Chalet in the Sky

by Albert Robida

  Monsieur Cabrol and his nephews are able to devote themselves to pleasant cynegetic distractions. Monsieur Cabrol has always loved hunting—he is the author of a well-researched book, a History of Hunting and Hunters Through the Ages—but he has never hunted, for lack of opportunity. Now is definitely the moment to surrender himself to his passion for the ancient and savage sport.

  He has brought his book along, by virtue of sage foresight, and he has just re-read it, in order to get the subject back into his head, with the different fashions of hunting from antiquity to our own day: hunting, shooting, hunting with a spear, a javelin, a bow, a rifle, beaters, ambushes, etc, etc.

  Every day, after lunch, Monsieur Cabrol and his nephews set off into the forest, Monsieur Cabrol carrying a bow, with a leather sheath full of arrows in his belt, Andoche armed with a flintlock rifle and Moderan brandishing a crossbow and paralyzing darts. They have taken lessons in how to use them and march in single file. Phanor marches at the head, searching the bushes, and Melanie forms the rearguard, equipped with a lance in case of need and carrying a gourd of fresh water and a game-bag slung over her shoulder.

  XX. The Last Savages

  In spite of their preparations and good intentions, the initial results were not very brilliant. They did not come back empty-handed, though; Phanor always brought back at least a few young rabbits that he had caught on the run, or even an unfortunate lizard slain after a 45 minute pause in front of a bush, with Monsieur Cabrol holding his bow ready to fire, Moderan down on one knee, crossbow shouldered, and Andoche further away, arming his flintlock.

  Monsieur Cabrol also collected a few curious plants, in order to compare them to the ones he had collected on Astra. Melanie brought back armfuls of flowers to renew the bouquets in the Villa.

  After a few weeks of cynegetic excitement, Monsieur Cabrol judged the apprenticeship sufficient; they found themselves drawn toward a more difficult, and probably game-rich, terrain in the heart of the mountains. The Villa Beauséjour took off for a few preparatory excursions to the right and the left. While flying over the long mountain chain and the shorter chains branching from it, a veritable labyrinth of profound mysterious valleys and wooded ravines where torrents tumbled from rock to rock and cascade to cascade, Monsieur Cabrol formed designs upon a narrow plateau, well-exposed and, especially, well-framed by forests and gorges, where all the picturesque attractions seemed to have been brought together for the satisfaction of the most demanding tourists.

  They found a marvelous place to moor the Villa on a projection of the plateau, which overlooked a vast horizon, permitting glimpses of some sort of distant ruin on a reddish spur above the summits of tall trees agitated by the wind, where regular openings could be discerned among lianas and brushwood—doubtless a temple or ruined palace of the ancient Araucans.

  “Very good—one more objective for an excursion!” said Monsieur Cabrol. “There’s a good chance that we shall be the discoverers of those ruins, which the guide-books have forgotten to mention.”

  Lower down, before leaving the first landing-place, Monsieur Cabrol had the opportunity to chat with the people of the nearby hacienda and others who had come to watch the Villa’s departure. These worthy folk, agriculturalists or livestock herders in the lonely pampas, regretted seeing them leave; they all advised them to be prudent in their excursions.

  The mountain, on that side, had a bad reputation; there was talk, they said, of Araucanian or Patagonian tribes beyond the reach of civilization, living in the manner of their ferocious ancestors in the heart of the Sierras, in the depths of impenetrable forests.

  Monsieur Cabrol burst out laughing. “Savages! It’s more than 800 years since the last savage disappeared! Dangerous savages? But the police aircraft that watch over the vast pampas and patrol the plains and mountains, would have spotted them a long time ago!”

  The residents of the Villa Beauséjour can sleep without anxiety, go out on excursions or hunt as they pleased without worrying about such tales. The last Patagonians! Legends, idle chatter! All peaceful cultivators of the fields, or artisans in the towns—a few were known who were municipal councilors, lawyers or pharmacists…

  A delightful week of complete solitude and perfect calm in the mountains.

