He became exasperated. “Yes, yes, I know—I have no right to oppose this marriage. You’re forced me to divorce. It’s finalized today. And you’re triumphant. But I don’t care about the law; I...”
She cut in ironically, making allusion to his shady deals: “Yes, I know...”
But he was not listening. “Admit,” he went on, “that you never stopped seeing that man, that you’ve let me sink, ruined me, in order to get rid of me!”
She protested. “I swear to you that I never saw Lucien during our marriage.”
“In any case, you’ve got what you wanted, both of you. You’re free—you think you’re free. But I repeat that I don’t want you to profit from your liberty. I wanted to see that flight…I was in the crowd; I heard everything people were saying about him, about you, about both of you. Oh, how I suffered...how I wanted to strangle the people around me... So, I don’t want it to go on. I don’t want to spend my life watching your apotheosis. It’s not possible. I’ll stop you. I’ll…give it up, Claire—believe me, you’ll do well. Give it up.”
He was respiring such cruelty, such perfidy, such suffering that she was afraid. What could he do against them? Murder? No, he was too cowardly. Some sly treason? But Lucien, forewarned, would be on his guard. What if he succeeded in carrying out his threat, though? Then what? Was it necessary, in order to avoid the danger, to renounce her cherished future? No. They would suffer too much, both of them.
She shook her head. “There is nothing more between us now. I won’t do as you say. Leave me alone, once and for all.”
Already she was retracing her steps toward the workshops. He touched her shoulder with a feverish hand. “You shan’t belong to another. You shan’t marry that man.”
She declared, firmly: “We’re engaged this very day. I’ll marry him.”
Then, overcome by rage, he grated: “All right. I wanted to warn you. I wanted to avoid misfortune. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for what happens.”
It was advertised widely that the following Sunday, Lucien Chatel would fly over Paris at high altitude, from the Bois de Vincennes to the Bois de Boulogne. He proposed to fly straight and high, to trace an invisible rainbow over the city.
He scarcely suspected, in deciding on that experiment, that he was signing his death-warrant—for Villeret was determined. That flight over Paris seemed to him to be a sign from destiny. On that day, Lucien Chatel must die.
In that brain degraded by vice and corroded by hatred, the idea of murder had gradually been sown, had taken root and blossomed. Now it had invaded his entire being.
Having condemned his rival to death, Villeret prepared the execution with ferocious care. He needed, on the eve of the attempt, to work secretly for an hour on the apparatus that would take the hero aloft. All his ingenuity and cunning was concentrated on that goal.
Who would be on guard, when night fell, in the annex to the workshops where the great white birds rested? Villeret soon discovered the watchman in whom Chatel placed his confidence. Was there one man who performed the Herculean task of bringing an airplane on to the field? That was Lanoix. Who, then, brought the cans of fuel at a trot, and the water-sprinkler? Lanoix again. Who excelled at keeping curiosity-seekers behind the barriers, without prevarication? Still Lanoix. At every moment, one heard the firm voice of Lucien Chatel and the more excited voices of clients sitting at the joystick for the first time calling: “Lanoix! Lanoix!”
He was both the guard-dog and the sheep-dog rolled into one. But what a mastiff! A giant, tall and broad, massive, his upper body molded in a blue-and-white striped jersey, his legs lost in immense brown velvet trousers, his knees, fists and chin always jutting forwards, as if ready to fight—and with all that, bright eyes and fine full lips, in which, beneath the bushy moustache, an eternal cigarette was perched.
The proprietor of a nearby drinking den completed Villeret’s information. Lanoix was a former wastrel from the Marne. In those times, when he had been drinking, he was terrible. After one brawl—perhaps he had drunk too much absinthe—he had got a year in prison. When he came out, Monsieur Chatel had had the bizarre idea of hiring him. He had domesticated him, rendered him as gentle as a demoiselle. Lanoix no longer drank. That would last as long as it lasted. Deep down, the tavern-keeper remained skeptical, and somewhat scornful, with regard to the man who refused a little tot. But Monsieur Chatel had faith in him. The proof was that he had confided the guard of his machines to Lanoix. The former wastrel had built himself a kind of cabin in a corner of the hangar in which he ate and slept, with a large revolver within arm’s reach. Oh, it wasn’t a good idea to rub him up the wrong way—for Lanoix was trigger-happy.
