by Emile Calvet
“I’d say, rather, that it pains me, for who could possible believe that one can make marble from chalk?”
“Anyone who has the most elementary notion of chemistry,” the professor replied, peremptorily. “Fifty times over, with the same rifle-barrel, sealed at both ends and full of pulverized chalk, I’ve manufactured marble. It’s therefore not astonishing that the method is used industrially today, like many others that once appeared bound to remain in the purely scientific domain.”
At that moment, a sheet of fluted brick forty meters square rose up like a gigantic curtain before the façade of an almost-completed house; after a few oscillations, it settled to cover a part of the roof already clad in broad planks of fir-wood.
“One might think that artistry has reached its peak,” said the doctor, taking some delight with his pun. “That kind of roofing is very graceful, and singularly pleasant to behold, instead of offending the eye with those sinister metallic strips, which damp air does not take long to cover with a dull and dirty layer of zinc hydrocarbonate.”
“Astronomy must have a great many devotees here,” the physicist observed, pointing out circular kiosks surrounded by green bronze fluted columns, which topped the majority of edifices and whose shiny cupolas were surmounted by lightning-conductors supported by allegorical figures.” Almost immediately, as his eyes followed a sparkling balloon supported by steel cables that was rising rapidly beside a high façade, he added: “The ghost of my illustrious colleague Sainte-Claire Deville must be satisfied.”22
“You think that metallic mass is made of aluminum?” queried the doctor.
“Undoubtedly. It’s obvious that a means has been found of producing aluminum cheaply—a substance very resistant to chemical agents but very widespread in nature, since the pure clay is, as you know, nothing but hydrated aluminum silicate, resulting from the decomposition of feldspar, and is not rare anywhere. Moreover, the employment of that light metal, tenacious and inalterable in air, seems to me to be entirely appropriate in the present case. You’ll notice, in addition, that the balconies that have been in place for some time have not lost the slightly fatiguing glare of pure aluminum, thanks to a particular burnishing that is done in place and furnishes the softest shades.”
Profoundly impressed by the spectacle of the marvels taking place before their dazzled eyes, the travelers slowly continued on their way.
After walking for a few minutes, their gazes plunged into a vast excavation recently hollowed out, in which a great many people, widely distributed, were actively digging.
Several orators were holding forth in the middle of groups that appeared to be lending sustained attention to their words.
“What can all those people by doing?” Antius wondered, highly intrigued.
“There’s someone who can tell us,” said Gédéon, pointing at a man of respectable appearance who was toiling up the bank toward us, carrying an object wrapped in gray paper under his arm.
When the citizen had completed his ascent, the strangers went to meet him and the doctor, after a profound bow, asked him the reason for the assembly.
“Monsieur,” said the pedestrian, raising his hat, “the trench in front of you has been opened on the site of some buildings of old Paris for the establishment of a group of new houses. The discovery of several curious objects, of very ancient origin, has attracted a great number of searchers.” Pointing to the mysterious object that he was carrying with such precaution, he added: “For my own part, I am more than a little satisfied with my find.”
With the expansiveness characteristic of happy people, the amateur antiquarian, in order to show his treasure to the strangers, began removing the surrounding sheets of paper one by one. Finally, he exposed a singular instrument formed by a curved handle about half a foot long, riveted to a hollow sheet metal disk five or six inches across and badly chipped. The apparatus had only retained half of its lid, represented by a bulbous strip of copper pieced with numerous holes.
“It’s obvious,” the fellow said, authoritatively, “that half the object is missing. I’ve dug all around the hole where it was buried in search of the complementary part, but in vain. I’ve been lost in conjectures for some time to divine what use our ancestors made of it. Moving from one deduction to another, I’ve been led to the certainty that I’m in the presence of a defensive weapon, of a quite widespread employment in the barbaric epoch when cities were exposed to sieges of various duration. It’s probably in this receptacle that the besieged enclosed boiling oil or pitch, which they poured on to the heads of the besiegers from the top of the ramparts. I admit with confusion, however, that I’ve tried in vain to translate the incomplete inscription that it still retains to this day.”
And the amateur showed the strangers a few irregularly-spaced letter on the edge of the lid, engraved on a horizontal stalk.
The doctor fixed his gaze attentively on the remains of the inscription, disposed in the following manner:
B S N IRE B V ÉE S. D. G.
“Monsieur,” he said, “suddenly raising his head, the inscription, incomplete as it is, will add, if necessary, further strength to the opinion that I formed of the object at first glance. The object is not, as you imagine, a weapon of war. Its usage is, on the contrary, entirely peaceful, and you will share my opinion when you learn that the inscription, in its entirety, reads: Bassinoire, brevetée sans garantie du government—a formula whose last four terms were obligatory from the legal viewpoint.”23
“Really, Monsieur?” said the amateur, whose self-respect was even more offended by the humility of the functions of his apparatus than the falsification of his own hypothesis.
“There’s no possible doubt about it in that regard,” agreed the physicist, while Gédéon dared not say a word for fear of bursting out laughing.
“I thank you sincerely, Messieurs,” the Parisian said. “I’ll write a note this very day to the Society of Independent Antiquaries, to which I belong.”
