It was becoming grotesque, but the trainer, in a cheerful frame of mind, was delighted, as if by the entrance of a clown at the circus.
“Hey, Charley!” he shouted to the lad who was in the saddle on Cauchemar II, “go line up with the gentleman in the red socks. Damn it, Monsieur, he looks as if his joints are rather stiff, your horse. I’ll be curious to see him at the gallop. Pay attention! I’m going to take out my handkerchief and raise my arm; when I lower it, you’re off. The finishing-line is way over there, at the big oak overhanging the edge of the track. It’s not exactly sixteen hundred meters, but these gentlemen are very accommodating...”
Griffith went to post himself a hundred meters in advance, and gave the agreed signal.
Cauchemar II, whose aptitude for acceleration was remarkable, immediately took a lead of five or six lengths. The unknown horse, whose rider had not budged—Griffith was absolutely sure of that; he had not taken his eyes off him; Fred’s arms and legs had remained motionless, not to say inert—then started moving, and, to the trainer’s great surprise, soon drew level with Cauchemar II.
Charley’s amusing himself, Griffith thought, giving the circumstance the only possible explanation.
However, as he went past him, Charley began to shake up his horse, of which the other was progressively pulling ahead.
That’s a bit much!
And Griffith immediately put his cob to the gallop, in order to keep track of the match for longer. But the match was over. Cauchemar II folded up, completely exhausted, against a superior mechanism, and his rider wisely gave up the contest.
As the little American came back at a walk, Griffith conceded, with a very ill grace: “Yes, your horse has a nice burst of speed...either that or mine is indisposed.”
Fred, out of breath after a ride to which he was evidently not habituated, stopped his mount and let himself slide to the ground, rather awkwardly.
But the huge Tod said tranquilly: “Would you like to race over three thousand meters now? I’ll ride our champion.”
“You! But you weigh...”
“I only weigh ninety-six kilos, Monsieur. That won’t inconvenience the horse.”
“That’s a bit stiff, though! Harry, come over here!”
The small apprentice who was riding Salsifis advanced to order. The bearded giant bestrode his thoroughbred, deploying much more strength but no more ease than his friend had shown; that exploit accomplished, he showed exactly the same elegance as a rider, with the exception that his long-johns were mauve.
This time, Griffith neglected the ceremony of the handkerchief and explained to the competitors that there were going to go around the circular path at the end of the track and then come back to the point of departure in order to complete the distance of three thousand meters.
The unknown horse, without Tod having budged any more than Fred had done, set off at exactly the same speed. Harry, in putting Salsifis into his stride, darted a smile at his employer that signified: That’s extravagant! He won’t go far at that speed!
That was Griffith’s opinion too. But the American had taken a lead of five lengths, and then ten; he was a good fifty meters ahead when they arrived at the circular path.
“Ah! I thought as much!” exclaimed the trainer, triumphantly, having taken out is binoculars to see it.
Tod’s horse had just stopped abruptly, and accomplished its turn at a walk, while Salsifis caught up with it.
“He’s exhausted, of course!”
However, when the turn was complete, the strange animal set off again, resumed a five length lead, and then ten, and was finally fifty meters ahead when they arrived in front of Griffith, who was representing the winning post himself, and, for an observer, the equestrian statue of Amazement.
“You understand,” explained the huge Tod, getting down, “that I’m not a jockey, and don’t even know how to mount a horse, so I didn’t want to break any bones, and went around the bend at a walk.”
Griffith, in whom amazement had given way to a state of extraordinary excitement, seized the American by the cravat and started shaking him unsparingly.
“Oh! But...but…you’re going to tell me what that horse is, and you’re going to tell me right now!”
Tod disengaged himself effortlessly, and asked Fred, smiling: “Should we tell him, Fred?”
Fred gestured indifferently; he seemed to be thinking about something else.
Meanwhile, Griffith’s gaze had fallen upon the mysterious horse. Again he was petrified, his mouth open. Not only was the beast’s coat not moist with sweat, but, inconceivably, it could not be seen to be panting—or even breathing.