On the Friday before the flight over Paris, Villeret waited for the moment when the machines had been put away, Chatel had gone and the crowd had begun to disperse. Accosting Lanoix, who was closing the gates of the forecourt, he said: “Bonjour, mon brave. Not long before bedtime, eh? Would you like a little aperitif first, just over there?” And he pointed to the nearby tavern.
Lanoix spat out his cigarette and swallowed his saliva—but if he was agitated by a desire, he quickly stifled it. Shaking his head, he refused flatly.
Villeret feared that he might give himself away by persisting too strongly. He gave up, searching for another line of attack. “It’s too late to visit the workshops today, I suppose?”
Lanoix chopped the air with his enormous hand, like the blade of a guillotine. “Closed.” Not prolix, the wastrel.
“That’s a pity,” said Villeret, regretfully. “I’m a friend and admirer of Monsieur Chatel.”
Ah! Monsieur Chatel certainly had no more fervent admirer than Lanoix himself. He was his god. The guardian remained inflexible, however. He rolled another cigarette with a single glide of his palm over his thigh.
“Talk to him.” And he closed the gate.
Villeret shrugged his shoulders. He could not reckon with the brute by means of a frontal assault. It was necessary to use cunning, and quickly, for time was pressing.
The next day, Saturday, the eve of the exploit, when all eyes were on Lucien Chatel, who was flying at a great height, Villeret, summoning up his audacity, introduced himself cautiously into the courtyard and went into the deserted garage. There he paused momentarily. Along one wall, immense packing-crates were lined up, which served to send airplanes over long distances, draped with tarpaulins. Villeret threw himself into that hiding-place...
An hour later, when the trials had finished, Lanoix closed the door, locking the enemy inside.
Through the gaps in the tarpaulins, Villeret had watched the reentry of the great white birds. In particular, he had taken careful note of Chatel’s apparatus. He did not take his eyes off it. Damn! He must not make a mistake—but no error was possible. Once it was in place, the young inventor had carried out a detailed inspection. It was definitely the one that he would employ the following day.
Now Villeret remained alone in the immense hall. Undoubtedly, Lanoix had gone in search of his meal at the nearby tavern. It was necessary to profit from his absence. Villeret had quickly discovered the watchman’s cabin in the corner opposite his hiding place. He ran to it and took an inventory with a glance: a little bed with a brown coverlet in a pine frame, a small beside table on which there was an old magazine, a candle in a tray and an enormous revolver.
Rapidly, he took from one of his pockets a bottle wrapped in silver paper stamped with a Cross of Geneva, placed it clearly in view on the floor and ran back to his refuge.
Two minutes later, Lanoix came back.
Villeret waited for two hours in darkness. He chewed over his hatred, ruminating his plan. Oh, he had thought about it carefully, rejecting many possibilities. Obviously, he could have taken a file to the propeller-tree or some part of the engine, but everyone knew that a Chatel apparatus, deprived of means of propulsion, glided gently through the aerial strata to land softly. No, it was necessary that the fabric of the wings, the taut canvas that mai
ntained the machine in the air, should suddenly disappear, be annihilated... Then nothing would remain but a heavy carcass, five hundred kilos of metal, which would collapse, plummeting to the ground...
Of course! It wasn’t sorcery. It was sufficient to think of it. He would coat the canvas with a phosphoric solution of his own manufacture. At rest, it would remain quiescent; nothing would betray its presence, but when the air struck the wings at a hundred kilometers an hour it would evaporate, and the phosphorus, struck like a match, would catch fire. In the wind of its velocity, the varnished and rubberized fabric would burn like lamp-oil, like a firework.
In order to do his work well, however, Villeret needed Lanoix to fall asleep, stunned by drunkenness. Would he empty the bottle of absinthe set before his eyes as a temptation? After his long abstinence, would he throw himself upon the delicious poison?
Suddenly, the door opened and the giant appeared, his face illuminated from below by the light of the candle he was holding in one hand. In the other, he was clutching his revolver. On the threshold, he stumbled heavily. Then he came out, lurching. He was drunk.
