by Theo Varlet
The few minutes of the journey were swollen by a whole world of sensations: Paris; Paris in the evening, illuminated...
On the island and aboard Erebus II I had certainly been dynamized by the gold, but, being too close to it, I had been situated in the time ahead of me, the hours of high tension that the grandiose adventure in which I was participating would enable me to live. Cherbourg I had barely glimpsed, as a backcloth, totally preoccupied with the haste to get to the train. The hours on the express? A transitory atmosphere, separated, so to speak, from social communion...
This time, I was fully present, plugged in to Paris, in direct contact with the central circuit of civilization…the power-station of France: France, not as a verbal entity, but which I realized, by an explosive intuition, living in its hundreds of cities, great and small, in its thousands of villages, with its fields, its rivers, its mountains, more than twelve hours long by express train, and equally broad... Paris, the prototype, the synthesis, the supreme expression, the marvelous success of France, charged me and saturated me, illuminating me with all its potential.
Automobiles and pedestrians—the life of the city—were circulating ardently, to the triumphant rhythm of our accelerated era: the highest, in spite of everything, that the terrestrial planet had ever known. The splendor of the lighting, enlivening the masks of the crowd, set an aureole of apotheosis over the functioning of the admirable machinery that is a twentieth-century capital.
It seemed to me to be monstrous to think that all that beautiful activity, so generous and rich in effort, was prey to the slow disruption of its monetary system—the devaluation of the franc—that was corroding it like a shameful disease, still invisible, but ready to explode in hideous and incurable ravages...
But I would be its savior! I was bringing the remedy: I would dissipate the insidious nightmare that, in spite of the joyful appearances of civilized pomp, was obsessing everyone, men and women alike, and saddening their dwellings, while they ceased to be, externally, the witty and light-hearted Parisians galvanized by the honor of depicting, for the world and for the Cosmos, super-civilization.
And I twisted the straps of the taxi in both fists; I put on a smile pursed by superhuman emotion, on feeling that I was, in that box on wheels, unknown to everyone, the instrument of their deliverance, the messenger of financial reestablishment.
In the Avenue de Villiers, my marine waterproof and my old hat initially obtained a rather cool reception, but on hearing my name the porter became more human. Even for that flunkey, ignorant of my mission, I was already someone of importance—for the telegraph must have been busy since my departure from Cherbourg—and the great financier Jean-Paul Rivier, who had returned from his bank in the Boulevard Haussmann half an hour earlier, was waiting for me…“impatiently,” the servant added, with a hint of respect.
A lackey in maroon livery took me up a thickly-carpeted staircase, along a luminous corridor—a true art gallery, full of paintings and statues—and finally introduced me into a brightly-lit and simple study-library, where I found my friend at a desk, in conference with a telephonic apparatus.
He did not get up or interrupt himself, but on seeing me, his face, whose features were contracted by a battle-hardened determination, lit up with an affectionate smile. Once again, I admired the manipulator of millions, who knew how to keep intact the fiber of gratitude and amity at the height of his grandeur and in the midst of his bothersome occupations.
A few replies in a distant telephonic voice alternated with the banker’s “Yes... No... Understood... Adieu.” Then the latter hung up, leaned forward in his armchair and took my hand in both of his, with a warm and emphatic grip. His piercing brown eyes examined my maritime costume curiously.
“Dear old Antoine! Welcome—but what happened? We thought you were lost, body and possessions…no news of the Erebus II for three days! Finally, two hours ago, I had a telegram from the first mate at the bank. Barcot is in Paris too? In the same costume as you? It’s very urgent, then? And your hasty departure from island N…and de Silfrage’s insistence... There’s something extraordinary, eh, that the wireless didn’t reveal? Why wasn’t it explained?”
At that formidable moment, of which I had formed such a dramatic idea in advance—the moment when my words would determine the salvation of France—I had arrived without impact, by insensible transitions, on the inclined plane of continuous reality. I was astonished to find myself so calm. I was almost amused, as if I were examining the scene as a spectator.
