Chalet in the Sky

by Albert Robida

  All went well. Self-confidence grew. He no longer made errors. Anyway, the machines were safe and easy to manage. A cab-driver or tram conductor of ancient times would have completed his apprenticeship in three quarters of an hour.

  “So, my dear Koufra, how are you now? To catch up, are you going to distinguish yourself in piloting?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You’re my pupil—it’s a matter of doing me honor! One has one’s self-respect!”

  Gustave took out a large package, which he had gone to fetch from his room. “You see this?” he said. “It’s a little invention of my own, my latest little discovery…”

  “The machine for impositions?”

  “No, stupid—the machine for impositions is more complicated! This is something very simple—an accessory for air trips: a parachute-hat, in case of accident, serious damage or a landing in difficult terrain. With the parachute-hat on one’s head, one is calm; there’s nothing to fear. The apparatus opens automatically; one has only to let oneself descend, quite gently. I even think that, with some kind of oar yet to be discovered, one might float and direct one’s descent…we’ll have to see. A good opportunity to conduct the experiment, eh?”

  “You haven’t tried it yet?”

  “No, I haven’t had time. Today’s the right moment—I thought of you for that….”

  Koufra seemed lacking in enthusiasm. “Perhaps it will be even more difficult for me,” he said, hesitantly.

  “Bah! Take my parachute-hat anyway; with that you’ll have perfect security.”

  The exam began. First there were the take-offs, the circuits of the field, then the grand tour of the grounds, the courses with various obstacles, which it was necessary to go around, over or under, and the descent on to a roof specially fitted with numerous chimneys.

  It was amusing to watch. For Gustave, it was child’s play. Koufra manifested less assurance; nevertheless, he came through the first tests without much difficulty.

  “You’ll have more than a passable report!” Turbille shouted to him, when he saw him land on the roof, only knocking over two chimney-pots. “It’s going very well!”

  Now came the biggest test: Rambouillet and back. They made the trip in the school’s aeroclettes, excellent and carefully-checked machines.

  Koufra was gaining in confidence; he was content. They departed in alphabetical order; Turbille would be some way behind him. No matter—he had had his final advice.

  “In any case,” Turbille said to him, taping him on the shoulder as he set out, “haven’t you got my parachute-hat?”

  A good take-off. The aeroclette lifts off smoothly, describes an elegant curve over the grounds and gains height. Koufra is slightly anxious, but the weather is still calm, only a few small fleecy clouds are to be seen rolling along, floating unhurriedly, very high, drifting in the blue of the immense celestial ocean.

  Koufra steers very well; he perceives his comrades flying ahead of him, crossing the paths of trippers, tourists, and even a wedding party, which is making a tour of Versailles.

  He proceeds at low altitude, following the itinerary mapped out, above small towns and graceful villages distributed along the roads, large farms and sumptuous villas. The park of Versailles and its water features are amusing, seen from above.

  Now the change of course over Rambouillet. Suddenly, there is a slight rocking and hesitation on the part of the apparatus. Something is wrong! One might think that the engine is seizing up…or that there’s a fault in the controls….

  It is probably quite simple, and Gustave would get himself out of trouble promptly and easily, but Koufra loses his head slightly. What should he do? He has forgotten the maneuver; his friend’s instructions have fled…

  This definitely won’t do! Let’s go down! And he prepares, somewhat feverishly, for a landing, searching with anxious eyes for suitable ground. Over there, a nice field, behind that church…

  Two minutes later, the aeroclette, still pitching slightly, has arrived, not in the field, but on the bell-tower of the church; Koufra, severely shaken, switches off the engine and clutches the old Gothic balustrade.

  Oof! He is on the bell-tower; thank God! But it’s a genuine breakdown. With the apparatus well-secured, Koufra gets ready to descend. Good—the door to the internal stairway is locked. He must stay where he is. He has been seen from the village, and someone will come to free him. Let’s be patient.

