In 1965

by Albert Robida

  Charles was about to ply when an employee came in and deposited an enormous stack of papers on the directorial desk.

  “What’s all this?” demanded Monsieur Montgrabel.

  “Your correspondence, Monsieur—letters, wireless messages, newspaper cuttings, etc.”

  “Damn! Still persecuted here!

  Monsieur Montgrabel made a start on the mass of persecuting messages. As he scanned the letters and messages or listened on the little apparatus on the desk to the phonograph disks, a crease furrowed his brow, and the back lock of hair above it twisted into several curls.

  Twenty-five letters screwed up into balls went into the waste paper baskets under the desk or to the side; twenty-five messages were put to one side, abruptly annotated in pencil, as if by sword-thrusts. Montgrabel bounded to the tele two or three times for rapid communications and then resumed opening envelopes; then he rang again to summon one of his divisional chiefs.

  “Well, what can you tell me about the Consumer Societies?”

  “The movement is growing, Monsieur; leagues are forming to struggle against the trusts and the cartels...”

  “That’s all right, the market will equilibrate...”

  “It would appear…it’s said…that they’re ideas highly recommended in a recent book, The House...”

  “…hold of the Nation. I know.”

  “Now, a syndicate of those leagues has formed, which has voted as honorary president, the author, Monsieur Boissy, and with every passing minute, proposals are arriving here from Committees, telegrams and demands, for Monsieur Boissy...”

  “Not known!”

  “That’s what I’m tired of repeating—but the syndicate persists; it advises me that tomorrow, a delegation will come to beg Monsieur Camille Boissy to accept that honorable presidency.”

  “Send that delegation away, energetically!”

  “An exclamation from Charles interrupted him. Monsieur Montgrabel turned round. Charles had risen to his feet, very pale, dropping a heap of files and Monsieur Montgrabel’s briefcase. The latter cut off the communication swiftly.

  “Well, what? What is it now?”

  “The letters!” said Charles.

  “The letters? What letters?”

  “The Poste Restante letters! Here they are…in the synthetic factories file.”

  “The file…that I brought from Paris. That’s true. The same envelopes. I knew that there was something else in that famous handbag! Where was my head? I remember perfectly. When the object was brought to me, I as settling a few details with Valette with regard to these factories, and I must have inadvertently stuck those in the file. Too many affairs! What a tumultuous life, my poor Charles! CeBy, Office 48. That’s the one. Let’s see...”

  No, Father, leave it—it’s me who ought to...”

  Charles leaned on the desk, not daring to look at the letters that he was holding in a tremulous hand. Finally, he made a decision, went to the window and slowly drew out a piece of paper from the first envelope.

  “Well?” said Monsieur Montgrabel.

  Charles shook the envelopes. A dozen letters fell out, which he picked up without saying a word, throwing them to his father after having scanned the first lines.

  In his turn, Monsieur Montgrabel no longer dared look at them.

  “You’re very pale! You’re trembling! So…these letters…?

  “Innocent, Father, everything there is of the most innocent. Covering letters for proofs of the book, letters from the publisher, notification of going to press. At the last moment, Suzanne hesitated to allow it to appear. What emotion! What folly, too, on our part! My poor Suzette!”

  Charles was red-faced now, and wiped his forehead.

  “Poor, dear Suzette! To suppose her capable of…oh, I was mad and I don’t know how I can ever be forgiven!”

  “Fundamentally,” said Monsieur Montgrabel, “I was quite certain that it would all be cleared up…but we’re being summoned to lunch. I feel an appetite...”

  “What about me, then?” cried Charles. “No, I’m no longer hungry.”

  The lunch, also synthetic, was quickly expedited, for the auto-flyers could be heard purring in the courtyard. Suzanne had an agreeable surprise. Charles, so morose in the morning, exhibited an extraordinary cheerfulness; he talked a great deal, ecstatic about the superb appearance of the children, the excellence of the synthetic boiled eggs and the blue of the sky...

  Suzanne gazed at him in astonishment, amazed by the sudden but fortunate change of mood.

  “By the way, where are we going?” asked Madame Montgrabel.

