Now, Rozal worked relentlessly to succeed, for all those dramas touched him. As he was a kind fellow, friendly, courageous and not arrogant, he was well-liked in the centers of aviation. When he needed to record his observations on air resistance to advancement, and the effect of the engine’s vibrations on the essential structures at full speed, he only had to ask any pilot whatsoever to take him up with him, and his desire was satisfied. Soon, moreover, for the convenience of his experiments, he had an apparatus constructed like the others, with which he accomplished a few feats—purely platonic, since he never submitted his attempts to official timers.
Several of his comrades having been killed or seriously wounded in crashes, however, he developed a sort of unhealthy obsession with his desire finally to clarify the mystery that was haunting him. Go faster, much faster! he never ceased to think. When I fly at 200, 300 kilometers an hour, it will no longer be possible to fall, whatever the atmospheric conditions might be, and I shall always be the master when my apparatus is stronger and faster than an unleashed tempest. The question of the generative organ of power always posed itself to him in terms of the ideal engine. He had sworn to have it at his service.
In the course of his innumerable flights, several observations had struck him. The rapid to-and-fro movement of the pistons in the cylinders produced inevitable shocks and repeated vibrations, which eventually wore out the joints and assemblages. These vibrations, transmitted to the steel wires, altered their resistance, and he was convinced that the majority of accidents had no other cause than a disintegration due to the affect of the active march of alternating engines.
The problem, therefore, was to find a rotating engine that got rid of all the shocks—and he thought, naturally, of the expansive force of water and steam: the turbine! But he had designed hundreds of turbines! What remained to be found was a gaseous mixture, without brutal explosion.
He was on the right track; he felt that he was close to his goal when hazard gave him that sensational surprise: a possible marriage with a pretty young woman, a millionaire thirty times over, at least.
Blériot had been the first to cross the Channel. Védrines had been the first to fly from Paris to Madrid, flying over the Pyrenees and Guadarrama. Garros had crossed the Mediterranean.18 He, Rozal, he anticipated, with the apparatus and engine he had invented, would cross, not some little strait or the great Latin sea, but the Atlantic, the formidable extent of dirty water on which Christopher Columbus had once been the first to risk himself in a caravel, going non-stop from Paris to New York.
A woman had unexpectedly entered his calculations.
V. A Friend’s Advice
The next day, Henri Rozal, having banked Nasenberg’s check and taken care of indispensable needs, savored the joy of abandoning himself to a fabulous dream. He knew nothing about the banker’s projects, and imagined, in good faith, that he was the sole candidate for the hand of Miss Nelly Mackay, the American heiress. If he had suspected that the Parisian Prussian had launched three men at the large dowry that seemed to him to constitute a possible ideal, and that he was merely a contestant in the race for the dollars, perhaps he would have been less confident. Like all those who are distracted from banal material life by an obsession with a great invention or superhuman labor, however, he had abandoned himself entirely to the first hope that a cunning man had allowed him to glimpse—which proved that, deep down, he was a big baby, in spite of his dream and his energy.
All morning, he had stayed with his workers, communicating a little of his joy and excitement to all his collaborators. Songs had resounded outside, around the hangars, and the machine-tools in the factory, impelled by their zealous operators, had seemed to accomplish their work more rapidly.
Not that Rozal loved money and was flattered instinctively by the idea of a sensational capture; nor was he any more joyful at the thought of perhaps marrying a pretty girl—adorable, Nasenberg had said, even without her millions. No, the engineer was too completely enslaved by this scientific dream to think about venality or love. He saw, in this project, a marvelous means of realizing his conceptions and attaining his goal—and if he thought, sometimes, about a future fortune, it was a matter of the one that his discovery would bring him, not his wife’s dowry, which was a means.