  The nights are marvelous. In the evening, when one sits dreamily on the balcony, watching the Moon rise majestically over the blue forest, one hears no sound—nothing but the chirping of birds in the nearby bushes, or the occasional slither of an animal in the tall ferns. The contours of the mountain dissolve into the sky; all nature is falling asleep.

  After a few days of rest, and also of work, study-sessions at the Cine-Phono University, put in order of penciled notes, the walks and hunts are resumed.

  It is very beautiful, but a little hard at first. The terrain is very uneven, nothing but enormous holes and steep escarpments, rocks to climb over or go around, ravines, torrents, streams and bluffs to cross.

  One day, when they are wandering under the obscure vault of tall trees, piercing the thick curtains of branches and lianas with great difficulty, Monsieur Cabrol and his nephews, panting and breathless, fall into a clearing near a trickle of water, where they hope to refresh themselves somewhat and get their breath back. Until now they have not yet met anyone in the largely-unexplored forest, but suddenly, through the foliage of the nearby undergrowth, the sound of human voices reaches their ears.

  A dozen men are lying on the ground, resting around a fire, and those men are Indians, wearing the traditional costume of savages, as in old books. They are armed, some having rifles within arm’s reach, others hatchets or long knives in their belts.

  “What have we stumbled upon?” says Monsieur Cabrol, holding Andoche back under the cover of the foliage.

  One of the savages stirs up the fire, in front of which some sort of antelope is roasting; another cuts bloody slices from the roast and throws them to his comrades. Why are they doing it? Incredible! These men appear to be nourishing themselves in the ancient mode: they are eating the antelope!

  Anxious, Monsieur Cabrol looks at his nephews in alarm and gives them an imperious signed instruction not to show themselves. Flat on the ground, faces in the grass, they hold council. This band of savages with wicked and ferocious faces, and that sanguinary appetite, suggest nothing good to Monsieur Cabrol.

  “We have to try to keep low and crawl, and then, at a certain distance from the enemy, we’ll start to run. Come on, then, retreat, slowly!”

  Alas, however, a rustle in the branches has given them away; the savages have keen ears and rapid eyes. They have stood up and have perceived he legs in the long grass. Two or three of them give chase.

  The fugitives stand up, anxiously; it will be necessary to defend themselves. The savages stop, as fearful as they are. They say a few raucous sentences in an unknown language. Monsieur Cabrol speaks too; no one understands, but there is still the resource of sign language. One savage extends a hand; another offers the slice of red meat out of which he took a bite a little while before, and beckons to the palefaces to come and join the feast by the bivouac fire.

  It is necessary to accept in order not to risk offending the savages, so here are Monsieur Cabrol, Andoche and Moderan, after handshakes and other marks of politeness, sitting in the grass with these disquieting friends. The savages show their teeth, but without evil intent—on the contrary, with benevolence, and welcoming laughter.

  Monsieur Cabrol smiles for the sake of politeness; Andoche and Moderan laugh, but they stay on their guard, grouped together, with their weapons within reach.

  As the savages insistently offer large slices of their game, it is necessary to decide to try one of them. In fact, it is not as bad as one might think at first sight, that well-cooked roast, but it seems tough to teeth that are not used to it. The savages laugh once more at Monsieur Cabrol’s efforts; his golden teeth are aching.

  The ice is broken. Monsieur Cabrol, in his turn, takes his little box of pills from his pocket
and offers it round. The savages have undoubtedly had some contact with civilized life, for they recognize the pills, but they do not look as if they like them very much. Some swallow them unenthusiastically, other flatly refuse them. But the refreshing pills—Saumur and Old Claret—are better appreciated. No more grimaces. Monsieur Cabrol makes a second, and then a third distribution. Everything is definitely going well; the savages are friendly.