  “Fifty or sixty kilometers,” Charles replied, “to the arrondissement of La Bastide...a trip arranged yesterday...”

  “Nice landscapes? Something good?”

  “How should I know? Probably something picturesque and diverse.”

  “You know very well, my dear Madame,” said Monsieur Larose. “The Statist experiment we were talking about? It’s there. Have you forgotten?”

  “We’ve all forgotten,” said Charles. “It’s the prefect who reminded us about it yesterday. I owe him gratitude, it will occupy the end of our vacation nicely…for our vacation is coming to an end...”

  “Alas!” sighed Madame Montgrabel.

  “I’m in haste to get back,” said Suzanne, returning to her idea of writing a refutation of her book in order to deny everything, and already turning over in her mind ingenious means of saying exactly the opposite of what the odious Boissy had written. I need to get back...a little task...”

  “No, no! We’re not in any hurry!” exclaimed Charles. “Let’s go to La Bastide!”

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Larose, “that arrondissement between the Lot and the Garonne, perhaps a little closer to the Garonne, is an ardent and active region, won over the Statist ideas a long time ago. In order to demonstrate the value of their theories, the doctrinaires of the party loudly demanded an experimental field. The arrondissement of La Bastide solicited the honor of becoming that field of experimentation. Very shrewd, the Bastidois! You’ll see!”

  “We’ll see!”

  “As for me, I’m returning to Paris, I have to work…and in the meantime, you know, I’m occupied with the bearded philosopher…the famous author of the Household. I believe I’ve got him, this time.”

  “Very good,” said Monsieur Montgrabel. “Carte blanche!”

  “And good luck!” exclaimed Charles, laughing, while Suzanne, to hide her disturbance, went to put her children into the big autoflyer.

  Everyone took their places. There was Monsieur and Madame Montgrabel, Laurence Clifton, Marcelle Valette, Charles, Suzanne and the two children. Charles’s usual pilot took the wheel of the large, solid and sturdy autoflyer. The route was god, with only a few towns and villages and a few steep hills to fly over in order to cut he journey to a minimum.

  Charles simultaneously joyful and desolate, wondered in vain how he was going to enable the bad days, whose cause he dared not admit, to be forgotten. He kissed the children, and burst forth with a flood of words that amazed Suzanne.

  The auto-flyer sped along the road, but at every moment some location that merited being seen at closer range appeared to the right or the left soliciting the gaze. What was a little detour for an autoflyer? A matter of a simple leap. And the autoflyer rose up, quit the road, bounding over a clump of trees, crossed a river or the ridge of a hill forty meters in the sir, in order to land again at the glimpsed site, sometimes a rocky gorge winding into a mountainous massif, a fine winding ravine, the ruin of a château with broken towers surging forth above wild bushy slopes, or a small town of feudal appearance with old building packed into a corset of almost-intact ramparts, with no flightpad amid its steeples and turrets, only a modest tube-station to mark the century.

  After so many detours and stops, it was only in the evening that they reached La Bastide, an old industrial town, more contemporary in appearance that anything they had encountered on the way.

  T
he little surprises of the route had caused Statism to be forgotten, and the scarcely gave it a thought when they arrived at the Lion d’Argent, the foremost hotel in the town. The dinner bell rang and the open air had given everyone an appetite.

  There were not many people at the host’s table—a few travelers arrived by tube. After having done honor to the first courses, the Montgrabel family felt better.

  XVI. The Triumph of Monsieur Larose

  Four days have already been spent in La Bastide. The region is charming; one would forget the Statist experiment if placards of all colors did not provide reminders of it everywhere, announcing meetings of various Social Study Circles, lectures, etc.

  Monsieur Montgrabel is no longer thinking of requesting clarifications, for unfortunately, correspondence, the tele and wireless messages arrive continually to demand his presence at the Lion d’Argent.

  The annoyances persist. He does not breathe a word about them, but they can be divined by the lock of black hair that twists above his forehead. Suzanne also receives messages, to which she does not respond. Charles remains light-hearted. He has, in any case, enough to do to maintain calm and cheerfulness, with the aid of the children and Marcelle Valette.

