by Theo Varlet
Kohbuler has pronounced the last words with an affectation of cheerful assurance, but he sees clearly that his ascendancy over his daughter is counterbalanced by new sentiments, and that the beginnings of rebellion have been born in his daughter’s soul.
The latter stands up straight, seems to struggle against her habitual submission, and concludes, in a deferential tone, but one in which a firm resolve vibrates: “Father, I regret to tell you that you’re making an error—a mistake—in proposing this enquiry to me. You’re talking to your daughter, your secretary-cryptographer, not a worldly collaborator in the Service—Lotta Schumbach, Gregoria Lotescu or someone like them. That’s what you need for the special task you mention. Personally, I’ve only given my intelligence to the Service…any anyway, I don’t have the professional aptitudes of those ladies. Sending me to Monsieur Rivier, therefore, would be infringing the rules of Taylorism16 and the division of labor. Each to her specialty.”
“Elsa,” says Kohbuler, with a false joviality, “you’re scaring me. I thought for a moment that you were suffering an attack of that vulgar and conventional morality from which I’ve invested so much case in liberating you since your late mother attempted to inculcate it in you. Thank God it’s not that. You have, at any rate, a dangerous propensity for independence…to avoid the necessities of the Service. More might be demanded of you than the utilization of your analytical talents.
“In the present case, however, I don’t want to compel you. We’ll wait for Marquin to arrive. He won’t fail to come to see you, and we’ll get the truth out of him. That will mean a delay of about a week. No matter! I’ll take care of it by making sure that the negotiations in Geneva drag on—a little watering of the delegates...
“In that case, we’ll leave tomorrow for Audresselles. That animal Gédéon always bungles things. I should have stayed out there, as before, to keep an eye on the printing of the banknotes. The latest batch of paper isn’t in conformity with the specimens. It doesn’t take the ink like the preceding batch. Either that or it’s Gédéon who can’t do it. Either way, the notes are unusable. I’ve just seen that, when I opened the parcel that came by mail. So, as I said, I have to go to Audresselles. You’ll accompany me, of course; I need you out there as I do here.
“We won’t be there more than a week, I hope—in order that we’ll be able to receive Dr. Marquin the day after our return, if he visits us, as I assume he will. You won’t refuse to see him, will you? At that imbecile Jolliot’s place, he looked at you with such an expression…and you’ll make him talk.”
The malachite-green eyes drill into the blue eyes with black lashes. Once again, the professor exercises on his daughter the sovereign seductive force that sometimes accompanies unscrupulousness, and then makes great criminals, just as, allied with nobility of soul or virtue, it produces heroes and saints.
Frédérique-Elsa replied: “Al right; I’ll see Dr. Marquin.”
But Kohbuler comprehends that if he were to repeat, as he has a desire to do: “And you’ll make him talk,” she would reply frankly, “No.” He does not reiterate that injunction, therefore, and limits himself to smiling benignly, as if he were duped by her reticence.
IX. To Paris
Thanks to the precautions taken, and incessant vigilance, the anticipated mutiny, when it became manifest on the third day of our journey, failed pitifully. By virtue of an acuity all the more meritorious because it came from Commander Barcot, a stickler for exact discipline, the latter had turned a blind eye to the two or three tons of nuggets stashed away in the crew’s quarters by the sailors on board, who considered them to be their personal property, and their covetousness of the cargo in the hold was partly neutralized by the direct possession of those few hundred thousand francs’-worth of gold apiece. With that wealth, immeasurable to them, they glimpsed a limitless spree as soon as they arrived in port, and the hope of those delights, in those primitive minds, limited by a short temporal horizon, weakened the courage that they might otherwise have deployed in taking possession of the ship.
In addition, they lacked a leader. The Indochinese cook attempted to play that role, but the color of his skin worked against him in the minds of his accomplices, and prevented them from taking him seriously.
The whole affair was therefore limited to an attempt to take possession of the wheelhouse, the engine-room and the wireless station. A volley of machine-gun bullets, fired from the bridge by the Commander and his first mate, dispersed the four men armed with crowbars who attacked the helm; the chief engineer remained master of his domain; and in the third instance, the operator Madec, armed with his revolver, valiantly repelled the attack of another cohort. Unfortunately, a heavy projectile hurled by the assailants—an ax, I believe—struck the wireless apparatus squarely, and caused such damage that we were deprived of communications for the remainder of the voyage. The last radio message we received came from the destroyer Espadon, on its way to the island with the cargo-ship Cornouaille, which “crossed” us some two hundred kilometers to the south.
That was the only unfortunate result of the attempted revolt, however. A quarter of an hour after the blast of the whistle that launched the mutineers’ assault, everything was back in order, and the crew, subdued, resumed normal service.
I ought to remark that, during those critical minutes, I happened to be in the infirmary, and that no violence was exercised against me. The mutineers limited themselves to locking me in for the time that the skirmish lasted. My special position as doctor and the perfect apparent serenity with which I carried out my functions with regard to the sick—as if I were making rounds in a hospital on land—had won me a particular indulgence on the part of the men, and a kind of respectful familiarity.