  Andoche has his camera slung over his shoulder. He would dearly like to take a photograph of the picnic lunch with the intimidating Redskins—the last representatives of races that have disappeared or fused with the universal and banal mass of civilized people. A nice photo would be an interesting souvenir to bring back. He aims the camera, attempting to operate it surreptitiously, but the savage Andoche thinks of as “the old chief”—one of the most picturesque of the band, a fellow with grey, shoulder-length hair, a thin face with a few tattoos, dressed in a worn poncho with holes and loose threads—signals to him that he is unconcerned and immediately strikes a pose.

  So the savages are familiar with photography. Strange! One of them, doubtless in order to improve his looks, takes a pair of spectacles from his pocket. No matter; Andoche will try to mask the spectacles, and the photo will be fine.

  Now there is mutual trust. The savages solicit a further distribution of refreshing pills. Monsieur Cabrol calculates. Three of four pills, each one equivalent to half a bottle of fine Bordeaux, might go to the head—but they insist, and it is necessary to comply. Two savages, one old and one young, are prompted to get up to begin a dance accompanied by jumps and slightly unsteady somersaults. Fortunately, it is not a matter of going on the warpath; it is a joyful entertainment, for the dancers are humming or whistling the tune of a jig.

  The eyes of all the savage braves are fixed on the pocket in which Monsieur Cabrol has put the box of flavorsome pills. A few lie down in the grass to sleep; others roll their moist eyes, making protestations of friendship in gestures, giving handshakes, punches on the shoulder or even approaching their faces as if to rub noses with their guests—which, as everyone knows, was once the ultimate demonstration of politeness and firm friendship in the old tribes of the pampas, as with all the savages in the world.

  Monsieur Cabrol thinks that it is time to leave the party and return to the Villa. Melanie must be astonished by their lateness; it is necessary not to worry her. He gets up, along with the two youngsters, and the polite gestures are resumed. Suddenly the sound of barking in the woods causes the savages to prick up their ears.

  “That sounds like Phanor’s voice,” says Moderan.

  “Here, Phanor! Here, Phanor!”

  Bounding through the undergrowth, Phanor arrives, and joyously giving voice, he precipitates himself into the arms of his masters, leaping from one to another. Then, coming into the clearing through the same gap as Phanor, Melanie appears herself, leaning on her umbrella.

  At the sight of the bivouac and the band of savages, she stops, and seems to be making ready for a fight, but Monsieur Cabrol’s voice reassures her.

  “Don’t worry, Melanie, come and take a closer look at them. They won’t eat you—they’re good people. But why have you come so far from the Villa?”

  “So far? But it’s quite close, Monsieur—scarcely five minutes away. I was taking a little walk to stretch my legs…”

  “Five minutes? We’ve been walking for three hours.”

  “It’s close by, on the other side of the wood. You’ve doubtless circled round and come back toward us.”

  “All right—we’ll come back in.”

  “But who are these people, Monsieur? They’re not cannibals, at least?”

  “No, don’t worry—you can come closer.”

  Seeing that their guests are about to leave, the savages also stood up, and the polite gestures are repeated. Monsieur Cabrol goes back into the wood, guided by Melanie and Phanor. The old chief follows, with Andoche and Moderan.

  Indeed, in less than ten minutes they reach the Villa Beauséjour. The old chief utters admiring exclamations at the extraordinary dwelling sitting on the ground and attached to large isolated pine-trees.

  “Come in, then,” says Monsieur Cabrol, pushing him toward the ladder.

  The old chief steeled himself in order to climb up into the drawing-room, where he was soon joined by three young men of the troop, who examined the furniture and unknown apparatus with immensely wide eyes.

  The old man said many things in a language in which the occasional Spanish word seemed to be recognizable. He accompanied his speech with gestures and pointed over the balcony at the edge of the forest. Monsieur Cabrol thought he understood that he was being invited to come and see, in his dwelling, a part of the ruins that were perceptible in the distance over the treetops. Taking a chance, he acquiesced, by means of gestures, and promised to visit.

  Just at that moment, the bell of the Tele rang, and Monsieur des Ormettes appeared on the screen, sitting in his study in Paris.

