each arm. “A well-chosen mooring. And a dinner that will be very welcome too!

  “Why,” said the amazed Monsieur Montgrabel, “is that you, Jean-Marie? You’re no longer at Ouessant?”

  A man costumed as a sailor emerged from a gap in the rocks and presented himself, cap in hand.

  “Yes, Monsieur, it’s me. I have a leave and I’ve come about the submersible...”

  “Yes, yes, and to see Annett
e, no? That’s very nice of you. You’ve seen the Espadon It’s at Roscoff?”

  “It’s expecting you, Monsieur.”

  “That’s perfect. Go and eat with the crew, and tomorrow morning, you can take us to the submarine.”

  XI. Beneath the Ocean with the submarine Espadon.

  Agriculture and pisciculture

  A delightful awakening in the cove of Kérouzéré. Monsieur Montgrabel was up at six o’clock in the morning. He had spent a good night, dreaming that he had finally realized an old plan that had haunted him for many years—which is to say, the “ring canal,” designed to connect up all the navigable watercourses, thirty or forty kilometers from the coasts or frontiers, ensuring direct communication between all the regions, from north to south and west to east, the Mediterranean basin, the Loire basin, the Central Plateau, the plains of the Nord, the plains of Alsace, etc...

  In his dream, the impatient Montgrabel skipped over all the labor, the ring canal advanced visibly. He woke up amazed to find himself, not, as the thought, at the solemn inauguration of an important stretch from the coast of Bordeaux to Arles, but on the shore of the Breton Sea, in a luxurious bedroom of his aircottage.

  The later formed a beautiful bright mass on the little beach; the habitation, like a long nacelle, provided at the front and rear with balcony-verandas decked with climbing plants, was greatly extended by rooms to the left and right, by means of a system of extensible partitions, forming a port and starboard transept, with an additional upper trance in the central section. Breakfast was served on that terrace, before a considerably extended horizon. The entire family was soon gathered there. The children were eager to go and run over the sand and Annette, very agitated, was darting Sister Anne glances,6 sometimes in the direction of Roscoff and sometimes toward Sibiril, impatient to see Jean-Marie emerging from a by-road.

  As she was pouring white cream into the cups, an outburst of Monsieur Montgrabel’s voice made her shudder. A little cream spilled on to the tablecloth because she turned round too abruptly, in order to direct a welcoming smile downwards.