“Your mother’s come back! Oh good—you’re all right, Aurélie. I was worried. Must rush—au revoir. Don’t wait dinner for me, I’ll be there at half past nine...”
Ding! Ding! Monsieur Lacombe had disappeared.
We do not know whether the incident brought about by the tornado troubled Estelle’s sleep, but her mother had beautiful dreams that night, in which Messieurs Philox Lorris senior and junior played significant roles.
Madame Lacombe was in the process of having her daughter give her more details about her conversation the previous day with the son of the great Philox Lorris when the aerogalley of the Tube bringing tourists from Interlaken brought a tubal parcel from Paris addressed to Mademoiselle Estelle Lacombe. It contained twenty phonograms of lectures by Philox and lessons by a celebrated master who had been Georges Lorris’ teacher. The young man had kept his promise.
“I’m going to take the midday Tube to pay a little call on Philox Lorris!” exclaimed Madame Lacombe, joyfully. “It’s my dream coming true—I dreamed that I went to see the great inventor, that he took me round his laboratory, graciously giving me all sorts of explanations, and finally showed me his latest invention, a very complicated machine. ‘This, Madame,’ he said to me, ‘is an apparatus for raising salaries electrically; permit me to make a gift of it to you for your husband...’”
“Always the same obsession!” said Monsieur Lacombe, laughing.
“Do you think it’s pleasant being deprived of pink hats like the one I saw yesterday at Babel Stores? I’m going to buy it as I go past on my way to visit Philox Lorris.”
“I absolutely forbid it,” said Monsieur Lacombe. “Not the pink hat—you can get that if you want—but the visit to Philox Lorris. Wait a while; when Estelle passes her examination…if, thanks to the lessons sent by Monsieur Lorris, she obtains the grade of engineer, there’ll be time to think about a little call to say thanks…by Tele…in order not to be importunate.”
“You’ll never get anywhere!” declared Madame Lacombe.
The entrance of the maidservant Grettly, bringing the breakfast, cut short the sermon that Madame Lacombe was getting ready, as was her daily habit, to deliver to her husband before he left for work.
Poor Grettly, who had scarcely recovered from the previous day’s fright, existed in a state of perpetual bewilderment. In our cities, the worthy country folk—children of the land, knowing nothing but the land, with hard heads resistant to scientific ideas, ignorant people constrained to operate in an extraordinarily complicated civilization that demands a considerable sum of knowledge from everyone—suffer perpetually from amazement and fear. Tormented and frightened, those children of simple nature do not seek to understand the fantastic machinery of city life; they think only of getting away, and getting back as quickly as possible to their hole in the depths of some hamlet forgotten by progress.
The bewildered Grettly, a dense and leaden countrywoman with flaxen hair, lived in a perpetual state of terror, understanding nothing, hiding away in the kitchen as much as possible and not daring to touch any of the machines and inventions that make tamed electricity the servant of humankind. As she broke one or two cups while circling around the table, keeping as far away as possible from the various items of apparatus for fear of brushing the electric buttons or the telejournal—the evening and morning newspaper—as she passed by, it was upon her that Madame Lacombe’s indignant eloquence fell.
Then, in response to a prod from Monsieur Lacombe, in order to create a diversion, the telejournal came on and the apparatus commenced the political news bulletin with which Monsieur Lacombe liked to accompany his milky coffee.
“Although everything indicates that the difficulties pertaining to the liquidation of the long-standing debts of the Republic of Costa Rica cannot be resolved diplomatically, and that Bellona alone can succeed in clarifying the murky accounts, we ought, on the other hand, to observe that our internal politics is all peace and concord.
“Thanks to the entry into the coalition, with the portfolio of the Ministry of the Interior, of Madame Louise Muche, member for the Seine, the leader of the Feminist Party, who carries the support of the Chamber’s forty-five feminist votes, the Minister of Conciliation is sure of a considerable majority...”