Already, though, having familiarized himself with this unexpected good fortune, he had ended up confused. He was planning great projects and designing fantastic and costly enterprises. Was that with his future wife’s money, or the money he was going to make? He no longer knew, exactly, and made no effort to clarify the matter.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, Rozal, pushing away his diagrams, his compasses and his calculations, started smoking cigarettes. After so many bitter struggles and sterile years, he surely had the right, at the moment when a miraculous means of getting out of the rut had been offered to him the day before, to see his invention realized and take a brief rest.
He was sprawled in a large English armchair, launching clouds of smoke into the delicate framework of a model airplane suspended on a wire above his head, when someone knocked on his office door.
The person who entered, a moment later, was a tall brown-haired young man, very chic, every inch a sportsman.
“Well, well!” said Rozal. “Turner, old chap—how are you?”
“What about you?” asked the newcomer, shaking the engineer’s hand and looking at him.
Rozal smiled, and took a drag on his cigarette. “Very well. I’m content with life.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, the two men stood face to face, Turner with a slightly confused expression and Rozal very amused by his friend’s surprise. They were fast friends, united by a sincere affection, and Turner knew about the engineer’s difficulties.
“Come on, old chap—give me an explanation. I find you radiant, but yesterday, when you dropped me in the Place de l’Opéra on the way back from the aerodrome, you were in despair. What’s happened?”
“I’m getting married.”
“You don’t say! This came to you suddenly, yesterday afternoon, between four and five o’clock?”
“As you say—or, rather, it wasn’t me that the idea came to but Nasenberg. He’s offering me an American heiress with thirty million. What can one do?”
“Send him packing.”
“Eh? You’re crazy.”
“No, Personally, I’m very reasonable, and it’s you that’s being silly.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, because I like you, my dear Henri, and it pains me to think of the oblivion toward which you’re steering.”
“No, no—no fancy talk! Sit down here beside me and tell me what you mean. I’m listening.”
Turner considered the engineer momentarily. Instead of acceding to his desire, he paced back and forth in the office briefly, and then planted himself in front of Rozal. “Naturally, you don’t know this person?”
“No, but Nasenberg affirms that she’s extraordinarily pretty.”
“Then it’s even more serious than I thought. Well, my poor Henri, it’s absolutely necessary that I get you out of this!”
“But I’m at the end of everything: my resources, my credit, my courage. There’s only one prospect ahead of me: collapse. I’m on a road at the end of which there are two solutions—no escape routes, no means of turning back. Either I marry, and have in my hand the powerful weapon with which I shall accomplish marvels, or I remain independent, and I have nothing else to do than climb into the clouds tomorrow and then let myself fall, voluntarily, in a well-planned crash.”
Turner took Rozal’s hands. He seemed emotional. “Certainly, my dear Henri, if there’s no other way to save yourself, you ought to accept—but I’d prefer you to achieve your goal without using this means, and without going through Nasenberg.”
Rozal smiled. “I’d much prefer that too. Unfortunately, I have no choice. Nasenberg has me.”
Turner reflected for some tim
e, pacing back and forth, his mind preoccupied, while the engineer, sunk in his large leather armchair, continued to launch spirals of blue smoke toward the little airplane suspended above him.
Georges Turner was the same age as Rozal. They had been friends at school and had then lost contact. Georges was the son of a rich Charentais distiller, a millionaire several times over, all of whose hopes he had betrayed by refusing to occupy himself, after finishing his studies, with the business he had created. Turner senior, English by birth, had married the daughter of a vineyard owner who was already rich. In a few years, he had revolutionized the region by means of applying bold personal methods to the manufacture of eau-de-vie. Rapidly, he obtained control of the production of an entire department, expanded into aperitifs, created brands launched by clever and powerful publicity, and eventually made millions, while young Georges was growing up.