And after exchanging a deep bow with the travelers, he went along the avenue.
The doctor and his companions went down into the excavation and soon found themselves near to a group of curiosity-seekers, in the middle of which a self-important middle-aged gentleman was holding forth.
“You all know, Messieurs,” he was saying, “that in a very remote geological era, the Earth was covered with a liquid layer, which various volcanic eruptions gradually drove back into the lower regions of the terrestrial crust. The seas have no other origin. The presence of a considerable quantity of marine fossils in the orographic system of the globe offers evident proof of that state of general submersion.
“I have, personally, had the good fortune to find, in the same area of ground in which we are presently digging, irrefutable evidence of that geological system, which was only extremely controversial, but which is now considered to be a well-established scientific certainty.”
The orator displayed a heap of seashells in his hand, and continued: “The mass of fossils that is at our feet is constituted in large part by the fossils of Ostraea edulis, commonly known as the oyster.24 The agglomeration of this debris in this location by the seas of the geological epoch constitutes a remarkable case. I will add, Messieurs, that I have encountered one particularity here before which all my conjectures remain impotent. You can see here, disseminated without any order, the fossil bones of several fish that nowadays live exclusively in fresh water, the presence of which in the midst of these marine shells constitutes an anomaly that I cannot explain.”
At that moment, one of the most attentive auditors, perched on the summit of a mound of earth, who was testifying his admiration by opening a mouth as wide as a well-head, suddenly lost his balance and fell backwards, with increasing velocity down a slope several meters long.
The weight of his body had dislodged from the flank of the mound an avalanche of shards of bottle-glass and crockery, which had doubtless been lying dormant there for several centuries, and contact with which cau
sed a significant grimace to run over the face of the victim. Arrived at the terminus of his fall, the individual, by virtue of his acquired momentum, landed on his hands and showed the crowd a twenty-meter rip that a piece of glass had made in his clothing.
While he was getting to his feet, torn between confusion and pain, Terrier, who had not missed any of the phases of the accident, ran forward, to the great astonishment of the crowd to the place from which the amateur had tumbled. This singular maneuver convinced the idlers that the professor was about to produce a voluntary repetition of the catastrophe, but the physicist, having arrived at the top of the mound, leaned over, sought points of support with both hands, and then came down the slope backwards with such prudence that all the members of the crowd were immediately reassured on his behalf.
Half way down the scientist stopped. As soon as he was sufficiently well-balanced he stretched out his hand and grasped a fragment of porcelain in the form of a quarter-circle, whose soiled surface nevertheless allowed a glimpse of a golden arabesque. He rubbed the face that had caught his attention methodically with a corner of his white burnoose, and made a gesture of surprise whose suddenness almost precipitated him to the bottom of the trench.
“Messieurs,” he said, addressing the crowd, which had followed these various maneuvers with keen curiosity, “the fall of the honorable citizen, who has fortunately resumed the assault on the height where you are standing—a fall that I would qualify as providential, if it had not been marked by an accident that was fortunately not serious—has just brought to light an interesting topographical fact.
“A moment ago, while anxiously following the perilous descent of the estimable individual, my eyes were struck by the gleam of a few shiny lines designed on the object I am holding in my hand—and object which, in its integrity, was obviously a porcelain plate. I have taken possession of it, thanks to a tactic whose audacity, to which I am unused, has been amply rewarded.
“As you will be able to assure yourselves momentarily, the fragment that I have before my eyes bears the embossed inscription painted in fine Gothic script, the two words: Café Anglais, words even more significant for gourmets than for antiquaries. We are incontestably on the site of that celebrated restaurant, which, in its time, had conquered the clientele of all the ichthyophages in the capital.
“That fact acquires in my eyes a value all the greater because it permits me to explain at the same time to our honorable geologist the anomaly presented to his legitimate scientific convictions by the abnormal proximity of marine and freshwater fossils. The former are, in reality, merely the shells of oysters, and the latter the bones of pike, carp and eels, thrown into the depths of some deserted courtyard by the waiters of that famous establishment.”
A formidable outburst of laughter greeted the physicist’s explanation.
Only the consternated geologist took no part in the general hilarity. Terrier generously came to his aid. “Monsieur,” he said, politely designating the disappointed scientist with his hand, “presented to us jut now some lofty geological conceptions with such precision and authority that his great competence cannot be called in question by an incident that no one could have foreseen. Furthermore, the frankness with which he made us party to the embarrassment caused to him by the simultaneous presence of the debris of marine mollusks and river fish testifies eloquently to the fact that his scientific honorability is no less than the depth of his knowledge.”
Having thus placed over the wound he had inflicted a balm of whose efficacy he was well aware, the professor gravely climbed to the top of the bank. Then, following his companions, he went back to the avenue that bordered the pit.
XVIII. The Press in the New World.
The Communal House
“What function can that strangely formed kiosk fulfill?” asked Gédéon, pointing at a elegant booth standing under the crown of an elm several centuries old.
“It’s a newsstand,” the physicist replied, perceiving a stroller drawing away from the booth unfolding a gigantic sheet of paper whose lower edge was skimming the grass.
