In 1965

by Albert Robida

  “Well, Jean-Marie,” said Monsieur Montgrabel, “have you alerted the Espadon?”

  “Yes Monsieur; it’s expecting you at the mooring in the harbor.”

  Jean-Marie arrived, swinging a large skate in his right hand and an enormous turbot in the left.

  Monsieur Montgrabel and Charles were soon ready; they leapt on to the sand and, following in Jean-Marie’s footsteps, headed overland toward the white bell-tower of Roscoff, shining amid the verdure in the distance.

  In the little harbor, in front of Mary Stuart’s house and the ruined chapel, Monsieur Montgrabel recognized the Espadon. It was a vessel of a very particular form, reminiscent of a large whale, carrying a bulbous tower on its back—a whale with two heads of course, one at the front and one at the back, and visible on each head, at the end of a muzzle elongated beneath the waves, were two enormous eyes, wide open, as if on the lookout. The turret also had two eyes looking at the coast. That made sox portholes—or, rather, six large round windows of reinforced crystal, which remained open upon the glaucous depths during dives, while the submarine wandered through the aquatic prairies.

  With so many eyes, the Espadon had not failed to perceive the newcomers. Captain Guénard immediately appeared on deck, and sent a metal dinghy to fetch his passengers.

  Captain Guénard was a man of about forty, tall and thin. A passionate ichthyologist, he took advantage of his submarine cruises in the waters of Brittany or the Norwegian fjords, the Mediterranean depths or the Archipelago, through the rocks of the Cyclades, to amass observations and interesting notes on the fauna or flora of the median depths unknown to travelers or excursionists on the surface.

  “It’s the first time you’ve visited the underside of the waves that come to beat our cliffs and rocks and unfurl on our beaches?” he said to the newcomers. “Then prepare yourselves for intense joys and all sorts of surprises…agreeable, Messieurs always agreeable, I hasten to assure you…and often amazing for the sagacious observer or the simple lover of picturesque distractions.”

  “Bravo!” said Monsieur Montgrabel. “I’m ready—we’re ready!”

  “The picturesque we shall have…perhaps too much for your taste—we’ll see! Three of four years ago, I took one of my friends, an artist. He painted for eight hours a day; he made sketches outside, in a diving-suit, at a depth of twenty or twenty-five meters, or brushed studies inside, at the great portholes. He was sometimes all a-tremble with artistic emotion before the splendors of coloration and bushy entanglement of a submarine forest, through which fish strange in form and fabulous in color were galloping, if I might put it thus.”

  Monsieur Montgrabel had escaped gently in order inspect the accommodation of the Espadon. He had seen the cabins, sufficiently comfortable, although inevitably a trifle narrow. They would be more at ease in the lounge, in good armchairs, before the broad glass of the rear portholes, through which nothing could be seen for the moment but the background of the harbor, the Pointe de Primel with its brightly sunlit verdure, islets and white sails on the sea.

  A lateral corridor to port led directly to the forward portholes. A watertight partition between the portholes could be closed instantaneously in case of necessity, thus securing the lounge from any accident. In the center of the submersible the lounge connected with the deck and the turret by means of a staircase that was rather steep but quite practicable, even for passengers.

  Monsieur Montgrabel had soon concluded his inspection and declared himself satisfied. The ladies could come. One of the vessel’s hydroplanes went to fetch them from the aircottage.

  When they were aboard, the captain had lunch served. The ladies found that first day abroad the Espadon very agreeable and quite short. It is true that they were almost always navigating on the surface in calm weather, cruising within sight of the coast between Primel and Brigognan, except for an hour at sunset, a little further out at sea, in order to accustom the ladies to diving.

  Afterwards, they slept well to the rhythmic lull of the waves—a restful night, even more tranquil than the one in the aircottage. Having consulted with Jean-Marie, Monsieur Montgrabel had settled his plans. In order to reach Jean-Marie’s sector, where two or three submersibles were occupied in the work of clearance and adaptation, the Espadon set a course for Brest.

