Chalet in the Sky

by Albert Robida

  “Not enjoyable,” said Moderan.

  “Yes, yes!” said Andoche.

  “My dear Andoche, don’t pull that face again—we’re going to offer ourselves good weather and places to see, without difficulty and without fatigue, as comfortably as possible. Come on, one last tour of the house where we’re going to live for seven or eight years—perhaps ten, for it’s always necessary to expect delays in huge, enormous enterprises like that of the reconstruction of our dusty old planet, disfigured in an abominable fashion by preceding generations: careless people, tenants, simple occupiers like us, but who have used and abused the place instead of living like the parents of families, as was their duty, and have left us a heritage in an awful state!”

  “We’re made a complete tour of the house, Uncle,” said Andoche. “Everything’s perfect. It’s genteel, elegant, the furniture well-made, the beds and armchairs comfortable.”

  “It’s a little expensive—out of our price range, under normal circumstances, but I’ve told the constructor that your father recommended me. Needless to say, he’s furnished us with the latest model aerochalet, state-of-the-art, carefully finished, with a proven intra-atomic-energy motor, carefully checked in running, able to go anywhere, with no fear of squalls or tempests. In sum, an all-purpose aerial caravan, for air, sea and land! In case of a mid-Ocean breakdown—improbable, but it’s necessary to be prepared for any accident—we can sail, and get ourselves out of trouble by our own means…”

  “Of course!” said Andoche, smiling with pleasure.

  “And if I’m content and satisfied, I’ll have given my constructor a further payment in five years and an additional premium in ten—and I ask nothing more than to pay him that additional premium. For the moment, I declare myself quite content with our chalet, a floating villa that will carry us far away from that colossal Reconstruction Works, flying from country to country in search, not of a single pleasant place to live, but ten or 20 in succession! When we’ve studied the local people and horizons sufficiently, and want a change, we’ll change them!”

  “Bravo!” cried Andoche. “I like variety!”

  “Me too,” said Andoche.

  “And me, just as much as you!” concluded Monsieur Cabrol. “So, you’ve seen everything. There’s your room, with its two beds in front of one large window, from which you won’t miss any of the landscape. My bedroom’s next door; I’ll have you close by; we’ll each work in our own rooms. Meals will be taken in a corner of my study, at the customary hours, in order not to change our routines at all. Instead of staying rooted to the spot in our earthbound domicile, my flying villa will carry us wherever we wish, as we wish, at top speed when it’s a matter of gaining ground, or very gently when the landscape is worth the trouble of being savored in every detail, without missing anything. That’s real tourism! And then, in nice places, descent to Earth and rest; we’ll moor the house with a good view for a few days or a few months, in some proud promontory, gentle hill or Alp-like peak, or even in an air-garden, close to some interesting city. Are you content?”

  “Content? Joyful! Let’s get going right away.”

  “Ah! First, we have to give a name to our flying villa, where we’ll be so comfortable. I propose…”

  “The Villa Beauséjour.”

  “No, the Beauséjour Family Aero-Boarding-House! Tomorrow, the opening of our family boarding-house, the house-warming and leaving party.”

  Monsieur Cabrol rubbed his hands together and his face took on a jovial expression; his eyes seemed to be laughing through his spectacles, the creases in his slightly-hollow cheeks quivering.

  He was a man of average height, but rather thin and very stiff. He was, as always, dressed in a long doublet—a sort of overcoat, as they used to say in olden times—with a broad belt, with a hood folded down over the shoulders and a broad upturned collar. That collar framed a long neck, a narrow, sharply-outlined face hollowed out beneath the cheekbones, and spectacles set over other hollows sheltered by black bushy eyebrows. A long moustache hung down in two lovely black curls. As for his hair, that was reduced to a single thick tuft at the rear of a majestic skull, which seemed to be full of thoughts, whose seething kept his wrinkles perpetually in motion.