  But he is hailed from below. What are they shouting?

  “It’s the bell-ringer who has the keys to the bell-tower; he’s gone to the market in Limours; he won’t be back until 6 p.m.!”

  And it’s scarcely four. A disastrous hitch. What should he do? There’s still the parachute-hat. Koufra does not hesitate for a moment: he will not make use of it. Better to be patient, it’s not bad up here on the bell-tower. It’s a Gothic bell-tower; one doesn’t find those on the banks of the Oubangui. The landscape is lovely, seen from up here—50 kilometers of horizon to study. And his comrades can be seen in the distance, flying over Rambouillet.

  Time passes. Fortunately, his friend Gustave has seen the apparatus on the bell-tower from afar, and he makes a detour in that direction.

  “You haven’t tried the parachute-hat? But this is the ideal opportunity!”

  “I don’t think of it…”

  “Silly duffer!”

  In two minutes, Gustave has found the cause of the breakdown—something trivial—and put things back in order. He makes Koufra take off, and flies behind him.

  Journey to Rambouillet and return without any other incident than volleys of jeering whistle-blasts on flying over Villennes at low altitude. It is the pupils of the school, who, under Colette’s direction, are saluting all the Chambourcians in the piloting competition with that flattering music, without seeking to distinguish between the strong and the weak.

  Koufra assumes that the whistling is aimed at him and his humiliation increases. To cap it all, he is told that he has only been marked “almost passable.”

  XIII. The Machine for Manufacturing Impositions.

  After that emotional day, Koufra slept well, as did the entire class.

  Everyone had joked about Alfred Koufra hooking up to all the chimneys and bell-towers that he flew over during his trip in the sky. What an idea, to stop and visit monuments in the course of such an important exam! Gustave had taken back his parachute-hat, with the vexed expression of an inventor scorned, but that had not prevented Koufra from sleeping.

  On awakening, however, the memory of the terrible imposition—the imposition that was monstrous for the entire class, except Koufra—returned to everyone. It would be necessary to do it. They talked about nothing else as they jostled one another on the staircases, while eating breakfast, and yawning in the first study-period. In the general anxiety, there was also much curiosity.

  “Come on, my dear Turbille, where’s your invention? What have you found?”

  “It’ll be necessary to put it to work, you know. With ordinary means, we’d be at it for at least six hours! How many will we need with your invention?”

  “Let me be—we have time; it’ll be done painlessly. I’ve promised; I’ve sworn!”

  “But how much time? It will be hard anyway today…the Sun’s still shining; we mustn’t waste it—the end of the fine weather is imminent.”

  “When are we going to get started on the wretched imposition?”

  “When I choose—that’s my business.”

  “Ours too!”

  “Not at all—I’ve taken it all on me! This formidable imposition that terrifies you will require exactly ten minutes of work!”

  “Oh! Admirable! Marvelous! Turbille is a great man.”

  “Not yet,” said Gustave, bowing modestly, “but it will come! Exactly ten minutes of work, for me…but for you…”

  “Ah! For us?”

  “For you, not an eighth of a second! You shall see that I alone will work: while you go to daydream, lying on the g
rass, or to exert yourself in sports, I shall work, all alone; I shall manufacture this famous imposition for you!”

  “Thank you, illustrious Turbille; we venerate you, O benefactor of humankind!”

  “Wait! I shall, however, require one willing assistant. Ten minutes of work for me, the rest for my collaborator… Come on, who’ll volunteer?”

  Profound silence. A chill passes through the whole of 3A.

  “No one says a word? But when the moment eventually comes, a good and devoted fellow will have to be found…that’s understood! Break!”

  At the end of the midday meal, Gustave passed the word around: “All typewriters in good condition, and all ready on the desks—and quickly!”

  As one man, the members of 3A rose to their feet and headed for the study.

  Monsieur Virgile Radoux followed them with his eyes. “They’re setting off for the famous imposition without ill grace. No hesitation; general determination—I’m content with my class. For me, the muse and a cigarette beneath the last red and yellow foliage in the grounds!”