  The vessel dived, with Jean-Marie Jézéquel aboard, now at home. They penetrated a region where extensive submarine prairies, previously ravaged by violent movements of the ea, had been cleared by dredging and sheltered for some time by protective constructions, huge sunken blocks forming points of support, connected by submarine breakwaters of reinforced concrete, and other works analogous to the constructions of defense against the devastating Alpine torrents.

  Behind those defenses, the aquatic prairies were rapidly reconstituted. Already, the fish that had emigrated in search of new pastures were reappearing.

  “Look, Monsieur! Do you see those algae out there, the bushes behind the breakwater? And further on, a little wood, a true forest where the fish are fluttering? Look, Mademoiselle Pierrette! A family of skates that are coming to look at us through the window! And over there, the conger eels in single file. Yes, Monsieur, we’ve begun to replant all that in only two years...”

  All the marine plants had in fact, prospered. By pressing a button under the porthole, a beam of electric light illuminated the sea to a certain distance and permitting the perception of vast fields in which bouquets of large algae were swaying gently.

  The submarine, which was moving slowly, went around those bushes, causing groups of fish to emerge from under rocks, amid splashes of sparks and foam. The silence around the vessel, in those aquatic plains where everything was stirring and swaying gently, was impressive. But Jean-Marie was loquacious, and the joyful children leapt abut, uttering exclamations, at ever change of scene.

  Jean-Marie continued his picturesque explanations, which the captain occasionally completed with less summary technical details.

  “In these submarine pastures, we nurture shoals of fish, much as flocks of sheep and herds of cattle are kept on the lands of Brittany or Cotentin: true salt-meadows, ours are, I can tell you!”

  “Yes, as well as the results of methodical husbandry and good protection,” the captain added, “we extract iodine, bromine and numerous other useful products from these maritime prairies...”

  “And the nets that drag the sea regularly in the well-located regions, are no longer lowered by the old trawlerman who rakes blindly, and who ruins the sea-bed, no, it’s necessary to see that, Monsieur, in the good places, the reservations…it’s the miraculous catch every time! He doesn’t suspect anything, the fish; he’s tranquil, well-nourished and well-guarded—until the moment comes to go on to the land and into the frying-pan, naturally—sure that he’ll no longer be swallowed by the porpoises. Oh, Monsieur, there are great porpoise-hunts nowadays, at sea off Douarnenez. You see here the husbandry and the protection; out there you’ll not only see the protection, but us, the submarine shepherds...”

  “We’ll be there!” said Monsieur Montgrabel and Captain Guénard, simultaneously.

  XII. A Porpoise Hunt on the Aquatic Prairies

  In the ten days that they have been navigating at an average of twelve or fifteen meters beneath the waves, no one has experienced any boredom or disillusionment. Life aboard the Espadon goes by smoothly, in perfect indolence, before the portholes. The seabed views succeed one another with an unexpected variety, the aspect sometimes changing with an astonishing rapidity. Plains of low and bushy vegetation, only astonishing by virtue of its extraordinary coloration and the swarming of small species—sole, plaice, dabs or the warlike hosts of crabs—are succeeded by long sandbanks where sand-eels play, scintillating with silver flashes.

  The submersible plays in the green waves and the white foam; it goes to explore deserted islets and previously-inaccessible grottoes. For some of those explorations, Monsieur Montgrabel and Charles put on the vessel’s diving-suits and, guided by J
ean-Marie, they take the risk of going outside the submersible, via the exit tube that opens alongside the engine-room, underneath the lounge.

  The first time, it was a big surprise for the ladies and the children to see the strange figures of the excursionists appearing at the porthole. Gustave and Pierrette were frightened momentarily, but when they saw their father taking off the helmet and breathing-apparatus on returning, all fear disappeared, and when the second excursion took place Pierrette threw a violent temper tantrum because they refused to take her.

  The Espadon, navigating on the surface in order to sniff the breeze and bathe in the sunshine, headed for a white column, sparkling on some rock lost in the mists of the horizon: a lighthouse indicating the route to surface vessels, a simple granite tower where two or three virtuous hermits of the sea resided, responsible for maintaining the protective beacon.