Doubtless moved by an instinct surviving the disaster, Lanoix was making his round as usual: a terrifying spectacle. At a slow pace, his head and shoulders swaying with a circular motion, his revolver in one hand and candle-tray in the other, the colossus advanced between the great white birds. Sometimes his moving shadow was projected sharply on stretched canvas, sometimes it spread out enormously over the walls and the ceiling. His head bumped into the stays, became entangled in the wires. His face was hollowed out be a bleak fury. At times, he pursued an imaginary enemy with unspeakable insults. At others, he gurgled filthy refrains. Then there was silence.
For a moment, he brushed past Villeret, crouching down as low as possible behind the tarpaulins, but already he had passed on, belching vague words, stumbling here and bumping into something there, still clutching his weapon and his candle. It was a miracle that he did not set fire to anything. Instinct guided him, however, and as he continued his march, the great white wings rose up in the darkness and the fuselages stood out like antediluvian skeletons, a whole fantastic herd waking up, whose mobile shadows fused on the walls with that of the watchman.
Then, one last oath burst forth, and the light went out. The brute collapsed in his den to sleep off his drunkenness.
Five minutes later, in the absolute calm, Villeret heard deep and regular breathing—the respiration of sleep. Then, suppressing his terror, but with his heart in his mouth, his hands reaching forwards in the darkness, with a stealthy tread, Villeret headed with infinite precaution for Chatel’s airplane. When he had finally recognized it and felt it, he began his deadly work with careful and tender strokes.
The crowd covered the former drill-field, and throughout the city, millions of gazes we about to follow the aircraft, support it is its course. The weather was splendid. The sky, palpitating and silky, seemed a great canopy suspended from the golden nail of the sun and stretched over the fête.
Claire was watching all her fiancé’s movements from a distance. She was afraid. Villeret’s threats were haunting her. If she had dared, she would have run to Lucien and begged him not to go, but she did not dare. Then again, Paris was expectant.
With his helmet pulled down over his eyes, Chatel shakes hands, allows himself to be buttonholed by a journalist, by a friend, surveys the sky, returns to his apparatus, checks the propeller and the wires once more. He takes out his watch. Nearly time. Lucien heads toward Claire. In front of the crowd, for the sake of respect, they content themselves with a handshake—but who can tell how much consolation, hope and love might have passed between the two gripping hands...
Already, Chatel is at the joystick. He raises his arm, to tell everyone to stand clear. The engine starts, the propeller turns—and while the pilot, with a customary gesture, adjusts his helmet, the bird begins to move, skimming the soil, leaves the ground and abruptly takes flight.
Instinctively, the crowd is rushing behind him, but Claire is incapable of moving forward, and is left alone. All her life is up there. She feels a great dolorous void within her. She has difficulty breathing. How rapidly he is climbing. It will take him a quarter of an hour to describe his curve over Paris. How long a quarter of an hour is!
Suddenly, a snigger burst out behind her. She turns round. Villeret…him again! And he is transfigured by such an unholy joy that apprehension immediately takes hold of Claire, choking her. She is certain that something bad is about to happen. What trap has he set? Her entire being asks the question.
Oh, Villeret cannot contain himself. He wants all his pleasure—and the best of his vengeance is not the sudden death of Chatel; it’s the torture of Claire, who will know, who will wait, who will live through seconds of unparalleled horror.
In a few words, he relishes his secret—and it is indeed an unparalleled torture. No one who has not been in love can comprehend it. Thus, perhaps in a second, perhaps in five interminable minutes, that small white thing up there, which is carrying her life, will burst into flame, collapse, plunge down like a falling stone. Lucien! Lucien!
And there is nothing she can do. It is her impotence, more than anything else, that enrages her. Not to be able to do anything...
She would like to scream, to howl, she would like her voice to carry all the way to that tiny dot shining in the sunlight: “Come down! Come down, quickly!” But there is nothing she can do...
Ah! Villeret has chosen his moment to speak very well: soon enough to watch for the inevitable, too late to prevent it...