Tod placed his hand on the trainer’s shoulder and said: “Look…look closely. You don’t see that every day. That horse, Monsieur Griffith, is a mechanical horse!”
III. The Origin of Peau-de-Balle.
The thing was so enormous, so unexpected, that Griffith did not understand at first.
“A mec...”
“Oh, I beg you, Monsieur, don’t shout it to the treetops. We’re counting on your discretion. First of all, send away your people and your animals...
“Good...
“I was, saying, then, that our horse is an automaton, a horse that we’ve fabricated completely...at least, Fred has fabricated it. Fred’s a first-rate engineer, who knows how to work; there’s already some talk about him in the United States. Take account, Monsieur—pass your hand over the face of our thoroughbred.”
Griffith obeyed mechanically and passed his hand over the nostrils. Instead of touching the quivering flesh of a living animal, he had the sensation of palpating leather. Not without repugnance, he placed a finger on one of the eyes. There was no possible error; it was made of glass.
“What a diabolical invention!” he murmured.
“Don’t worry,” Tod replied, laughing. “We’ll give you all the desirable tips. But take a look first.”
He lifted the mane, and showed Griffith three minuscule nickel-plated levers, scarcely projecting from the neck.
“These are the levers that control the three essential movements: walk, gallop, stop. The rider doesn’t need to know any more. The delicate pieces of the mechanism are inside, along with the accumulators furnishing the energy necessary to activate the articulated steel legs. Those organs are hidden, like the phantom of the body, under a very clever imitation skin. Caress that silky coat, and admire the padding that completes the framework and gives the illusion of a powerful musculature. It’s almost life, that! Certainly, one could desire a few improvements in certain matters of detail; for instance, it would be preferable to get rid of the little click, perceptible for a keen ear, that’s produced when it’s set in motion. It would be better, too, if the gait of the automaton at the walk were more supple, smoother, and didn’t present that displeasing stiffness, the jerky style that you noticed. In a few years’ time, when Fred has constructed another equine automaton, he’ll give it, in addition to the two speeds this one has, a trot and a canter, and he’ll endow it with a mechanism of respiration, and one of transpiration...”
Griffith, motionless and bewildered, seemed much less alive than the strange horse.
“Anyway, such as it is,” Tod said, “this one is adequate to create an illusion, even in the eyes of a connoisseur in equine matters. You’ve seen that for yourself, now? Good. We have a story to tell you, and above all, a deal to strike with you. We can’t do that here; this training-ground is beginning to be a little too populated for our taste. You must know a tranquil tavern in Chantilly where one can chat without being disturbed.”
Griffith acquiesced; he no longer had any will to resist. Tod gave orders to his negro, who started the equine automaton walking and led it away.
The trained watched the man and the beast draw away. A new suspicion occurred to him. “But what about him? He’s alive? He’s a natural person?”
“Who?”
“The negro. He’s not an automaton too, I assume?”
“No, no,” Tod replied, laughing. “He really is a natural negro, a good fellow. As a mechanism, he’s infinitely less complicated than our horse...”
A few minutes later, the trainer and his companions were at a table in a bar that bore the classic sign: The English Stables, and was deserted at this hour, the work of training being in full swing. They ordered a bottle of soda water from the astonished barman; the Americans were very sober and Griffith, as a matter of principle, only drank soda water when his ideas were in disorder.
As usual, Tod acted as spokesman while Fred, his eyes on the ceiling, followed his interior reverie.
“You’re wondering in what capacity I’m putting myself forward and discussing interests that ought not to be mine, since I haven’t invented anything, personally, and the mechanical horse belongs, in sum, to Fred, who created it lock, stock and barrel. It’s because Fred, you see, is a genius as an inventor, as a machine-maker, but in life, he’s an utter child, who needs leading by the hand, otherwise he’d be run over by a handcart or drowned in a puddle. Look at him now—he has the expression of an oyster. He’s thinking about something, seeking something extraordinary, which he’ll fabricate when we return to Chicago. If he talked, that would distract him, it would be time wasted, and Fred’s time is valuable. So, he needs me to talk for him. That’s why I became his manager, and that doesn’t date from yesterday.