  The autoflyer runs over the roads: agreeable explorations, but in the smallest villages, on the walls or even on the trees, one cannot help perceiving the Statists’ placards and posters.

  “Good! The paternal State can adopt us too. Five or six children more or less is nothing,” said Charles, returning from the last excursion before the departure. Tell me, Father, have you retained the explanations? Don’t the tourists passing through have to be nourished like the Bastidois?”

  “My brain’s too fuliginous to recall,” replied Monsieur Montgrabel. “We’ll see. Tomorrow morning, to clarify the point, I’ll refuse to pay the hotel bill.”

  That final evening, there is no correspondence at all. A breakdown of all services. Charles rubs his hands. Suzanne breathes more easily. But Monsieur Montgrabel, who complains about being harassed by messages, seems discontented not to have any.

  Monsieur Montgrabel has just given the pilot of the autoflyer the program for the departure: join the main line tube at Périgueux and return to Paris by the express; telephone this evening to reserve a special compartment.

  “What!” protested Madame Montgrabel. “We’re not going back to the aircottage, which we sent to Royan to wait for us? Our vacation is going to be limited, then, to a few paltry weeks spent with the worthy Jean-Marie’s submarine shepherds, the inauguration of the factories, and banquets?”

  “We’ll see, my dear. We can put the aircottage on the lawn in front of the house in Paris, and you can move into it to finish the season...”

  In the morning, no post again, nor any other communication. Monsieur Montgrabel has something akin to hunger pangs in his head. He paces back and forth in his room while Annette and the pilot take care of the luggage.

  Suddenly, at eleven o’clock, the breakdown of the tele comes to an end, and the wireless messages arrive. They learn the reason for the breakdown. Yesterday evening a meeting of the employees of the local Administrations of the Post, the Tele, the Radio, etc., demanding a six-hour day, decreed that the offices would open for a week, by way of a trial, from eleven a.m. to five p.m., which does indeed add up to six hours—including the lunch hour, of course.

  When Monsieur Montgrabel saw the avalanche of messages, and heard the tele bells and the voices of employees distributing numbers to the communications. He told the pilot to leave the autoflyer and the luggage, the departure having been postponed.

  Oh, yes, the breakdown was over and the flood flowed in: the previous day’s and today’s. Monsieur Montgrabel set aside for Charles everything that appeared to be business correspondence; that was no longer his concern. He listened to and cut short a number of communications. An appeal from the tele, repeated several times, caused him to hasten the clearance.

  It was Monsieur Larose who was ringing. He appeared in the screen of the tele, his expression visibly satisfied, cordiality in his lips.

  “Finally, my dear Monsieur, I’ve encountered you. I’ve been ringing since yesterday evening. How are you? Yes, yes, I know, it was blocked. Oh, these Statist employees! The ladies are well? Are they content with the little excursion? Interesting, isn’t it? Well, I too am content, delighted…everything is arranged.”

  “What?”

  “The Camille Boissy affair. I’m glad to be able to announce to Madame Charles Montgrabel that she can sleep tranquilly henceforth. No one will annoy her any longer with that Boissy. The journalistic investigation was very badly conducted. They have however, a good track. The bald and bearded philosopher is...”

  “His name is unimportant,” said Monsieur Montgrabel, uttering a sigh of relief. Wait a minute while I call my daughter-in-law to the apparatus, to tranquilize her too, poor child...”

  In a corner of the lounge to one side, Suzanne, with Pierrette on her knees, was transcribing a few notes. In response to her father-in-law’s summons, she ran to the tele.

  “Bonjour, Madame! Happy to present you with my compliments,” said Monsieur Larose.

  “My dear Suzanne, you’ve had many annoyances caused by a certain Monsieur Boi…Monsieur Larose has succeeded in discovering the author of the wretched book. The search has been vain, until now. This Boissy really is a bald and bearded old gentleman...”

  “Old but not as old as all, that,” protested Monsieur Larose, “merely mature, slightly balding, yes, and somewhat bearded, in fact, to replace a few missing hairs...”