The latter, intelligent, but with an artistic turn of mind and tastes, had shown, on reaching his majority, a profound horror for commerce and the fabrication of spirits, but a very keen appetite for the milieux in which they are consumed. He liked the high life, bars, racecourses, fashionable women, the wings of small theaters, and, as he was rich, thanks to what his mother—who had died while he was completing is studies—had left him, he became a well-known figure in leisured society. His father’s despair had quickly turned to anger; the disappointed but implacable distiller had placed his son’s inheritance under legal control.
Georges had not experienced any grief in consequence of that. He was, by that time, already weary of that existence and, as he was very intelligent and, contrary to appearances, highly cultivated—a philosopher in embryo, like the majority of true socialites—having had his fill of pleasures he had devoted himself, on a whim and for love of the new, to aviation. It was on an aerodrome that he had rediscovered Rozal, his old school friend. The two men had sworn a friendship proof against anything, and Rozal had often followed his interesting advice, usually imparted in bars—for what was piquant about their comradeship was that the one who seemed the more scatterbrained was, deep down, the wiser. This resulted from the fact that one lived triple hours among the puppets of society, while the other only kept company with his chimera.
Georges Turner stopped pacing. “How much do you need to realize your idea, at the point that the work has reached?”
“I don’t know exactly… perhaps 20,000… 30,000… 100,000...”
“I’ll leave this evening; I go ask my father for them. After all, I’m rich, very rich…it’s unthinkable that I shouldn’t help you.”
“Yes, you’re very kind, my dear Georges—but don’t go. Your father will throw you out, and besides, you can’t do anything without your legal guardian.”
“But I’ll demand… I’ll be able...”
“Calm down. Usually so wise, how can you delude yourself about this? In the eyes of well-balanced individuals—the eyes of men who, like your father, have made millions by poisoning their fellows… yes, I know I’m not upsetting you—we’re both crazy, if not dangerous. Then again, Georges, would you care to tell me why the Devil you don’t want me to get married?”
Turner started. “Why, because I have faith in your genius! Because I know—and perhaps I’m the only one who does—that you’ll discover the marvelous means of giving humankind the mastery of the air!”
“So?”
“So, if you marry a young multi-millionairess, pretty into the bargain, it’ll be goodbye science, airplanes, the rotatory motor, the famous turbine! You’ve only ever had money for your inventions, but if you also had it for yourself, and you realized it…oh, my poor friend, my poor friend!”
Henri Rozal sat up straight. “Renounce my ideal? Me?”
Gravely, Georges Turner pronounced: “I would have been less afraid with a woman more discreetly rich and…duller, older—some sort of petty bourgeois or someone slightly provincial. But a very pretty American with a heap of millions! Look, you’re reminding me of the suicide to which you made allusion a little while ago: you’ll fall head-first into a feather-bed, which is another thing altogether, get bogged down there and never get out. Oh, I know, myself, what a poison money is! If you get a taste for it, especially if love is mixed up in it, you’ll be ruined.”
“Come on, Georges!”
“Ruined, I tell you. You’ll be a chic, gorgeous gentleman, and you won’t dare go on up in airplane anymore, because you’ll be scared of breaking your back and checking out before having eaten your fill. That’s the way it is!”
Having looked at his friend, Turner understood that arguments were futile; Rozal’s faith was sincere. “In that case,” he sighed, “if you’re determined to resist the attraction of the millions—and, perhaps, that of love—I’ve nothing more to say, and I’ll go.”
As Georges Turner headed for the door, Rozal stopped him.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Paris. I’m going to a place that you wouldn’t like much. I promised to be at an afternoon gathering that Edmund Russell, an American painter, is hosting at his house in the Boulevard de Clichy, before five o’clock. It’s said that it will be sensational.”
“Take me with you, then!”
Turner considered Rozal with amazement. “Mundane celebrations interest you now?”
“Why not?”
The socialite let his arm fall in a discouraged gesture. “Let’s go,” he said, in a resigned tone. “It’s beginning. So be it—but you’re causing me pain.”