  His nephew Andoche resembled him, perhaps, but rather vaguely, being more filled-out. He was young, and life, with all its exigencies, studies and formidable brain-work, had not yet sculpted his face and his rounded pink cheeks, nor traced the slightest wrinkle on his forehead. Let us note that he was behind other young folk of his generation in that respect. His lips laughed easily and, when they were not smiling, had an audacious expression that accentuated the gaze of his keen, alert eyes.

  Moderan was also good-looking, with pink cheeks, but he had a soft gaze, and gentler features. The resemblance between the two brothers was in the legs, nervously agitated in perpetual motion—the legs of young sportsmen, avid to run and jump.

  “Let’s go—tomorrow, we escape!” concluded Monsieur Cabrol, after a last circular glance around the aerochalet’s drawing-room.

  The two brothers leapt into action. Moderan took the floating stairway, while Andoche launched himself on to the airstrip hanging on to a wire.

  II. A Party. The Train lost for 800 Years.

  The great day has arrived: the house-warming and leaving party. A lovely little aircraft has just moored at the Saint-German-en-Laye airstrip, disgorging the owner of the Villa Beauséjour and his two nephews, and the latter’s parents: Madame des Ormettes, the member of parliament for the Seine, and Monsieur des Ormettes, the director of the famous Interplanetary Travel Agency, both well-known in political and scientific circles. Monsieur des Ormettes is a very round man, a ball surmounted by another, smaller ball. Madame des Ormettes is a trifle…slender, like her brother Monsieur Cabrol. Each of them has a stout portfolio laden with papers under one arm; both of them stride over the ground of the airstrip with the hasty gait of people in a hurry, their eyes vague and heads overburdened with preoccupations and projects.

  “Ah, let’s see—so that’s the aerovilla! Well, well, I recognize it—that’s definitely it. I’ve seen all the blueprints. I’ve just ordered six of them for clients. Hang on—just making a note so as not to forget… There! I’m all yours…”

  “Come in,” said Cabrol.

  While Madame des Ormettes was searching distractedly for the villa’s doorbell, Andoche and Moderan were already on the first-floor balcony, laughing uproariously.

  “Come up, come up—or we’ll raise the anchor and set off on our own, Mama, Papa! Come in, quickly.”

  Monsieur des Ormettes made another little note, and came up last.

  “The proprietor’s tour!” said Monsieur Cabrol. “Vestibule, service-room, store-rooms and drawing-room—it’s quite large, as you see. In font, here’s the steering-compartment… Andoche, please don’t touch the wheel or the directional switches, you’ll have us leaping up into the air and carrying off your parents at 200 kilometers an hour.”

  “Wretched boy!” cried Madame des Ormettes, getting up precipitately. “I’m chairing the Budget Committee of the joint Chambers at 5 p.m.!”

  “No silliness!” cried Monsieur des Ormettes. “I have business meetings his evening…”

  Andoche burst out laughing.

  “It would be as well to come with us, though, Mama,” said Moderan. “We have a shared room on the first floor.”

  “I’d love to, my boys, but what about the time? How shall I find the time?”

  “You’re lucky, my dear Cabrol, to be able to escape all the inconveniences of this turbulent period of reconstruction, but you’ll lose something by it. Think of all the archeological discoveries that might be made in the course of these immense labors, which will turn over and lay bare almost all of the surface of the globe. Discoveries of all sorts—geological, historic, artistic and others. Who can tell what we might learn. It’s already begun…”

  “Yes, yes, all that Gallo-roman or Batignolaise pottery.”<
br />
  “No, better than that. Yesterday, someone stumbled on something fascinating, at least for people of the 22nd century. An old mystery cleared up! This morning’s phonocinetelegazette gave us the news. I’d been woken up at 6 a.m. by the whistle advertizing a special edition. When I opened my eyes, the phono was already functioning. Didn’t you hear it?”

  “Yes, but I hit the stop button so that I could snooze for another half hour. What was it about?”