  There, Monsieur Montgrabel suddenly remembered that he had a few urgent words to say, at a distance, to Paris, New York or Constantinople, and occupied the wireless post for hours, which the family employed in fishing parties around the islet.

  They had already made one or two veritable ports of call. The aircottage had gone to wait for them at a point indicated by radio and sometimes, when they were navigating on the surface, it came to find the submarine, which took it in tow. How convenient that was! The aircottage either brought provisions from terra firma itself or sent them by hydroplane: butter and milk, vegetables and cutlets.

  However, Suzanne was not tranquil; Charles’s cold attitude remained disquieting. Ordinarily so expansive, during the excursions, he remained indifferent before the most admirable views, or even gave the impression of mulling over some tormenting thought that sometimes made him purse his lips dolorously.

  One evening, a wireless telephone call announced the long-awaited porpoise hunt for the following day. The sardine- and tuna-fishers of Douarnenez had spotted numerous bands of those voracious cetaceans in the vicinity of Belle-Île, which were brazenly indulging in veritable massacres of nets and fish.

  The Espadon resurfaced in order to travel quietly, by night, into the region of Belle-Île and take part in the operation at daybreak.

  Two submersibles from Noirmoutiers were the first to reach the meeting-point; three others soon arrived from the station at Audierne. A conversation was engaged by radio. The fishermen from Audierne had had their nets badly damaged during the night by the frolicking porpoises, and the sardines, abundant in the previous days, had fled in disarray in an unknown direction.

  Until nearly ten o’clock the watchmen surveyed the horizon in vain; no enemy was signaled.

  Suddenly, a band of large animals, cetaceans of a good size, appeared directly ahead of the Espadon. They seemed to be springing forth from the foam, chasing one another without appearing to pay any heed to the submarine. They were capering and leaping, as if launched by springs, and then they dived into the dark green waves underneath the boat, to reappear some distance away on the other side.

  “Fine beasts!” cried Jean-Marie. “Nearly two meters, the biggest, and the little ones, the young ones, leap as well as their parents. They’re in the process of amusing themselves in order to build up an appetite…wait a moment, to see…here come the hunters, maneuvering!”

  The submarines of the administration scattered, semi-submerged, steering in such a fashion as to reunite and encircle the troop. One submersible dived in order to drive upwards any prey that might have reached the depths, and gather it with the others.

  The Espadon did the same, descending a few fathoms. The water was marvelously transparent; the searchlight illuminated, to a range of fifty meters, a vast sandy beach, extending in gently undulations. In the distance, as if in a liquid fog, the searchlight of the other submarine was perceptible, like a fugitive comet.

  Suddenly, however, the transparency disappeared; the water darkened; then, after a few minutes, there was another change. One might have thought that the Espadon had suddenly entered a river of milk. Ahead, to either side, there was a silver stream, a white flow along the portholes, with a sort of murmur or splashing, perceptible to the ears.

  “The sardines,” said Jean-Marie.

  It was, in fact, a large shoal of sardines, which the Espadon was cleaving with its hull: poor sardines, into the midst of which three dozen enormous porpoises plunged, jaws agape, sometimes disappearing in the mass, opening large breaches with thrusts of the tail.

  Captain Guénard swerved sideways in order to leave the field free for the other submersible, which launched itself at the prey. A few muffled detonations were heard as the hunter opened fire. Porpoises bounded, turning upside down, agitating their fins spasmodically, and rising slowly toward the surface.

  As the submarine reached the troop, seized by panic, everything almost disappeared in the midst of the turbulent water and the silvery flutter of sardines plastered against the portholes.

  “Let’s go back up,” said the captain.

  They resurface for the battle, and the Espadon found itself admirably placed in order not to miss anything of the tactics of the submarine shepherds or the episodes of the hunt. The troop of porpoises appeared at the surface, in a visible panic, spreading terror among those that had been frolicking unsuspectingly in the waves a moment before by means of their disorderly leaps.

  The submarines, in a circle, advanced rapidly to place themselves within range.

  “How are they armed?” asked Monsieur Montgrabel.

  “With small cannon mounted like rocket-launchers, whose projectiles carry buoys designed to mark the places where wounded porpoises are struggling...”