I repeated “Why?”—and I lifted up the flap of my waterproof in order to take a lump of gold as big as my fist from my overcoat pocket, weighing about three kilos, and put it in Rivier’s hand.
Surprised by its mass, he weighed it in his hand. His businessman’s mind penetrated the truth in an instant, as if he read it in me. His eyes lit up with an interior fire.
Laconically, he said: “On island N?”
“On Île Féréor—iron-and-gold, understand? A foundation of native iron, as in aeroliths…for that’s what it is…and above it, a golden rock, a mountain nine hundred meters high. Pebbles like this.” So saying I took three smaller nuggets from my other pocket, one after another and deposited them on the desk. “The hold of the Erebus II is full of them. Two thousand tons. Eight billion francs in gold.”
I listened to myself pronouncing my sentences and executing my gestures, like a disinterested witness.
The magic words and the sight of the yellow pebbles, which still bore traces of gold chloride, merely caused the banker to frown. He scrutinized me attentively, studying my face. He could see that I was not mad, and that I was telling the truth.
“Tell!” he ordered.
In five minutes, with a clarity and precision that even astonished me, I brought him up to date with the details that our wireless messages had prudently kept silent.
“Unless you’ve all been victims of a collective hallucination…but there’s nothing illusory about these nuggets...” He rolled them on the desktop with his fingertips, then continued: “Tell me, where’s Barcot, at this moment?”
“At the Ministry of Marine, where he’s gone to see the minister.”
Hastily, Rivier consulted the directory, and picked up the telephone.
“Hello? Monsieur le Ministre? Jean-Paul Rivier here. Are you alone? Oh, with Commander Barcot! Perfect. He’s told you? And he’s shown you his nuggets? No, nothing else, thanks. We’ll talk later…Oh, wait! When you’ve finished with Monsieur Barcot, send him to me.”
Then, as if the enormity of the situation had suddenly revealed itself to him, he stood up, leaned toward me, and in a virile accolade, rubbed his clean-shaven cheeks against mine.
“Oh, my old comrade! You deserve a national reward, and you’ll have one, without prejudice to the one I’ll reserve for you myself. You’ve brought France the gold that she needs.”
That was the only trace of excitement that in observed in the man who found that he was, for a few hours, the richest in the world—for, in spite of the official requisition of the Erebus II, which permitted the State to claim its share of the treasure, Jean-Paul Rivier still remained the ship’s outfitter; half of the cargo was rightfully his: four billion in gold. But he also considered that such a sum was incompatible with private property, and destined the whole of it for France.
“That gold will serve to redeem the value of the franc…by the intermediary of my bank, on the one hand, and with the cooperation of the Banque de France on the other. Let’s see, it’s seven o’clock…we’ll get a bite to eat, and then: to work!”
In spite of the credulity that politicians and financiers display in certain domains, there could not be any question of undertaking anything without having exhibited—in default of the island, which was too distant—the cargo of the Erebus II to the two people destined to become Jean-Paul Rivier’s necessary allies in his maneuver to raise the value of the franc: which is to say, the governor of the Banque de France and the President of
the Council.
As with Rivier himself, the reiterated and mysterious messages from the naval captain had prepared them both for a considerable event, and they were delighted, an hour later, when I repeated my story in the banker’s study and showed them the nuggets and photographs of the island, with the supplementary testimony of Commander Barcot. Nevertheless, their conviction was only provisional, and, in a way, conditional. I could see that clearly in the haste with which they accepted Rivier’s offer to take them to cast a glance over the holds of the Erebus II in Cherbourg.
“The prospect of a night flight doesn’t frighten you, Messieurs? Nor you, Commander? Nor you, of course, Antoine? Good. Just let me telephone Le Bourget, and I’ll take all four of you to the airport in my auto.”
At nine o’clock in the evening, we were at Le Bourget.
On the immense illuminated field, in the beam of a searchlight, a large airbus was just taking off as we arrived.
“Englishmen in a hurry to get back to London,” the employee who was escorting us told us. “This way, Messieurs.”