Claire stammers a few inconsequential words. It seems to her that she is shrinking, becoming a little girl again. She would like to weep, to fall to her knees, no longer to se, to die. Her vision becomes blurred. Sparks dance before her eyes. Is that the little white dot catching fire? Yes? No, not yet.
And to stay there, to stay there...
Suddenly, behind her, a great clamor goes up. Ah! This time, it’s the end. But Villeret spits out a furious cruse. She turns her head, to behold a dream-like spectacle...
In front of the workshops, a man, all by himself, a colossus, is hauling a burning airplane behind him, launching himself on to the drill-square. The wind of his prodigious run excites the fire and deploys enormous wings of flame behind his back.
He stops. Claire dares not hope yet, but Villeret has already pulled himself together. Has he mistaken the apparatus in the dark, in his confusion? Has Chatel, suspicious, chosen another at the last moment? What does it matter? He has to start again.
Saved! Lucien is saved! And while, in the distance, the little white dot continues to describe its glorious curve westwards, Claire thinks she might faint in the exquisite relief, the abrupt passage from agony to ecstasy.
Meanwhile, the giant abandons the airplane, which completes its consumption. He has broken the circle of curiosity-seekers. He comes closer. His hair and moustache are charred. His blackened face is swollen with fury. One would think that he were searching for someone.
He has recognized Villeret—and fragments of words collide in his mouth, still thickened by drunkenness...
That’s him—that’s the man who tried to buy him. It was him who put the bottle of absinthe in his cabin. He suspected as much. If he had not, when scarcely awake, still drunk, thrown his lit cigarette at the canvas of an apparatus, he would never have known—but now he understands everything. That bandit wanted to kill Monsieur Chatel. Kill Monsieur Chatel, his god! But he’s caught, the swine...he won’t try again...
And before anyone can stop him, Lanoix, crazed by absinthe and indignation, brings his revolver out of his trouser pocket and fires six shots at Villeret, killing him like a dangerous animal.
Notes
1 Black Coat Press, ISBN 978-1-61227-002-9.
2 Black Coat Press: 1. The Plutocratic Plot, ISBN 978-1-61227-095-1; 2. The Transatlantic Threat, ISBN 978-1-61227-096-8; 3. The Psychic Spies, ISBN 978-1-61227-097-5; 4. The Victims Victor
ious, ISBN 978-1-61227-098-2.
3 tr. as The Frenetic People, Black Coat Press, ISBN 978-1-61227-118-7.
4 tr. as The Napus: The Great Plague of 2227.
5 Barthélemy Thimonnier (1793-1867) obtained a patent for a sewing machine in 1830 and founded a manufacturing company to exploit it, initially by providing military uniforms; it was burned down repeatedly by manual workers fearful for their future, and by the time the machine finally took off commercially Thimonnier had died in poverty.
6 This is pure conjecture; as François observes, the murder of Philippe le Bon, or Lebon (1767-1804), who industrialized the production of flammable gas from wood, remained stubbornly mysterious.
7 The reference is to a fable by Jean de La Fontaine, known in English as “the Milkmaid and the Pot of Milk.”
8 On 4 August 1789 the members of the French National Assembly swore to end feudalism and abandon their privileges—a key point in the Revolution.
9 René Quinton (1866-1925) is nowadays remembered as a biologist, who made significant contributions to physiology and evolutionary theory, and as an aviation pioneer, but he also served a colonel in the Artillery during the Great War, in which he volunteered for service in spite of his age; he was wounded eight times, and was awarded the Croix de Guerre. The quotations reproduced here are reproduced from the posthumously-published Maximes sur la guerre (1930; tr. as Soldier’s Testament.)
10 Aristide Briand (1862-1932) served eleven terms as President of the Council, including one term during the Great War; he was one of the originators of the proposal for a European Economic Union and a tireless campaigner for disarmament—he was a joint winner of the 1926 Nobel Peace Prize.
11 The Maréchal de France Sébastien La Pretre, Seigneur de Vauban (1633-1707) was the foremost military engineer of his era.
12 The reference is to D’autres Terres en vue (1932) by the art historian Elie Faure.
13 The rose-garden in the Parc de Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne, the site of an annual competitive show.
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