“He was like this when we were in school. At the age of fifteen, he invented machines to compose Latin verses, machines to do all the things that are so bothersome for schoolboys. It was truly extraordinary; it was me who got the value out of his inventions; we got our little comrades to pay a penny a line. But once a machine has been invented, Fred isn’t interested in it any more, he goes in search of another on which to work, with the result that he’s always come off badly.”
Tod darted an indulgent pitying glance at his friend, and went on: “Later, Fred got himself talked about in the press, but without making a fortune. You know the artificial pig that played the hunting horn at the Cincinnati Exhibition? He invented that; at that time he was also making ducks that swam on the water, and was taking around a little greyhound on a leash so lifelike that all the dogs in the neighborhood followed her in a pack, paying their habitual polite attentions to the mechanical bitch. But all that was child’s play.
“He had, after that, ambitions that did him more than one bad turn, because they consisted of realizing poetic ideas. It’s necessary to be practical when one’s a mechanical engineer. It was then that he fabricated humans. Oh, don’t protest! Just now you thought my negro was artificial. Then again, a hundred years ago, a French inventor by the name of Vaucanson fabricated an automaton that played chess.57 Edgar Poe wrote a study in which he went to a great deal of trouble to explain it, without succeeding in doing so, I believe,
“So, Fred created humans. First he constructed a worldly young gentleman, who did what all worldly young gentlemen do: he bowed, waltzed, and said, thanks to a phonograph placed in his stomach, ‘You’re charming, Mademoiselle.’ Then he sang a ballad by Tagliafico. Can you imagine that a young miss from Boston fell madly in love with that doll and talked about killing herself over him? In truth, she could well have married him. He had, in sum, all the qualities of distinction and elegance that constitute those fellows, and just as much conversation; he only lacked the faults and vices with which they’re abundantly supplied.
“It was whimsy, in sum. Fred had taken a false path in fabricating, in a supplementary and superfluous fashion, a specimen of whom there are hundreds of thousands in the drawing rooms of the old and new worlds. When human genius gets mixed up in creating, it ought to do better than nature, not repeat, once again, a model whose examples she’s distributed in regrettable profusion. Then again, from the commercial point of view, who wants to make the acquisition of a young fop? It really was a waste of time and money.
“I had given my friend the idea, rapidly put into execution, of fabricating an orator for a political party that lacked a leader. At first, the success appeared dazzling. Our automaton made speeches with an admirable eloquence and confidence. Unfortunately, his phonograph was fitted with rolls once and for all; his opinions, like his harangues, remained immutable. While he was repeating himself, the ideas and votes of his political group evolved to the point of changing radically. You can understand that the orator became embarrassing. They had promised to pay us when their party was in power; the account is still unsettled.
“It costs a lot to fabricate those machines! So, we were soon reduced to our last banknotes, Fred and me. At that moment, I fell upon the true seam, I had a real inspiration. I said to Fred: ‘We’re going to fabricate a racehorse, an unbeatable crack. On that terrain, we’re sure of doing better than nature, aren’t we, the electric motor having an incontestable advantage over the oat-fueled motor? It will even be necessary to regulate its power, in such a manner that it doesn’t go too quickly and that it’s speed in plausible. Then, when it’s ready, we’ll sell it to an intelligent man who wants to make a fortune...’”
When Tod, having reached that point, paused in order to let him get a word in, Griffith remained silent, seemingly as absent mentally as little Fred. The latter was humming a little tune, nasal and irritating.