  “In brief, this: you must be vaguely aware that in the 22nd century, about 2123 or 2125, a Metro train on the second network, the last of the night, disappeared completely on the Châtelet-Longchamps line, between Saint-Cloud and Puteaux stations. The train was crowded with people leaving the Grand Opera de Longchamps, to which the Paris Opera had been removed about 25 years before, into the nicest part of the former Bois, facing the large airport established on Mont Valérien. The Bois de Boulogne was searched; the Seine was searched; all the branches of the Metro were searched, in vain. In spite of all the searches, no trace or vestige of the train was ever found, nor any of the passengers. An incomprehensible enigma! A fearful mystery! People still talk about it, like the Man in the Iron Mask or…”

  “Yes, yes…”

  “Are we’re holding this house-warming?” Madame des Ormettes put in, consulting her watch.

  “Here it is; sit down. While we eat, our friend can demystify this troubling enigma for us…”

  Everything was set out for the meal: flowers on the tablecloth, a few saucers and a few little bottles of pills. Monsieur Cabrol deposited a pill in a saucer in front of each guest. “Enjoy!” he said.

  “Well,” des Ormettes went on, “This is what happened. Yesterday… you know that they’re digging into the part of the catacombs that the Metro didn’t use. They’re clearing material, replacing supporting pillars; so, in the Vaugirard sector, the excavators suddenly came across the train that had gone astray 800 years ago. Amazement at first, but it really was the same one. They found newspapers of the period: May 2124. Once the first wagon came to light, the engineers pressed on with the work, and they were able to see the drill slide all the way to the end of the train—the carriages were all there.”

  “What about the passengers?” asked Moderan.

  “Them too!”

  “Damn!”

  “The inquest has begun—legally and, informally, in the newspapers. We’ll know the details later—crimes like that make a lot of noise, for it was a matter of an enormous crime! Today, we can affirm that the train, diverted from its track into the catacombs by the audacious malefactors at the intersection of a line under construction on the second level of the second network, plunged into the tunnels under Vaugirard. Then…”

  “Oh no—no sensational details,” said Madame des Ormettes.

  “No, I’ll cut it short. Their work done, the frightful bandits blew up a part of the vaults, covering the unfortunate train and the space behind with debris 150 meters long and 15 meters thick, plus a few houses that collapsed on top. The Metro track ran alongside that mass burial for centuries, and it required the world-wide resurfacing to provide the key to the mystery. Brrr!”

  Monsieur des Ormettes solemnly placed a little pink pill on a spoon and raised his hand.

  “I’ve seen the label on the bottle—it’s a synthetic extract of Clos-Vougeot. I raise my spoon to your health, Cabrol, and to the Villa Beauséjour, wishing you a pleasant and peaceful trip through tranquil skies! I wish you all the good luck in the word! Work hard, all of you! Come back, Andoche and Moderan, my dear boys, ready to claim your diplomas in all subjects, and you, Cabrol, with your 42 volumes finished.”

  “Oh no,” said Cabrol, laughing. “Not all of them—that’s too much. I’ll be content with my two great works, which are already well advanced.”

  “Which ones?”

  “You know very well!”

  “The ones that the scientific world has been awaiting so impatiently for…is it necessary to say it?” said Monsieur des Ormettes. “For 25 or 30 years?”

  “The work conceived in the first bloom of my literary life, deepened and caressed throughout my mature years. I’ve devoted myself to perfecting it and bringing it to a conclusion. Shh! Don’t reproach me for the excessive conscientiousness of my labors! First and foremost, there’s my History of the Lunatic Civilizations, according to the documents brought back by travelers and the works of the Selenites, and then, The Prehistoric Populations of our Globe and their political institutions…”

  “Very good!”

  “Yes, as one can’t always be flying around, I shall have enough to occupy myself! We’ll sometimes be disturbed, but I shan’t complain about that…friends to receive, visits to make…and then, too, won’t I have to supervise my nephews’ studies? We have the complete apparatus of the Cinephono University; it will function regularly, I assure you, and the boys will come back to you armed for life, equipped for whatever career they may choose…”

  “With you, we are tranquil, my dear Cabrol.”