  The old chief nearly fell over backwards in shock. The other three Araucans bounded on to the balcony and leapt to the ground. The old chief wanted to do likewise, but Monsieur Cabrol held him back and succeeded in reassuring him. He established communication with Paris in order to introduce him to Monsieur des Ormettes. They chatted for a while, but, as the old chief still did not seem comfortable, Monsieur Cabrol let him go.

  “Good! Don’t worry, my old chief—there’s no devilry in this. Go rejoin your friends, and we’ll come to see you one of these days….”

  That day, Monsieur des Ormettes was not in too much of a hurry. Madame des Ormettes had just got up, and they were going to spend the evening together—the evening, that is, for the Villa Beauséjour, since the morning had scarcely begun in Europe.

  While it was still daylight, Monsieur Cabrol, as a simple precaution against unwanted visits, stabilized the Villa ten meters above the ground, solidly moored to robust branches of the large pine-trees. Then they all devoted themselves to family matters—to tales of Paris and impressions of the voyage.

  All was well. Monsieur Cabrol, who had feared that he might be more than 300 kilometers from the relay station necessary to maintain Tele communications, was reassured. That had happened several times already, notably in the Polynesian islands, and he had been subjected to the reproaches of the family for the anxiety he had inflicted on them. Moreover, by virtue of that deafness, the Villa Beauséjour had been deprived for a few days of the daily Tele-Gazette, which had annoyed him considerably.

  Monsieur des Ormettes talked about the global resurfacing projects in western Europe and told them that he would send a few films showing the progress of the works.

  “It’s not going very quickly,” he said, “because they want to take advantage of the upheaval to make a few improvements to the original plans, rearranging coastlines that are too uneven, squaring off certain regions, straightening mountains chains—and even creating a few new ones to establish more definite frontiers. In brief, everything indicates that the anticipated timetable will be far surpassed…”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Monsieur Cabrol.

  “And what about our boys’ studies?” asked Madame des Ormettes. “There’s no delay in the program? Interesting excursions and distractions are all very well, but are they working?”

  “What?” cried Andoche and Moderan, simultaneously. “I’ll say we’ve been working!”

  “You must put your backs into it,” said Monsieur des Ormettes. “I’m worried about Andoche’s baccalaureate—you’ll be taking your Tele exams soon, you know, Andoche…in exactly six months…”

  “As soon as that?” said Andoche, with an alarmed expression.

  “Well, you’ll pass them!” said Moderan.

  “Increase your efforts, then—I’m counting on you. Need I mention flying colors?”

  “We shall have them, Papa, we shall have them!”

  XXI. In the Heart of the Forest.

  A few days later, Monsi
eur Cabrol thought that it would be polite to go to see the worthy folk—Redskins, Araucans or Patagonians—whose acquaintance they had made in the forest.

  “It’s an easy walk,” said Monsieur Cabrol. “Three or four kilometers as the crow flies toward the village in the ruins, but it’s necessary to find a route through the woods. The weather’s good—we’ll set off after lunch.”

  At lunch, Monsieur Cabrol and his nephews looked out of the window from which the ruins could be seen, and took a heading. The ruins positioned were directly north-north-east. They established a few reference-points to the right and the left, and took note of detours that had to be made to avoid ravines and cut through a rocky promontory that lay across the route.

  “We shouldn’t take that long,” Monsieur Cabrol declared, “now that we’ve got a pretty good grasp of the topography.”

  It was not as easy as that, though. Monsieur Cabrol had to admit it: they had been marching through the woods in Indian file for a good three hours, battling their way through lianas in dense thickets, falling into holes, climbing over rocks and descending into ravines that they could not go round, and they had not yet seen any of the reference-points they had noted.

  “We definitely won’t arrive today,” said Monsieur Cabrol, discouraged. “It would be better to return to the Villa.”

  “I should say so,” said Andoche. “But which way is it?”

  “Behind us, obviously.”

  Andoche coughed. “Let’s try to retrace our steps…first re-cross the last ravine, then go around the big red rock, then….”

  “No,” said Moderan, “let’s head for that big old pine with the broken branches…”