  “I hope we’re going to play our part in the battle?”

  “Certainly—look, the Espadon is armed.”

  Monsieur Montgrabel turned round. Two sailors were setting up on a long and slender cannon on the deck and preparing a crate of projectiles, all furnished with large cork floats at the end of a long cord.

  “Fire!” said the captain.

  Madame Montgrabel and Suzanne, who had also come up on deck, jumped. There was a flash and a puff of smoke immediately dispersed by the wind.

  “Touché!” said the captain, Jean-Marie and Monsieur Montgrabel, simultaneously.

  A porpoise coming straight toward the Espadon leapt into the air, to fall back flat on the waves, making the projectile’s float dance.

  “Reload quickly! Here come others, ready targets!”

  The ladies, who had stayed on the last steps of the stairway, went down again rapidly in order to return to the portholes, half-bathed by the waves.

  Rapidly aimed, the cannon fired again.

  “Touché again!”

  Aboard the other submarines too, not a minute was being wasted, nor a projectile.

  Smoke rose up in rings into the sky, floats danced a saraband on the crests of the waves, among the porpoises in total disarray. Nothing could be distinguished but long tails and fins beating the foam, threads of water launched into the air by blow-holes, or the white bellies of the stricken, bobbing on the surface of the water, a darker green in the hollows of the waves.

  Further away, agile arched silhouettes were fleeing, like the groups of dolphins in swirls of foam painted on ancient Greek vases, or the Japanese drawings of old Hokusai.

  XIII. An Air-Land Village.

  A magnificent day! Leaving a special boat of the shepherds of the sea to collect the dead animals, the submarines set off in pursuit of the survivors of the troop, which had escaped to the open sea.

  Night was falling; a crescent moon was already shining when the Espadon and the aircottage discovered, in an inlet near Noirmoutier, a little to one side of the Bois de la Chaise, the ideal corner for repose after a day so well-employed. Next to a little stream descending to the sea through a wooded ravine, there was a veritable nest of verdure, completely sheltered from the sea breezes. They would sleep admirably there amid the soft rustle of foliage, mingled with the murmur of the waves.

  “Wha
t calm! What silence! Oh, I count staying here for a few days,” said Monsieur Montgrabel, when Captain Guénard had taken his leave to return to his vessel. “Tomorrow, I’ll bask in the sun on the sand, like a lizard. No worries, no business affairs…oh, yes, one! I’ve thought about it already; it’s necessary to get it under way immediately. Hey, Jean-Marie, come here for a moment!”

  Jean-Marie did not take long to climb the stairway to the terrace. Monsieur Montgrabel took him to one side for five minutes. A few exclamations on the part of Jean-Marie were heard.

  “Oh…! Ah…! Yes, Monsieur...! Of course, Monsieur! Oh, I’m very glad! Sure and certain…! And Annette, too!”

  Monsieur Montgrabel returned to the family group.

  “There,” he said, “that’s done. That’s my last business deal…a little commerce in fish, turbots, crayfish, lobsters, etc. Not for me, for Jean-Marie. I’m going into partnership with him. First, I’ll assure him of the establishment of his family; I’ll send him all our friends. Now, I have a mind free of all preoccupation, I’m already asleep. I sense that it would require more cannon-shots fired in my ear to wake me up before eleven o’clock or noon tomorrow.”

  True to his word, Monsieur Montgrabel slept like a weary hunter until nine o’clock. It was not cannon-fire that woke him up but a little noise on the beach, the sound of voices and comings and goings on the veranda, and even the buzz of aircraft.

  Still half-asleep, he drew his curtains and opened his window.

  “What!” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Our inlet, deserted yesterday evening, our Crusoesque beach where I intended to sprawl in the sand in complete liberty, look at it now! But there’s a crowd! But it’s a town! Am I seeing things this morning, or have we flown away yesterday evening?”

  Yes, the deserted inlet had become, if not a town, at least a little sea-side village, pretty and animated. Around the aircottage, four other elegant and over-elaborate airchalets, painted in bright colors with all their balconies florid, were lined up on the shingle, while a fifth was just settling on the rocks, almost on the waterline.