“I’ve seen the director of the Tubes himself. I’m not worried; everything is arranged; the passengers will merely have to be patient during the rather long-drawn-out work. But they won’t be able to complain—they’ll be cared for, the ventilation is fine, the temperature in the tube agreeable. They’ll even be sent a Sorrento breeze, soft and perfumed, and their nourishment is assured, at Company expense, by means of a pipe, which they have taken a great deal of trouble to push through to the train. The Company has made arrangements; they’re excellent—not very varied, necessarily, but excellent: soup, a perfect consommé always under pressure…”
“Nothing but soup?”
“Excellent consommé, I tell you—I’ve tasted it; the director’s office sent me a sample. Delicious, my boy, delicious! All is well; it’s only a matter of waiting for a few days, less than a week…it will go by quickly!”
Out there is the tube, the travelers were not taking things quite so philosophically. To begin with, they had been furious, thinking that the accident was going to delay their arrival in Milan and their dinner for an hour or two. After the anger came the annoyance, the anxiety, then the fear…the train had not started moving again! And suddenly, they learned the truth: the serious jam, immobilization while the work went on.
Terror! What about food?
There was nothing at all on the train, for there were no restaurant cars in the tubes. Nothing to eat!
Therefore???
The horror of the situation made everyone’s hair stand on end.
The poor pupils from Villennes bitterly regretted having done so well in their competition, and started to cry.
Fortunately, the telephone was still working; it announced that a pipe had just been connected to the rear of the train, and that dinner would arrive by that route.
It was the Company’s savior soup. The train’s staff rapidly set about organizing the service. The passengers took tin cups and mugs from their luggage, formed an orderly queue, and the consommé was distributed along the length of the train.
It was found to be excellent. For soup, it was fine, but afterwards? After more soup, soup, and yet more soup for dessert!
Finally! Everyone felt weary after such great excitement. They lay down on the benches to sleep. The benches on the tube were not very comfortable for sleeping on.
It was a long night.
The next day, a telephone call from the Company announced breakfast. The work of liberation had begun; it might take a long time; the passengers were asked to be patient. To help them pass the time, the Company organized readings by telephonograph; the Paris newspapers would be read to them first, then they would have carefully-selected new novels by famous authors, and perhaps also lectures.
In addition to the Villennes pupils and all the other participants in the classical tour of Italy, there were a number of travelers on the express for whom the accident was extremely inconvenient: merchants, industrialists and bankers summoned to Italy on business. These urgent travelers protested violently, fulminating against the Company, and launched one telephone call after another to Paris, complaining about the inconvenience. Several of them had already started proceedings for damages and compensation, and were setting lawyers and advocates in motion.
Notebook of Mademoiselle Colette Turbille
“…Slept badly. Emotion. Dreamed that the tube ran amok and that our train, borne by compressed air, overshot Naples and plunged into the Mediterranean….
“Still eating breakfast while listening to the newspapers being read. Soup again—not very varied. A telephone call to protest. No response. Doubtless the Company doesn’t want to interrupt the exceedingly interesting articles in the newspapers, which give dramatic details of our accident.
“I notice that every time these articles get to the work of liberation and its anticipated duration, the tele malfunctions.
“Midday. Lunch. Let’s see the menu? More consommé, and nothing but consommé!
“Protests on all sides. No response. Doubtless the Company doesn’t want to interrupt the reading of the great adventure novel The Aerial Burglars in the early chapters.15
“Very gripping, that novel. Let’s listen…
“…Nocturnal raid on a house, breaking in from the roof…dramatic abduction of an heiress. Pursuit of burglars by a police aero… Heavens! The heroine has just been stabbed! Will anyone come to her aid?
“Bang! Electrical breakdown in the tube…and we have to follow the agonizing ups and downs of the crime, with frightful details, in complete darkness! I’m shivering with horror…
“The tele interrupts the reading at the most dramatic moment and tells us: ‘To be continued after dinner’. To table, then! A manner of speaking, for we have no table.