  “Our program is concluded—let’s get back to our house-warming. Another pill of Chambertin…let’s be merry! But what has happened to my housekeeper, Melanie? She was here a moment ago, but I can no longer see or hear her. Melanie! Melanie!”

  “Delicious, this pill…”

  “Wait until Melanie brings us the gustatory capsules.”

  “But they’re there, in front of you. Melanie has got everything ready.”

  “Oh yes—I can see the little box of capsules.”

  Indeed, a bottle and an oval box ten centimeters broad were standing in the middle of the table on a silver tray framed by flowers. Monsieur des Ormettes picked up the bottle, read: Sauterne…Champagne, and exclaimed: “Well, well! You’ll make us overdo it!”

  “Bah! There’s no harm in tripping up once now and again. The Sauterne pill is to accompany that of the truffled pheasant, and then there’s the capsule of synthetic glazed fruits for dessert, with the champagne pill—and that’s all.”

  “What a feast!” said Madame des Ormettes. “I won’t have any of the truffled pheasant myself; I’ll be content with a champagne pill.”

  “Only one? No more? So you don’t think it’s very good, my champagne?”

  “On the contrary—it’s marvelous, a liquid flame. That pill has gone to my head; don’t forget that I have my Finance Committee this evening; I’ll be getting confused amid the numbers…”

  “Dear old Cabrol has a well-established reputation as a gourmet; he’s very partial to his gustatory pills. Truly, his house-warming is a success. What a feast! One might believe that we had returned to the times of our worthy ancestors!”

  “Our gross ancestors, you might say,” said Madame des Ormettes. “Can you believe it? For so many centuries they ate actual food—what horror! They swallowed food of every sort. Fattened, plump animals, game of every variety and vegetables of every species, which they forced down with liberal does of wine or liqueurs. They stuffed themselves with cakes and various pastries—I found a list of them in an old history: rum babas, coffee cakes, tartlets…ugh! And what an incredible waste of time! Two hours at table! After that, can we be astonished by their intellectual barbarity, the weakness of their sciences…”

  “Our poor ancestors!” moaned Monsieur Cabrol.

  “We, at least, have feasts lasting a minute and a half at most; we have alimentary syntheses free of all harmful ferment; we have essences concentrated in pills, which gently caress the taste-buds without dulling our intellect. What does our organism require to prosper? Nothing more—and we can therefore devote all our time to work, and our projects. Think about it! Imagine what fabulous delays the old modes of alimentation must have inflicted on Progress and Civilization!”

  “It’s very sad, I agree,” Monsieur Cabrol went on, “but in the end, it’s necessary to nourish oneself, and if possible, I want to bring you back two sturdy and healthy young fellows—replete, even. Would you like to see the larder? Come on, i
t’s downstairs, in the cool—the big cupboard with double doors. Let’s see, there’ll be four of us, counting the pilot. But where is my housekeeper? Has she gone back to the house? I still have a host of instructions to give her.”

  “She has your instructions, and she knows perfectly well what she has to do,” said Madame des Ormettes.”

  “Oh, I’ll give her a good talking to by telephone…I know full well, of course, that she’s furious that I’m not taking her along…but it’s necessary for her to remain in the house, to look after it and keep watch on my collections.”

  “You can give her the final instructions by wireless.”

  “Yes, yes, Melanie be damned!” muttered Monsieur Cabrol. “We were saying, then, that I’m taking ten years’ supply of food for four people. At two meals a day, that makes 730 meals per person per year, which is to say, 7300 meals over ten years. Multiplying by four, I’ll need…30,000 pills. I’m taking 40,000—that leaves a small margin for a few occasional guests.”

  “That’s prudent,” said Monsieur des Ormettes.

  “You approve? I’m delighted by that—you have experience of traveling. Thus, a ton of pills, that’s the solid nourishment. What about the liquid provisions? Pills of concentrated liquid: 500 kilos of assorted droplets. Naturally, the whole gamut of wines, hydromels, beers, etc. In addition—it’s necessary to anticipate everything—a box of pharmaceutical pills for every possible ailment, along with the handbook of the Académie de Médecine.”