“Aren’t you curious to know today’s news?” asked the young man.
“Certainly,” said Antius, handing his nephew a twenty-franc bill. “Go and buy a newspaper.”
Gédéon ran to the little edifice. Having arrived before the display, he ran his eyes over various rows of publications, but the inspection left him perplexed, by virtue of the unfamiliarity of the titles.
“Madame,” he said to a middle-aged woman who seemed to be fighting drowsiness, lifting her head up repeatedly with the regularity of a pendulum, “I’d like a well-informed paper.”
“The Continent has just appeared,” the lady replied, waking up with a start.
Gédéon took the sheet, handed over his banknote and collected his change. “I should have asked about the opinion of the paper,” he muttered, as he drew away. “Anyway, if it’s not mine, I’ll give it to my uncle. In politics, what exasperates me cheers him up prodigiously, and vice versa.”
The two scientists were sitting comfortably on one of the avenue’s benches. Having arrived before them, Gédéon, without asking for permission, read aloud: “Political news. It is not without courage that, struggling against the formidable current of innovations, or rather follies, that is drawing the entire world along, the conservatives...” In a cavalier manner, the reader interrupted himself. “Let’s pass on—we know the rest.”
He turned over. “Miscellaneous events—this, at least one can read with tranquility. In the semi-barbaric era in which our forefathers buried their dead...” The young man interrupted himself again, alarmed: “What the devil do they do with theirs? …their dead, the air of the great cities was saturated with pestilential miasmas given off relentlessly by the immense cemeteries that formed the funereal girdles of cities. The recent excavations made in the northern part of the city have led to the discovery of a prodigious quantity of bones, which explains the terrible epidemics that were rife in those miserable times.
“Several tombstones have also been unearthed, which testify to the naïve vanity of our ancestors. A few, by virtue of their bizarre texts offer curious problems to our antiquaries. Take, for example, this one: Here lies Claude Lesturgeon, hatmaker, member of the Board of Arbitration, good husband and loyal national guardsman. What can that last phrase signify?
“You can reply to that impertinent reporter, Uncle, having once been a model bizet.”25
“The epithet is too flattering,” the doctor replied, “for I came before a disciplinary council every three months.”
“I’ll continue,” Gédéon said. “The most ancient urns in our modern necropolises, which are nevertheless rich in epitaphs, do not contain any of the terms that represent the multiple functions of this individual. Urns?”
“That clearly signifies,” observed the doctor, “that the system of incineration is today universally practiced. I have, for my part, fought in writing and in speech against the opposition raised in certain parts to that procedure, which resolves a grave problem of public hygiene.”
“The day before yesterday,” the young man continued, “the passengers on the Astrolabe, twenty leagues out to sea rounding Cap Palmas, which is situated on the west coast of Africa. At 10° east longitude and 4° north latitude, saw, two hundred meters below the balloon, a sea-monster half a kilometer long, the coils of which were writhing in the ocean.”
“That one I know,” said the doctor, raising his head, it’s definitely the Constitutionnel’s old sea-serpent.”26
“Now, here’s an article of the highest importance for us: The arrival in Paris has been announced of Monsieur Guillaume Dryon, the illustrious agronomist, who makes the most intelligent and generous use of his colossal fortune. It is well-known that the illustrious landowner, who is also an intellectual of the first order, exploits an immense territory of thirty thousand hectares in Central Africa, on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, open to all progress and all industrial and agric
ultural innovations. Monsieur Dryon’s library and collections are among the most famous in the entire African continent. The magnificent house he possesses in the Place des États in Paris is one of the marvels of the city.”
“That is indeed important news for us,” said Antius. “We ought to have only one objective: work. Inaction would be more than a privation; it would be a dishonor for us.”
The travelers had already covered two hundred meters following the left hand side of the avenue, when their gaze was arrested by an edifice that was distinguished from the neighboring houses as much by its size and general appearances as by the nature of the materials that had been exclusively used in its construction.
All along the extent of the façade, the gaze was unable to encounter any other substances than iron and glass. With those two elements, however, an architect of genius had succeeded in forging a work that was as astonishing by virtue of its grandiose character as it was charming by virtue of the exquisite artistry of its ornamentation. Throughout the metal frame, which affected the purest and most graceful forms, panes of glass were enclosed whose azure reflection was infinitely soft. The ground floor opened via large bays on marble staircases, which descended in a gentle slope to the causeway. The incessant movement of the crowd through its doors indicated that it was a much-frequented monument.
“That metallic palace must be the seat of some permanent exhibition,” said Terrier. “We could always go in.”
His companions having approved this proposal, they headed for the building.
Above the door, a heavily-ornamented shield bore the inscription: COMMUNAL HOUSE.27
“It’s the district Mairie,” said Gédéon, aloud, convinced that he has surely solved the problem.
“You’re mistaken, Monsieur,” said a pedestrian who was passing by them. “The Mairie of the right bank is a long way from here.”
“That way of putting it, Monsieur,” said Antius, “seems to indicate that there are only two Mairies in the entire city.”