“Let’s see the menu…more soup! The Company’s cooks are decidedly lacking in imagination. We protest. No response. We’ll see about that tomorrow. Quickly, the continuation of The Aerial Burglars! What has become of the poor young heiress, so pretty and sympathetic? Will they have murdered her? No one knows…the corpse can’t be found… A mystery!
“Third day. Breakfast: soup. Reading of newspapers. Too much politics. I’m in a hurry to get back to The Aerial Burglars.
“Lunch: soup!!! Reading. The plot thickens. The heroine is almost recovered and the bandit aircraft trapped…it’s exciting, but the tele tells us: ‘To be continued after dinner.’
“Dinner: soup. Always soup! It’s exasperating.”
Colette’s notes are becoming briefer; one senses that the poor child is discouraged.
“Fourth day: soup. Reading of newspapers. Soup. Reading: final chapters of The Aerial Burglars. All ends well for the charming heiress. I’m very happy for her. Will we be as lucky as her?
“Fifth day: soup. Reading. Soup. Another novel. Boring, this one…we play games. Soup…
“Sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth days: soup. Reading. Soup. Reading. Lecture. Subject: ‘The industrial development of the south-western region of Australia and its repercussions on world commerce.’
“I’ll try to go to sleep.
“16th day: soup, reading, soup…ah! Something new… I daren’t say… yes… it seems to me… I’m not mistaken…the train moved…. Unstuck! We’re unstuck! Saved! Thank God! It’s high time—I don’t even have the strength any longer to put exclamation marks in my notes…”
X. Reception of the Villennes survivors.
The Duffers’ Club.
Yes, it was only on the 16th day, at 1:45 p.m., that the rescue work came to a successful conclusion. Unfortunate travelers! A triumphant dispatch announced the deliverance:
“After 16 days of work, beset by difficulties, the rescuers of the Paris-Naples tube have reached the trapped train. The tube, slightly distorted by a movement of the granite masses weighing upon it, 2595 meters beneath the summit of the perforated Alpine chain, has been, if not straightened, at least planed and polished inside, in order to permit sliding. The tube is free on the French side; work continues on the Italian side.
“At 1:45 p.m. the train was released and compressed air recovered it at the normal speed of 500 kilometers an hour.”
At 3 p.m., a considerable crowd was waiting at the Tube station for the arrival of the people who were being called “the survivors of the tube catastrophe.”
Reporters, cinema cameramen and photographers were filling a vast reserved space, along with the relatives who had come running, among whom Monsieur and Madame Turbille were in the first row.
All hearts in the excited crowd beat rapidly. They wait. Telephone bells ring. A distant noise in the tube, increasing rapidly in intensity. The train arrives. General shiver of excitement. Cheers…
The first travelers appear on the platform; the elevator collects them and they descend. Exit.
They stop, dazzled by the sunlight, to which they have become unaccustomed after 16 days. Photographers and cinematographists go into action.
Parental embraces. Effusions. A great deal of noise.
Reporters run from group to group, interrogating, asking for details, impressions, soliciting anecdotes…
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Of course! Oh, it’s too much! Oh, not really! Yes! No! Oh! Oh! Ah!!!!”
All these exclamations are uttered by the Villennes pupils, who are jostling one another at the exit from the elevator.
“This is it—Italy! Come on then! We’re in Naples? I can’t see Vesuvius? We demand Vesuvius! And the blue sea? Where is it? Over there…yes, that’s Montmartre! This isn’t Naples—there’s the Eiffel Tower!”
Vehement protests are soon mingled with the clamors of amazement; the pupils stamp their feet.
The enchanted cinematographists reload their cameras.
“What, Messieurs?” cries Colette Turbille, at the head of a protesting group, addressing the tube engineers who are greeting the “survivors.” “You’ve brought us directly back to Paris? That’s monstrous! After our misfortune, after all our annoyances, after your eternal soup! We’re arriving debilitated, Messieurs!”