Their confidence permitted me to play a decisive role in safeguarding the secret that had to be maintained for an indeterminate lapse of time after the disembarkation regarding the mineral nature of the island and that of our cargo. A solemn oath taken, at the Commander’s request, by myself and the officers, guaranteed our silence...but what about the sailors? As soon as we landed in Cherbourg, they would show off their nuggets and tell the whole story...
But for the superior interests of France, which dictated my conduct, I would have had some remorse for my conduct, for it was a kind of abuse of confidence on my part, but I thought I was acting for the best—and I hope I can end my life without having committed a worse sin!
The resource, suggested by Barcot, of having the men arrested as soon as they disembarked, on a charge of mutiny, seemed to me to be unlikely to be effective; dragging the sailors through the streets in the midst of a crowd of eager journalists offered a risk of grave indiscretion.
My familiarity with the storeman—a Northerner from Lille—with whom I sometimes went to the kitchen in the absence of the Indochinese cook, to chat for a few minutes, in order to hear the spicy accent of my native town again, permitted me to carry out my plan.
An adequate dose of morphine chlorohydrate mixed with the crew’s soup on the last day, between eleven o’clock and noon as we were doubling the cape of the Hague…and when we entered the harbor at Cherbourg, all the men were snoring heavily, knocked out by the narcotic on the deck, where the Commander, once my coup was complete, had taken care to assemble them.
As for the stokers “down below,” two of the officer engineers installed them as best they could on pillows of coal in the bunkers and took their place during the final minutes of the journey. The two others were needed up top, where no one else was left standing but the first lieutenant, the wireless operator, the Commander and me.
I still laugh when I remember the faces of the pilot and lieutenant of the vessel that accompanied us—for the semaphore had signaled our arrival—when they came aboard and saw the deck strewn with twenty recumbent bodies, which they took at first for corpses. They looked at the six “survivors”—officers maneuvering a crewless ship—with an undisguised anxiety.
That was not the time for explanation
s, however. The Commander’s first words to the lieutenant were: “What time is the Paris express?”
“Thirteen-thirty—in half an hour,” replied the somewhat nonplussed naval officer.
On leaving Île Féréor we had planned to charter an aircraft from the Compagnie Aérienne by wireless on the eve of our arrival in Cherbourg—and that was the main reason for our choice of Cherbourg, because there is no airport at Brest—but the accident to our wireless apparatus had prevented that. To charter an aircraft now might perhaps take several hours. The express would get us to Paris just as quickly. We had to take advantage of it.
“We’re just in time, then,” Commander Barcot continued, addressing the naval officer. “Would you be so kind as to help my first lieutenant bring the ship into dock, and make sure that the orders I give you are observed. Transport all these lascars snoring hereabouts to the infirmary of the military prison and keep them there, incommunicado. Keep the officers aboard until I get back tomorrow. No communication with the city, especially with journalists. Understand? All this is extremely serious. It’s a matter of national interest.”
The naval lieutenant bowed. “I’ve received orders to put myself entirely at your disposal as soon as you arrived, Commander. The pilot will take your ship at half-speed as far as the entrance to the military harbor, where he’ll take on reinforcements—a few State mariners—to complete the maneuver. If you wish, I’ll take you ashore; we’ll get there more rapidly in my launch. In ten minutes, we’ll be on the quay in the commercial harbor, two hundred meters from the railway station.”
“That’s best,” agreed the Commander. He turned to me, and added: “Doctor, you’ll come with me, as agreed. You have your justificatory pebbles in your pocket? Good. Too bad about the baggage—we’ll do without until tomorrow. Let’s go!”
And, with a rapid adieu all round, Monsieur Barcot and I, with nothing but our waterproofs, leapt into the launch with the lieutenant, who cast off and sped away at fifteen knots, leaving the Erebus II far behind.
Monsieur Barcot took advantage of the short journey—Cherbourg’s inevitable fine rain was falling from the uniformly gray coastal sky—to communicate to the naval officer the story that he was to put about concerning the premature return of our vessel—that by virtue of engine damage sustained at sea off the Azores, it had been decided to return to France for repairs. The officer similarly gave us the news of the last three days that was most important to us: in Geneva, the League of Nations was still deliberating, and the attribution of the island remained in suspense.
At 13.23, the Commander and I set foot on the quay and ran toward the station. The external clock marked twenty-six minutes past. Monsieur Barcot bounded to the ticket-office while I bought a handful of newspapers. The doors were being closed when we climbed on to the train.
Even after getting rid of our waterproofs, we stood out like a sore thumb in the sumptuous first-class compartment, upholstered in soft gray fabric, with our suntanned faces, our mariners’ foulards and our old worn jackets still stained with gold chloride mud. I don’t know what the old Englishwoman who was alone there took us for, but she hastened to decamp with her bags and baggage and go into the next one—which amused and pleased us, making it easier for us to talk.
But first, the papers! The Matin, the Figaro...
Subscription for the victims of the typhoon and tidal wave, tenth list... Gala performance at the Opéra, with Madame Ida Rubinstein and Messieurs Silvain, Grock and the Fratellinis, in Circé... Goodrich-Leonard bout... Pound at 464... At the League of Nations...