On the afternoon of the same day, as Estelle was plunged into Philox Lorris’ lectures—without finding much pleasure therein, however, as was evident from the way she pressed her forehead into her left hand while she tried to take notes—the sound of the Tele bell ringing in her ears suddenly snatched her away from that painful occupation.
Her phonograph was in the middle of one of Philox Lorris’ lectures; the clear voice of the scientist was explaining at length his experiments on the acceleration and amelioration of agriculture by means of the electrification of planted fields. Estelle put the apparatus on pause and cut off the speech in mid-calculation. She ran to the Tele screen; it was Philox’s son who appeared on it.
Standing in front of his personal apparatus in distant Paris, Georges Lorris bowed to the young woman.
“May I ask you, Mademoiselle,” he said “whether you are completely recovered from yesterday’s little shock? I saw that you were so frightened...”
“You’re too kind, Monsieur,” Estelle replied, blushing slightly. “I admit that I didn’t show myself to be very brave yesterday, but thanks to you, my fear dissipated quickly. I owe you many other thanks; I received the phonograms and, as you can see, I was in the process of...”
“Of submitting to a little lecture from my father,” Georges completed, laughing. “I wish you the best of luck, Mademoiselle...”
IV
Sometimes to take account of Estelle Lacombe’s progress, or to send her new pedagogical phonograms, sometimes to ask for news of her health and that of her mother, George Lorris entered into communication with the chalet at Lauterbrunnen-Station quite often. Gradually, it became a pleasant habit for him; it soon became necessary for him, every afternoon, as compensation for his hours of study and work at the laboratory, to chat for a few minutes with the distant engineering student.
Estelle was making significant progress thanks to his advice and all the documents that he sent her. For Estelle, the son of Philox Lorris, whom his severe and difficult father treated unceremoniously as a scientific dolt, was a giant of science. Besides which, when the young woman got stuck on a question, Georges Lorris, armed with a little phonograph, found the means, in the course of conversation at table, of getting his father to answer the question, and the clandestinely-obtained phonogram would depart for Lauterbrunnen-Station.
In spite of her husband’s opposition, Madame Lacombe, between two trips—one to the ladies’ Bourse, where she had come to collect a two thousand franc profit, and the other to Babel Stores, where she had spend two thousand and five on a few indispensable purchases—came one day to pay a visit to Philox Lorris, under the pretext of bringing him her thanks.
In the waiting-room at the aerial platform, she found a series of plaques with the names of all the residents in the house: Monsieur and Madame Philox Lorris; Monsieur Georges Lorris; Monsieur Sulfatin, Philox Lorris’ private secretary; etc. She noticed, while admiring the display, that the names were not, as is customary, followed by the indications Out or At Home or Busy, which save visitors time and avoid futile approaches.
That’s because it’s not distinguished, she said to herself. It’s become bourgeois and common; I’ll get rid of it at home.
The good lady pressed the bell of the master of the house, and the door immediately opened; she had only to go into an elevator that appeared at the door and get out when the elevator stopped. Another door opened of its own accord, and she found herself in a large room with paneling that was decorated from top to bottom with large colored drawings or photographs of extremely complicated machines. In the middle was a large table ringed by a few armchairs. Madame Lacombe had not yet seen anyone; no servant had appeared. Astonished, she sat down in an armchair.
“Would you be so kind as to tell me the purpose of your visit?” the phonograph added. It was the voice of Philox Lorris; Madame Lacombe was familiar with it thanks to the phonograms of speeches sent to Estelle.
She was nonplussed by this manner of receiving visitors. “That’s a trifle casual!” she exclaimed. “Not to deign to disturb oneself, to have people who have taken the trouble to go out of their way greeted by a phonograph. I find that somewhat lacking in politeness, all things considered!”
“I’m in Scotland on important business,” the phonograph went on, “but have the kindness to speak...”
Madame Lacombe did not know that Philox Lorris was always in Scotland or somewhere else, for all visits, but that a wire transmitted the name of the visitor to his study. Then, if he consented to receive the person in question, he pressed a button; the phonograph in the reception room invited the newcomer to take a door or an elevator, and then a corridor, and then another door that would open of its own accord.