“I’m suing the Tube Company!” says one furious gentleman. “A huge deal missed. 10,000 tons of Neapolitan macaroni, which I haven’t been able to but—I must have compensation!”
“I’m suing too! Considerable damages!”
“Me too!”
“Me too! My life’s dream stolen! Court! Indemnity! A fine voyage!”
“And me, then! My heart broken! Court! Indemnity!”
The last two protesters have exceedingly sad faces; their trip to Italy has not turned out well; they have become depressed during their 16 days in the tube.”
The Villennes airship is waiting for the young tube-passengers. To cut short her pupils’ irritation, the Headmistress, who has come to meet the in person, immediately gives the signal for embarkation.
“Come on, Mademoiselles—to Villennes, right away! People are waiting for you; you can chat to your heart’s content there. What an event! What drama! And what a scare you gave us, unfortunate children! You’ll have a great deal to tell us!”
At Villennes, cheers and applause greeted the dirigible’s arrival. There was a crowd in front of the school, of parents, friends and all the Chambourcy pupils.
Gustave nearly dislocated his arms waving them joyfully. At the disembarkation, he hurled himself into the group of the “survivors of the tube catastrophe,” elbowing others aside in order to embrace his sister and his cousin more rapidly.
“Bonjour! Bonjour! You’ve finally returned!”
He was interrupted by another push from behind. It was Labrouscade, who wanted to get past.
“Permit me, Mademoiselle Colette to solicit an interview for my magazine, the Free Student. You must give me details, tell me about your suffering—I’ll write a thrilling article, something terrifying. You’ll see—I intend to give my readers goose pimples. Then you can tell me your impressions of Italy—I like that—cheerful, picturesque notes, no?”
Irritated, Colette abruptly turned her back on him.
“No interview, then? You’re refusing to tell me your impressions? Mademoiselle Valérie, you don’t want to say anything either? It doesn’t matter—I’m a generous fellow; I congratulate you all the same. You’ve had a stroke of luck, Mademoiselles! Your nice trip was only supposed to last a week, and you’ve had an entire fortnight—16 days, even! That’s superb!”
Marcel Labrouscade was obliged to beat a hasty retreat, for the senior girls of the fifth and sixth were adopting offensive stances. He was about to have his eyes scratched out, or at least blacked—for some of the bigger girls had pretensions as boxers. As he was a stranger to rancor, as soon as he was back in school he ran to shut himself up in the library in order to write the sensational article designed to give his readers goose-pimples. He had learned enough, in any case, by listening to the travelers—who, in a sudden flood of words, had set about recounting their annoying adventure to the pupils who had remained at Villennes—and Gustave, to whom his sister had told the whole story, furnished him with the rest, adding a few lurid details and comico-dramatic amplifications.
The library—or rather, to give it its official name, the phonoclichotheque—was not generally crammed with students; it was very comfortable and one could take a nap there. Whenever he was in there, Labrouscade put a placard on the door:
THE FREE STUDENT
Editorial Office. Administration. Subscriptions.
He was rarely disturbed, especially in good weather, when the grounds offered much greater attractions. However, Alfred Koufra, who worked ardently, often came to the phonoclichotheque during the recreation period between the study-period and dinner, to get stuck into difficult authors and troublesome subjects. He and Labrouscade worked alongside one another. Today, more than once, the overexcited Labrouscade made Koufra get up to try out the effect of a particularly terrifying passage of his article on him.
“Perhaps these communications are not entirely regular,” he said. “Let’s not forget that we’re adversaries; the affair hasn’t been settled and our duel with lances will take place one of these days, but...bah! Between loyal enemies who respect one another…I can continue. Listen to this!”
Koufra consented to declare himself overwhelmed by horror and frozen with fear; then he plunged back into his difficult author.
Thus pestered, having read or consulted a dozen volumes and filled a notebook, Koufra felt that he was getting dizzy. His head was spinning somewhat, and when Labrouscade read him the finished article, and few more lines of verse—only 18 feet long, still on the tube catastrophe—Koufra briefly confused times and events, the tube-journey with Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps, and asked why the Carthaginian elephants had not collaborated in the rescue.