  In 3A’s study-room, all the typewriters were already on the desks, and the intrigued pupils were following Gustave’s movements as he ran a slender copper thread from one to another. When all the machines were thus connected, Gustave looked at his watch.

  “Eh? I said ten minutes of work—only nine!”

  “What now? How does it work?”

  “Watch!”

  Gustave set a little electric motor, less voluminous than his Quicherat,18 down on his desk.

  The class applauded. “Very simple,” said two or three envious rascals.

  “Genius! Genius! Turbille for the Pantheon! Long live Turbille!”

  Already tranquil and eager to make their way into the grounds, the members of 3A set off to rush down the stairs amid a great rumor of joy, but Gustave called them back.

  “Wait, dash it! You’re forgetting the volunteer I asked for. Come on, one volunteer, who will sacrifice himself for the others? One of those devoted beings that history always shows us in tragic hours! Come on! Come on! Don’t all speak at once—but someone speak! A hero? We need a hero? What, there are 46 of us, and not one of the 46 has a heroic and devoted heart? A quarter, an eighth of a hero?”

  Moving noiselessly, a number of pupils were already at the bottom of the stairs; the others were also trying to reach the door.

  “Halt!” cried Gustave. “Shall we be obliged, then, to select the hero by drawing straws?”

  “The idea of genius came to you—there’s only you who can comfortably see things through to the end!”

  “And the two nights of meditation and research—you don’t think that counts for anything? My intellect is fatigued, almost crushed to a pulp; I need a reparatory rest. I’ve furnished the flash of genius; someone else must carry out the material task. If you don’t want to draw straws, then, I propose an election; we’ll elect the victim. Put it to the vote!”

  Four or five pupils remained in front of Trubille—those whom he held by the arm. All the others had fled shamelessly and were running to the tennis courts or elsewhere, seeking a way to occupy their time more pleasantly than the monstrous imposition.

  Turbille looked behind him. When he turned back again, the remaining five had disappeared, having vanished into thin air as if by magic.

  “No one left!” he said. “But after having the idea, I’m not supplying the rest—that wouldn’t be fair!”

  Nothing remained of the class but the faithful Koufra, full of admiration for Gustave’s brilliant idea and for his friend’s mastery of the art of resourcefulness.

  “My dear Koufra,” Gustave declared, resolutely, “in the name of the whole of 3A, I requisition you—it’s you who must operate the machine! I’m counting on you! Your entire class is counting on you! You must show yourself worthy of that honor and politely bash out our 46 impositions!”

  “But I didn’t get one—an imposition,” stammered Koufra, who bitterly regretted having lingered in the study hall. “The Headmaster said so—you know very well…”

  “That’s true, you didn’t—there are only 45 impositions. But, that only makes your devotion finer—much greater! You’re sacrificing yourself for your comrades—that’s an admirable trait, as Monsieur Radoux will tell you, worthy of a Roman of the great era! Come on, my dear Koufra—to the imposition, and swiftly!”

  Koufra no longer tried to protest—Gustave was so persuasive! Come on, let’s get on with the sacrifice with a good grace! He darted a glance over the grounds, seething with a joyful animation, and sat down at his desk. “What do I have to do?” he asked his tyrannical friend.

  “Almost nothing: you’re going to hammer out the 15 pages of imposition on the machine; my motor is working very well; the other machines will follow suit. At the end of each page, you get up, make a tour of the 45 machines, and put in a fresh sheet of paper. When you reach the end, you stop; then we’ll all come, in a procession, to clasp you to our emotional hearts and cover you with flowers…do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” said Koufra, still with a certain bitterness.

  “Then get moving—and good luck, old man.”

  Resignedly, Koufra set to work. The tap tap of the machine was repeated on all the other benches.

  Gustave listened for two minutes, darted one last glance at the 45 machines, and then, reassured, went downstairs with a sensation of duty accomplished.