“I’m Madame Lacombe. My husband, an inspector of Alpine Beacons, has asked me to give you his thanks…warm thanks...” Madame Lacombe was stammering; the dear lady, although rarely caught on the hop, could not find anything more to say to the phonograph.
She had been ready to win Philox Lorris over by means of her elegant manners, and the charm of her conversation, but had not been prepared for an interview by phono.
“Yes, you’re in Scotland like me, I have no doubt,” she said, getting up, very annoyed. “You’re a boor, Monsieur, as I’ve already heard tell, and I can see—a triple boor and a churl, with your phonograph. If you think I’m going to take the trouble to talk to your machine...”
“Go on—I’m listening,” said the phonograph.
“He’s listening!” said Madame Lacombe. “One suspects not! Do you think I’ve come two hundred leagues to have the pleasure of talking to you, Monsieur Phonograph? You can listen, my man. I can go on? Yes, Philox Lorris is a boor; but his son, Monsieur Georges Lorris, is a charming fellow who, fortunately, does not resemble him. He must take after his mother; the poor lady doubtless doesn’t have much pleasure with her husband the scientist; I’ve heard vague rumor of household quarrels. Evidently, with his phonographs, it’s that boor of a husband who’s completely in the wrong.”
“Is that all?” said the phonograph. “Very well; I’ve recorded...”
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Madame Lacombe. “It’s recorded... What have I done? I didn’t think of that; it speaks, but it records as well. The phonograph will repeat what I said. It’s a traitor! My God, what shall I do? How can it be erased? Oh, the abominable machine! How can it be deceived. Ah! I wanted to say...I’m an English lady, Mrs. Arabella Hogson of Birmingham, come to bring a testament of admiration to the illustrious Philox Lorris...”
Madame Lamcobe rummaged feverishly in the little bag she held in her hand, took out a pair of embroidered slippers that she had just bought for Monsieur Lacombe and deposited them on the phonograph. “Here—it’s a pair of slippers that I embroidered personally for the great man. You won’t forget my name: Mrs.—oh! My God, there’s something else! There’s a little lens on the phone—visitors are photographed! He has my picture now. Too bad—I’m getting out of here.”
She headed for the door, but came back quickly.
“I was about to cap my impoliteness, leaving without saying goodbye—what would he think of me?” Leading toward the phonograph, she pronounced: “Happy and proud to have had a moment’s conversation with the illustrious Philox Lorris, in spite of the interruptions of a very annoying English lady, his humble servant lays all her civilities at the feet of the great man!”
“I have the honor of offering you my salutations,” replied the apparatus.
Although she was not easily disconcerted, Madame Lacombe returned to Lauterbrunnen in a distressed state, and did not mention her visit.
Some time afterwards, Estelle took her final examination for the attainment of the rank of engineer. She had confidence now, and thought that she was well-prepared, well versed in all the parts of the syllabus, thanks to the advice of Georges Lorris and all the notes that he had sent. She thus left for Zurich tranquilly, presented herself at the university with all the other candidates and, fortified by the high marks obtained in the written examination, undertook the oral examination without her heart palpitating excessively on this occasion.
At the first question falling from the height of her examiners’ imposing white cravats, Estelle’s unaccustomed and entirely artificial aplomb suddenly abandoned her; she blushed, went pale, gazed into empty space and then at the ground, hesitantly. Finally, by means of a violent effort of will, she succeeded in recovering enough precedence of mind to reply—but all the subjects she had studied so conscientiously now became confused in her mind; she got everything she knew so well mixed up, and her answer was completely wrong. What a catastrophe! The fruits of so much labor were going to waste!
Zeroes and black balls all along the line—that was what she obtained from the decisive examination.
Her disappointment was immense; in her distress, she forgot that her mother, certain of her triumph, was coming to Zurich to meet her. She took an aircab right away, and as soon as she got home she rushed to lock herself in her room in order to weep undisturbed, after having ordered the phonograph in the drawing-room to inform her parents of her failure.