Finally, Koufra remained alone with his books and notebooks. It was pleasant in the phonoclichotheque. The shouting, the calling, the whole turbulent racket of the footballers and other sportsmen only reached him, muffled, as a feeble murmur. The autumn sunlight, which was completing the gilding and reddening of the foliage in the grounds, was nevertheless quite attractive, and it would be delightfully pleasant dreaming under the trees along the Seine, or even aboard the Old Homer, the little yacht in which Gustave went out every day for an hour’s sailing, running along the banks outside the school’s harbor.
That was very tempting, but there was the work, the authors to consult on points about which he still felt confused. And Koufra, stopping up his ears so as not to hear the calls from outside, plunged back into personal encounters with the historians of antiquity, mingled with the littérateurs or illustrious scientists of recent centuries.
In the drawers of the phonoclichotheque, it is all ready to hand: antiquity—all of antiquity—as well as modern times; all the authors, condensed and simplified to varying degrees. All the ages are to be found there, with all the sciences and all philosophies—condensed and abridged, naturally, in the appropriate proportion, prepared to be assimilated easily and rapidly, on phonographic disks classified and arranged in the most perfect order.
A little phonograph is activated, and, without delay, the old master or the antique author to be consulted comes to clarify the subject. If it is a matter of another author, a modern one, that is better still, for it is the voice of the author himself, deigning, via the phono, to give you any necessary explanation, and repeat it as often as might be required.
It’s admirable and so convenient! A decidedly agreeable place, that school phonoclichotheque: quiet solitude; a silent hermitage, much more tranquil than the football field and much less crowded.
The time passes; Koufra ends up going to sleep. It’s Gustave’s fault; he was supposed to come and meet Koufra here, and hasn’t come—but Gustave has an excuse.
At the school, alongside pupils who work, like Koufra, there are those who don’t. The latter have formed an association for the defense of their assumed right to tranquility; they have founded the Dunces’ Association, or the Duffers’ Club.
Turbille is not a member of the Duffers’ C
lub. He has considerable sympathy for it, but he is not in it; as a worker, he is a fantasist, but he is a worker nevertheless. He is, in fact, working at this very moment on the Club’s behalf; he has promised to make known his meditations on a very important subject.
A delegation of the Club has come to grab him at the end of the study-period, as he was about to go to meet Koufra, and dragged him mysteriously into a corner.
“The Club, old chap,” said the leader of the delegation, his friend Pipard, a second-former—an old one, of course, but who nevertheless shows a certain amount of deference to Turbille—“has proclaimed with one voice that only you can alleviate or annoyance. When we require advice from anyone, the response is unanimous: we must see Turbille.”
“That’s flattering,” Gustave replied, “but what is it about?”
“You know,” said Pipard, sadly, “that times are getting hard; we’re overwhelmed by bad reports and impositions. Truly, that’s excessive, for a few distractions. With the best will in the world, all the students in a class can’t be in the top four—they don’t seem to understand that! At the school, we represent fantasy, and also modesty, and we ought to get some credit for that.”
“That seems fair enough to me.”
“Isn’t it? On the contrary, we’re overwhelmed with work! And then we can’t profit from pleasant hours devoted to various sports. For us, there’s no tennis, no football, no cricket, hockey, golf, yachting, etc. So the open air school is deliberately failing to live up to its prospectus: muscle and brain, physical culture, and so on. What will become of our muscles, which are at risk of atrophy? It’s worrying!”
“Indeed—quite distressing. You’re melting my heart.”
“So much the better—that encourages me with respect to what I have to ask of you on behalf of the poor Duffers’ Club. You can save us, if you’ll consent to take a interest in us. Here goes! We’re weighed down by impositions, which take up our precious time; well, it’s well-known and much appreciated, that you’re very strong in mechanics—I only say very strong to avoid sounding like a vile flatterer.”
Chalet in the Sky Page 7