  A superb afternoon: an excellent Thursday. What delightful games on the sports field! Well-organized football, hotly-disputed tennis matches, boat-races on the Seine, etc. Pleasant reveries and sweet idleness almost everywhere.

  Every time that he went to his machines to change the sheets, Koufra gazed out over the grounds. Sometimes, he was able to recognize third-form comrades in the animated groups, and then he sighed as he sat down to resume tapping out the lines.

  All went well, however; the imposition drew to an end, as did the joyful games down below in the grounds. In sum, instead of five hours, as Gustave had said, it only took four and three-quarters: conscientious work, well-executed, thanks to the admirable regulated march of the motor and the determination of the self-sacrificing hero.

  Alfred Koufra was about to tap out the final period when Monsieur Radoux came in, attracted by the regular noise of the 45 machines in the silence of the study hall.

  “What!” he said, astonished. “It’s you alone making all that noise!”

  “Yes, Monsieur, I was doing my imposition.”

  “But you didn’t have to do it—the imposition. You’ve inflicted it upon yourself voluntarily, then? And what’s this? These wires? That box is a little electric motor…oh! Oh! Hang on! Oh! Oh! I get it—I’ve guessed, I understand. Very good, my friend, very good! Admirable! Are you the one who arranged all this?”

  Koufra hesitated, not wishing to adorn himself with peacock plumage, nor to betray anyone.

  “Good, good,” said Monsieur Radoux. “I see—I can guess. It’s the audacious Turbille, of course. A fellow with a future! Go tell him to come and speak to me; it’s necessary that he also search for something on my behalf—a machine of capital interest which is still lacking: a machine for correcting impositions!”

  XIV. The Villennes Revolt.

  A Terrible Duel with Lances.

  Since the Paris-Naples Tube accident there had been discontent at Villennes. The pupils had been unable to obtain satisfaction for the famous failed voyage, in spite of their protests.

  A few of the girls, angrier than the others, threatened to raise the flag of revolt, and, supported by the Free Student, maintained a certain agitation in the upper school—but the majority of the pupils were much more preoccupied with mixed competitions in tennis and hockey, for which they were training seriously. Some time before, Colette Turbille had told her brother that the victory of the champions of Villennes was certain, but Gustave did not show the least terror, declaring that the champions of Chambourcy were unbeatable.

 
When the day came, those champions of Chambourcy presented themselves in on the tennis court with attitudes of tranquil superiority that were rather irritating. They offered their adversaries a 30-point handicap, and almost shrugged their shoulders in response to the indignant refusal of Villennes. They threw themselves into it as soon as the first shots were exchanged, as if they were about to eat their opponents alive; they sniggered among themselves and permitted themselves to give advice to the champions of Villennes, as if to beginners.

  Villennes dug its heels in and played a tight game. The first round was hotly disputed. The honor of Villennes was at stake; if they had to go down to defeat, it would not be without a valiant defense.

  Then the insolent champions of Chambourcy, those braggarts of the tennis court, started playing like duffers. Games followed one another; Chambourcy was beaten, thrashed, crushed, shamefully routed.

  Both colleges were there, following the contest, but Villennes no longer dared applaud, while Chambourcy affected to beat the drums at every victory of the rival college.

  The hockey match that followed went the same way as the tennis. Chambourcy, insolent at first, was outrageously flattened in less than half an hour. Its 11 champions, however, struck poses of brutal superiority, brandishing their sticks like athletes deigning to condescend to pit themselves against little children, and, as soon as the contest had begun, they accumulated foul after foul, committed so clumsily that they were soon sent off by the referee.

  At a stroke, Villennes became annoyed. It was obvious. Chambourcy was deliberately losing, in order to humiliate the female college of Villennes. That could not be tolerated.

  “You did that deliberately! It’s an insult! Apologize immediately—we require an apology! And an honest game in compensation!”