She had been plunged in her grief for half an hour when the telephonoscope bell resounded in her ear. She put her hand on the switch hesitantly.
Who is it? she wondered, wiping her eyes. Too bad if it’s friends wanting to know the result of my examination. I won’t talk to them—I’ll refer them to Mama.
“Hello, hello!” said the apparatus. “Georges Lorris.”
Estelle pressed the button. Georges Lorris appeared on the screen. “What’s this!” he said. “Tears, Mademoiselle? You’re crying. The examination?”
“Failed!” she exclaimed, trying to smile. “Failed again!”
“Did those torturers the examiners ask you extraordinary things, then?”
“No,” she said, “and I’m all the more furious with myself. The questions were difficult, but I could have answered…I knew…thanks to you...”
“Well, then?”
“Well, my deplorable timidity doomed me. Before my examiners, I was troubled, confused; I got everything mixed up…and I was crushed by black balls...”
“Don’t cry—you can take it again, and you’ll be more fortunate. Come on, Estelle, don’t cry…I don’t want that…I can’t bear to see you crying! Come on, I beg you, Estelle, my dear little Estelle...”
“What! cried a voice behind the young woman. “My dear little Estelle? That seems exceedingly familiar to me, Monsieur Georges Lorris!” It was Madame Lacombe, who, having not found Estelle in Zurich, had just come back, prey to the keenest anxiety, to learn the sad news via the drawing-room phono.
Georges Lorris was momentarily nonplussed. He knew Madame Lacombe, having had occasion to converse with her several times since the tornado. “Madame,” he said, “I found Mademoiselle Estelle so disappointed by her failure that I was trying to console her, and the strong amity that I have conceived for her since the fortunate hazard…anyway, she was crying, lamenting, and I couldn’t see her tears flowing without...”
“I’m most obliged to you,” said Madame Lacombe dryly. “We’ve suffered a little setback, we’ll work hard and we’ll try again, that’s all. I’ll take responsibility for consoling my daughter myself. I bid you farewell, Monsieur...”
“Madame!” exclaimed Georges Lorris. “Don’t be annoyed, I implore you. One word, please…I have the honor of asking you for Mademoiselle Estelle’s hand!”
“Estelle’s hand!” exclaimed Madame Lacombe, letting herself fall into an armchair.
“If you
will be kind enough to grant it to me,” added the young man, “and if Mademoiselle Estelle is... Excuse the lack of formality in my request…in the circumstances…Mademoiselle Estelle’s grief has distressed me greatly. I beg you, Estelle, don’t discourage me...”
“Monsieur,” said Madame Lacombe, with dignity. “I shall make your request, so honorable for us, known to my husband, and Monsieur Lacombe will inform you of his response; as for myself, I can only tell you that you have my vote…and it counts!”
It is evident from that abrupt request for marriage that Georges Lorris was a man of rapid decision. An hour before, he had not felt any precise matrimonial desire. For some time, he had found a real pleasure in his telephonoscopic conversations with the young student, without seeking to take account of the sentiments that were making him find the custom so delightful. The sight of Estelle’s tears had suddenly revealed the condition of his heart to him, and without hesitating, he had resolved to link his life with hers. He was twenty-seven years old, he was free in his actions, and he was more than sufficiently rich for two.
He was not unaware that difficulties might arise on the side of his family. His father had other ideas. On the very day of the tornado, he had revealed his matrimonial plan: to find a woman with a doctorate, possessed of the highest qualifications, a truly scientific mind, a serious woman mature enough to have a head unencumbered by any vestige of silly ideas. George shivered as he remembered Philox Lorris’ expressions. Brr! That threat alone was sufficient to convince him to settle the situation.
That evening, when Monsieur Lacombe came home for dinner, Georges Lorris, who had arrived at Interlaken via the Pneumatic Tube, disembarked from an aircab at Lauterbrunnen-Station at almost exactly the same time. Madame Lacombe had scarcely had time to warn her husband.
Electric Life Page 4