VI. When the Turbine Spins
Soon, the two friends were rolling toward Paris in an automobile, and Rozal was explaining to Turner, who was slightly reassured, the plan of the gigantic factory that he intended to construct, and the new problem that he hope to solve.
Oh, when he had a means of making money, and even more money, for noble research, realizations would be seen that would astonish the world! While Rozal enthused, a singular flame shone in his eyes, and Turner listened admiringly to his friend’s speech.
When they arrived at the Bergères crossroads, an airplane passed overhead in the sky. It had the wind against it, and seemed to be having difficulty making headway. Turner noticed Rozal shiver.
The engineer, his voice tremulous with all the desire and ardent determination that was within him, murmured: “Oh, when the turbine spins, human birds will be meteors cutting through the wind! You’ll see, Georges, you’ll see...”
And, slightly on edge, Rozal—who was driving the car—stepped hard on the accelerator. The steel machine leapt forward along the dusty road.
VII. Two Large Dark Eyes
Turner and Rozal came to a stop in the Boulevard de Clichy, in front of a private house whose external appearance was rather severe. Only its stained-glass windows, adding a note of liveliness with their colors, cheered up the rather morose façade. In front of the house, automobiles were lined up along the sidewalk, attesting to the importance and fashionability of the occasion.
As soon as one went in, the impression changed. The vestibule, ornamented with sculptures, bronzes and rare plants, already gave a hint of the American painter’s wealth. A broad staircase, with antique banisters in sculpted oak, led to the upper floor where the studio was located. On each landing, in a rigid and very dignified immobility, stood a valet in a blue coat and white trousers.
At the top, the two friends were received by two Hindu serving-girls, who took their coats and hats; then they went into the large square room where the master of the house was.
He was magnificent. A golden cloak, the famous gift of a maharajah, enveloped him, making him look like some kind of god strolling through a temple in the midst of his worshippers. Around him, in a mysterious half-light akin to that of a church or chapel, an elegant crowd was huddled in delight.
Edmund Russell was tall, broad-shouldered and clean-shaven, with the face of a Caesar, but gentle, illuminated by blue eyes. His manner was calm, almost timid, and he spoke in a slow, attenuated voice. His silhouett
e stood out in gold like an icon against the patina of an old item of furniture in perforated oak, encrusted with opals; immediately, Henri Rozal admired his artistic sensibility and attitude.
Georges Turner introduced his companion. “Henri Rozal, an aviator like me; but he’s an inventor whose genius will astonish the world—especially America, my dear Russell—with a discovery that will allow travel from Paris to New York in a day...”
At that surprising declaration, made in a loud voice, an entire swarm of pretty women closed in around the two men. Aviation was fashionable, the kings of the air also reigned over humans, and the man that Turner introduced with such assurance was bound to obtain, in that elegant and snobbish society, a very real success. Edmund Russell was the first to express his satisfaction.
“Be welcome, Monsieur. Everything out of the ordinary finds an enthusiastic reception here. I’m very flattered, and I’m certain, too, of the pleasure my guests are experiencing.”
Evidently, he was happy. He shook Turner’s hand forcefully, the latter having had the kind thought of bringing such a curious man, and lost himself in the crowd, where he hawked the news around.
“You’re exaggerating, old man!” Rozal chided his friend. “You’re announcing me too soon as the hero of Paris-New York. Wait until I’ve found the engine.”
“You’ll find it—unless you abandon your research.”
“Oh, you’re going back to that? Let’s leave it, if you don’t mind, and let me observe the bizarre environment into which you’ve brought me.
It was, indeed, bizarre. Having crossed the threshold of an immense doorway with two battens, Turner and Rozal found themselves in a hall of imposing dimensions, one entire side of which was formed by a window, which let in natural daylight when the painter was working. Today, however, a large green cloth had been let down, extended over the panes, and the room was illuminated solely by a Florentine chandelier, adapted for electricity, on which red and mauve bulbs flourished like strange fiery flowers.
The Human Arrow Page 6