Shiny white in the electric light, its two propellers already roaring, a C. A. F. air-limousine was waiting for us, its cabin door open.
Monsieur Barcot and I were, of course, the only ones employing this ultra-modern form of transport for the first time, too costly hitherto for our modest means. The other three passengers, magnates of finance and power, had been familiar with it for a long time, and they installed themselves in the armchairs in the luxurious cabin as casually as in the saloon-car of a train.
Monsieur Barcot modestly took a back seat; he seemed intimidated, not by the aerial journey, but by the social quality of our companions. As for me, a natural independence of mind had always made me feel at ease with all kinds of people, and I thought, in addition, that the present circumstances more-or-less equalized all five of us…six, counting the pilot, enclosed in his glazed cockpit at the front. It was simple human respect that prevented me from exteriorizing my first impressions of aerial baptism.
By virtue of having been suppressed, those impressions left me with an ineradicable memory, in spite of my ulterior experiences.
What a sublime joy it is, from the second that one perceives, by the throb of the engines, that the apparatus has taken off, and that one is in flight! What a generous and triumphant intoxication it is to see, through the windows of the sealed cabin, the illuminated ground—all the fires of the landscape—diminishing, retreating further and further beneath one’s feet! Oh, how I would have liked to be alone, in the open air of the night, in a uncovered cabin...to stand up, hair blowing in the wind of velocity, to bathe my outstretched hands in the sky, in the aerial typhoon of the propeller, and to cry out my enthusiasm as a human triumphant over gravity...my joy of living in this miraculous century in which humankind has acquired a power over matter previously reserved to the one Divinity!
But I kept that tumult of sensations enclosed within myself. My companions, sprawled in the supple tan leather armchairs, were lighting cigars or cigarettes and beginning to chat, quite calmly. They scarcely had any need to raise their voices in the cabin, where the monotonous sound of the engines was muffled. Even Monsieur Barcot stopped gazing at the immense luminous field of Paris, which was disappearing over the “starboard aft horizon,” in order to listen to the conversation.
Soon, it took possession of me too, and from then on I was only fragmentarily conscious of our aerial flight—during course changes, for instance, when the nocturnal landscape seemed to swivel on its axis, and I felt an abrupt internal sensation of “intestines becoming unhooked,” in the Commander’s picturesque expression.
Naively, I imagined that the immediate utilization of the eight billion in gold would unite the votes of the three potentates, but I was soon disabused. Jean-Paul Rivier was alone in suggesting that means. Monsieur Hautôt, the governor of the Banque de France, wanted to proceed in stages. As for the President of the Council, he feared the consequences of the revaluation of the franc, and was in favor of a gradual and slow withdrawal of banknotes.
Layman as I was, the arguments of each in turn seemed to me to be decisive. I soon realized that the problem was exceedingly thorny.
“If you maintain the present quantity of banknotes in circulation,” proclaimed Monsieur Germain-Lucas, in his southern accent, “France will find itself with an exaggerated volume of fiduciary money, like a once-obese slimmer whose clothes have become too large!”
“It’s an inconvenience, I admit,” conceded Monsieur Hautôt. “Exporting will become difficult, at first, and the fall in domestic prices will hinder commerce for a few weeks, or months—but we can reduce those inevitable inconveniences tactfully, over a reasonable period of time. Because of them, will you hesitate to cure the aforementioned obesity—to borrow your comparison?”
“A surgical operation is necessary, and urgently,” proclaimed Rivier.
“Urgently? Hmm! We’ve been expecting the catastrophe next week for six years now, but we’re still here—social life is still functioning.”
“That can’t last indefinitely. Look at the example of Germany...”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“It doesn’t matter. Fortunately, this time, we’re no longer entirely submissive, forced to operate at the pleasure of Messieurs the politicians. There are technical experts who have taken matters in hand, under their sole responsibility; you have only to support them, along with the country.”
“Do surgeons operate on patients without asking their consent?”
“Would you like a plebiscite?”