Here we are!
At the League of Nations, Island N. It appears that the original idea of internationalization will have to be abandoned, in order to envisage the solution of a mandate. That renewable mandate will be confided for a period of ten years to France, which will make Island N into a port of call for an air link to be established between Paris and New York...
“Well, that’s a start; they haven’t done too badly...”
“Hey, Commander, listen to this from the Echo de Cherbourg—this article in the latest news section:
“New island pinpointed by Danish ship. The doubts expressed by a number of newspapers regarding the existence of the volcanic island sighted by the Canadian Line’s Champlain a few days after the volcanic eruption whose ravages are so familiar, are well-known. For these extreme skeptics, the island has only ever existed in the imagination of the captain and passengers of the Champlain. Others, more moderate, supposed that after a brief emergence, the island, constituted by scoria, had sunk beneath the waves again, as often happens to these unstable and ephemeral formations after a few days or a few months. It was to the latter viewpoint that we had finally rallied. Last week, in fact, the steamship Weser, of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, the first to make the crossing from Europe to America since the typhoon, was rerouted by governmental order to reconnoiter the new land. At the intersection of latitude and longitude identified by the Champlain, the Weser found no trace of the emergent island.
“This morning, however, a wireless message retransmitted by the Valencia station in Ireland has settled the matter definitively. Island N exists, but its position is considerably different from the one previously assigned to it. It is 150 miles—almost 300 kilometers—further north. A Danish steamer, the Seeland, commanded by Captain Saknussemm,17 which ensures a monthly service in summer between the Greenland stations and Copenhagen, signals that it passed within view of island N yesterday, 23 September.
“It is a dark and bare shelf of lava surmounted by a snow-capped cone. Abundant vapors, evidently volcanic, are escaping from an accessory crater situated at the foot of the cone, almost at sea level on the south-west coast of the island. The captain of the Seeland set a course for that point, but a there was a series of detonations, and Monsieur Saknussemm, fearing that a further eruption might occur, veered away and put on full steam in order to get away from the dangerous region.
“We shall return to this news tomorrow, but we can say today that it confirms the thesis that we have always sustained. It is now evident that this volcanic terrain, doubtless bound for imminent disappearance, cannot be an advantageous acquisition. Even at the price of ten francs per hectare, which is two or three hundred francs for the entire island, it would be too dear—and if, by chance, the League of Nations were to decide to put island N up for auction, we hope that the delegate of France would abstain from meeting the reserve price.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” exclaimed Monsieur Barcot. “Lefébure has done the trick, with his sulfur…but what a mug, that Danish captain!”
And he started laughing wholeheartedly.
I joined him, in chorus. The delight of the new joy dilated our chests. Although the exact position of the island had been determined, the damage was slight. “A shelf of lava and a volcanic cone...” It was scarcely probable that anyone would hasten to send ships here, after Captain Saknussemm’s report! And we amused ourselves momentarily at the expense of the worthy Greenlanders fooled by Lefébure’s ruse.
“And that reporter who wants to dissuade the government from buying Île Féréor!”
“It’s a good thing that you’ll be there, Commander, to rectify the Ministry’s ideas.”
“And you, Doctor, to tell your friend Jean Rivier that the Erebus II’s return has made him a billionaire eight times over…in gold…since he’s the ship’s backer!”
After the stop in Caen, the conversation lapsed. Exhausted by the fatigues of the previous days, Monsieur Barcot closed his eyes, dropped his pipe and went to sleep in his corner.
By contrast, overexcitement kept me awake, agitating me. I went out into the corridor to smoke, thinking about Frédérique. Was she in Paris? What would she say to me when I saw her? As a messenger of good tidings to Jean Rivier, I could obtain some enviable position from him, putting my fortune at the level at which I supposed that of Kohbuler and his daughter to be. I saw myself marrying the young doctor...
But
what about the father? I tried to eliminate him from consideration, to treat him as a negligible quantity…but in vain. He persisted stubbornly, like a treacherous stone in the beautiful fruit of our love; every time I bit into the exquisite pulp, I found that stone between my teeth.
The train sped through the Norman countryside. It was no longer raining. Blue sky appeared between the clouds. Leaning out of an open window, I cooled my brow in the wind of our progress, and breathed in, seeking an evocation of the dear perfume, Remember, and the beloved face with the blonde hair in the Florentine bob...
I was dreaming, plunged into a kind of hypnosis by the smooth gallop of the express. The daylight was fading into dusk...
Suddenly, I recovered consciousness, on reading the name of a station as we sped through—Mantes—and, on a brick wall: Paris 17 km.
I went back to the compartment and woke Monsieur Barcot.
X. Finance and Politics
Paris Saint-Lazare. The illuminated hall. The bustle on the platform. The time—18.30—read on the clock. The tickets surrendered. The exit. Taxis hailed from the edge of the sidewalk…and in the first one, the Commander orders the driver: “Rue Saint-Florentine, Ministry of Marine.”
I climbed into the other cab. “Avenue de Villiers, 80A.” Jean Rivier’s house.