  “So, my little Suzette, don’t worry. No one will torment you any longer, henceforth. The newspapers have spoken, and they’ve even published the portrait of the real Camille Boissy. Ah, it’s noon! Le Flambeau ought to have arrived in La Bastide. Would you be kind enough to go and fetch it?”

  “I’ve just seen it on the table in the lounge,” said Suzanne, eagerly. “I’ll bring it right away, Father.”

  “I’m very grateful to you, Monsieur Larose, for having brought the affair to a successful conclusion...”

  “I’ve done it for the best. In any case, I’ve already been occupied with it for some time, seeking the best solution. I’ve thought about it a great deal. I’ve seen many people...”

  Suzanne came back in with the newspaper unfolded, her facing registering a certain surprise.

  “Let’s see this Boissy!” said Monsieur Montgrabel, extending his hand. “Let’s see this modest an mysterious philosopher, fearful of bright light and renown.”

  Suzanne seemed to hesitate. Monsieur Montgrabel had to get up in order to take the newspaper.

  “Well?” he said. “What’s so curious, then, in Le Flambeau? Good, a long article on the front page, a sensational interview: The real C. B. Good. And the portrait... What? What? The real Boissy…but this is you, Monsieur Larose. It’s you!”

  “I have unveiled myself,” said Monsieur Larose, smiling. “It is indeed me. Circumstances have led me to emerge from the discretion that I imposed upon myself initially. Now, I’ve confessed... You must read the article, full of interest. There are already notes in several other papers. The entire press will report...”

  Monsieur Montgrabel appeared as surprised as Suzanne, and scanned the sensational interview.

  “You’ve guessed correctly,” Monsieur Larose continued. “Philosopher, I claim that title: I’ve acquired it in the observation of men and things, a little practical philosophy...”

  “Certainly!” said Monsieur Montgrabel. “All my compliments, my dear Monsieur Larose. I see that it’s a settled matter. But have you thought that the theories of Camille Boissy might hamper you a little, in your role as secretarial spokesman?”

  “I didn’t think of that at first; when I realized it, it was too late to search for another Boissy; I must continue to sacrifice myself. So. I’m obliged to ask you to accept my resignation. Believe that I’m infinitely sorry!”

  “I’m as
sorry as you are...but tell me, then, according to Le Flambeau, you’re standing in the imminent elections…?”

  “People have come to seek me in my retirement,” said Monsieur Larose, modestly. “Yes, from several directions I’ve been solicited, pursued and tracked to drag me into Parliament. You are looking at a man literally quartered. On the one hand, the Feminist Party in Paris and in the Midi is covering me with flowers; on the other, various advanced intellectual sections...”

  “Well, my dear Monsieur Larose, all my compliments...and all my thanks! Yes, no more committees, nor sub-committees, no program to discuss…a true relief! It’s curious how I seem, suddenly, to be breathing more freely!”

  Suzanne, very emotional had run away some time ago, and Charles came to the tele in his turn as the communication reached its end.

  “Yes, the affair is concluded,” Monsieur Montgrabel replied to Charles’s questions. “Monsieur Larose has taken charge of it. He’s a man full of wisdom. He’s regulated everything in the best fashion…oof...! By the way, Charles, I’ve reflected a great deal during these long, very long days of repose, slightly stagnant in my opinion. And I’ve been thinking about what I said to you the other day—you know about my search for a small, tranquil occupation, well within my compass, in order to occupy my leisure? You remember? Well, I’ve discovered that I was mistaken, and…yes, I’ve changed my mind. Monsieur Larose has rendered me a true service. I’m going back into business. That’s it, my tranquil little occupation, well within my compass!”

  “Of course! I knew it,” said Charles, laughing, while Madame Montgrabel looked up anxiously at her husband. “We’re waiting for you, Father!”

  “I’ve ceded the business to you, I won’t go back on that. Except that, as I need to do something, would you like me as deputy director? Look, I sense that I’m already quite alert at the idea; my fortified intellect is vibrating more forcefully, I’m reviving! How many thanks I owe Monsieur Larose! Long live Larose! He’s a great man… yes, I feel alive again...