“That’s impossible, in the present state of things, as you know very well. We can’t risk failure by virtue of this delay.”
“What if the government vetoed the operation?”
“The plebiscite would take place of its own accord; the entire nation would disapprove; you’d be thrown out. Then, the Banque de France and the Banque Rivier would be free to act. Besides, the operation, as you call it—that is to say, putting the gold on the Erebus II into circulation—will only serve to accelerate things a little; the mere announcement that there’s another eight billion in gold in the bank’s vaults, and another cargo of equal value on the way, will suffice to restore parity between banknotes and gold.”
“Restore parity between banknotes and gold! But you’re going to cause an upheaval in the national economy, provoke catastrophes, ruin hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen!”
“What does it matter if we save France? If, by the reestablishment of the franc, life becomes easier and happier for the rest of the French? Our action ought to participate in natural law; it ought to be as great as nature, which takes account of species and sacrifices individuals.”
I interrupted, modestly: “But don’t you also fear, Messieurs, that the unlimited flood of gold that the deposit will soon pour over the world might end up diminishing, or even reducing to negligibility, the metallic value of gold?”
The three potentates looked at me pityingly. “That’s obvious, old man,” said Rivier, “and that’s why I want to act immediately, and Monsieur Hautôt only wants to brake slightly. It’s a matter of making France benefit from its priority…of wiping out her debts, of bringing about her financial recovery while gold is still worth something…or putting her back in her rightful place, at the head of the nations. It’s of little importance that the value of gold will be annulled thereafter, for Europe and the entire world, and that we’ll be forced to change the momentary standard—to adopt platinum, for example. As that inconvenience will be equal for all countries, France, while being subject to it, will keep the advantage that she will have taken...”
“In any case,” Monsieur Germain-Lucas went on, “whether you operate quickly or slowly, by massive or gradual deflation, you’re going to alert the League of Nations. It’ll be necessary for you to confess the origin of all the gold that you’re throwing on to the market.”
“No,” Rivier retorted. “Until the definit
ive attribution of the island—which can’t be long delayed, because we’ll hasten it by every means possible—the cargo of the Erebus II won’t come into play. We’ll pretend to be using the Banque’s reserves.”
“People will say that you’re acting precipitately, and with deplorable frivolity. Suppose, then, that when the truth gets out—as it’s bound to, sooner or later—the League of Nations goes back on its decision and takes the island off France, to internationalize it, let’s say, and demands an indemnity from us for the usage we’ve made of it?”
“It won’t be able to take back all the gold put into circulation in the interim. And that’s one more reason for us to act rapidly. Your politics isn’t bold enough, Monsieur President, and you’re looking too far ahead. Haven’t we learned, during the war and in the course of the years that followed, the relativity of human actions and the impossibility of knowing in advance what it would have been wise to do? Let’s strive to do our best in the light of our present knowledge, and according to our conscience. The future will decide. Act first. Act—that’s all we can do.”
The pilot had made good time. By five to eleven the lights of Cherbourg were in view, and at eleven on the dot, as he had promised us, we disembarked on to the brightly-lit landing strip.
A naval officer was waiting for us beside a comfortable auto—the lieutenant from the afternoon, sent to meet us, to greet the President of the Council on the Admiral’s behalf, and to facilitate our entry into the military harbor at that unusual hour.
The Erebus II was, in fact, well-guarded; we were stopped no less than three times by sentinels between the gate of the arsenal and the quay of the dock where she was moored. Two marines, with rifles on their shoulders, were watching over the ship, inundated by light from two pylons, whose hatches were hermetically sealed.
The mate and the five officers still aboard met us on the deck; then Commander Barcot, resuming possession of his vessel, wanted to take us to the wardroom first, in order to drink an honorary glass of port—but the Parisians had no desire to hang about, nor to listen to the mate make his report to Monsieur Barcot concerning the efficient execution of his orders: all the sailors in prison and incommunicado; the crew’s quarters put under seal as well as the hatches; journalists sent packing, etc., etc.