Tod continued: “I’m sure that you’re thinking about the papers. We’ve thought about that too. We knew that a thoroughbred has no market value unless it has papers, and can scarcely build a good racing career other than in its country of origin. Then I came here to Chantilly and I bought from Ely Pauwels—your neighbor, I believe—a colt then aged three: Peau-de-Balle, by Toenia out of Polaire VI. That thoroughbred, a reject from Baron Isaac’s stable, had never appeared on the track. He was useless from the viewpoint of racing, and Pauwels had a good laugh in sticking him, along with his entries, on a Yankee sucker for a hundred louis. But he’s been extremely useful to us. First of all, he served as a model to fabricate our automaton in his image and his resemblance before sending him to the abattoir—I ought to warn you, in fact, that the real Peau-de-Balle has been distributed, in assorted fragments, in various tins produced in a canning factory in Chicago. Secondly, and more importantly, we needed his papers, and we still have them.
“In consequence, our automaton is perfectly in accordance with the stud-book; his name is Peau-de-Balle and he has received in heritage from the deceased, as well as his name, his entries in all the major races to which four-year-olds are admitted this year; we’ve refrained, of course, from declaring any forfeit.
“It remained for us to resolve a delicate problem concerning the sale of the horse: where to find a buyer? It was necessary to tread carefully, fur unfruitful negotiations would have burned us definitively. We had a correspondent in England, but in England, the lovers of the equine race have a habit of looking very closely at thoroughbreds, and the trick would have been discovered.
“The best thing to do was to find a trainer in France who was…how shall I put it? I don’t want to offend you, Monsieur Griffith…in circumstances such that our proposition would appear to him to be not only an advantageous business deal but…a unique means of salvation. We thought of you.”
“You’re too kind,” said Griffith, with a pinched expression.
“We thought of you because you’re presently in a very difficult situation. Oh, we did our research before coming... I don’t want to talk about your lack of success on the turf, which doesn’t detract, in sum, from your professional reputation, but you’re a gambler, and you’ve gambled too much...and you owe a great deal of money to Sem Lévy, the bookmaker. Yesterday, you asked him for more time to settle your losses. I can only see one means for you to get out of trouble...
“Peau-de-Balle is the only possible savior. In one season, Peau-de-Balle can make you a fortune. Not only will you pocket ten per cent of the prizes he wins—and he’ll win all the prizes you wish—but you’ll be able to bet on him as a sure thing. You’ll even get a good price for his first win. With
Peau-de-Balle, you need have no fear of ailments, loss of form, meteorological circumstances, or anything else. He’ll always be there, in all weathers, on any ground, at any distance...”
Griffith was evidently seduced, and even conquered. Independently of the fact that his situation, even more difficult than the Yankee supposed, could become desperate if he did not find a means to lay his hands on a large sum of money before the end of the month, the possession of a miraculous crack tempted his ever-alert ambition. His self-esteem, rudely afflicted following the recent defeats of his horses, blossomed at the idea of the revenges that he might obtain against his neighbors in Chantilly and his rivals at Maisons-Lafitte, so proud of the present good form of their stables.
And then, in addition to any idea of lucre, the idea of a colossal hoax tempted his adventurous Anglo-Saxon spirit. English fantasists—and there are more of them than is generally believed—are great lovers of enormous straight-faced practical jokes that bear upon the most serious matters; that fact can readily be observed in colonial, diplomatic and political affairs.
The project of taking the entire racing world for a ride, including Comte Jérôme Thomas and Madame Tafoireau, for whom he trained, delighted him.
“How much do you want to sell your horse for?” he asked.
“He cost us thirty thousand dollars to manufacture. He’s a unique specimen. We won’t let him go or less than a million francs.”
“A million! Where the devil do think I can get that?”
“Don’t ask ridiculous questions, I beg you. Recognize, first, that the price isn’t too high, with regard to the races that the automaton can win; in six months, you’ll have got the money back. And then, it’s not you who’ll be laying out the funds. We chose you because you train for an owner who throws money out of the windows. Come on, between ourselves, what do you think of Madame Tafoireau?”
The Mirror of Present Events Page 12