Chalet in the Sky

by Albert Robida

  “That’s a detour.”

  “A very short detour; we need to climb up as high as possible in the old pine…that’s quite easy…”

  “Not me,” said Monsieur Cabrol.

  “I’ll do it,” said Andoche, “and I’ll find the right direction.”

  Fortunately, they were only five minutes from the old pine; Andoche did not have to climb very far to recognize the hill where the Villa Beauséjour was moored; there was no doubt—with his binoculars, he could even make out the Villa’s roof. It was not far—a kilometer at the most; they had been turned around again in the thick woods.

  “Get a move on, said Monsieur Cabrol, “or nightfall will catch us unawares.”

  “I’ll find another old pine…”

  One old pine? They had to find no less than 13, not counting the first, before getting back to the Villa Beauséjour.

  At the second pine, when they had gone astray again, getting turned around in the dense wood, having confused the reference-points, it was Moderan who demanded to climb up as high as he could to discover the right direction.

  “Forward march! It’ll only take ten minutes!”

  Five minutes later, they had gone wrong again.

  Third pine. It is Andoche who wants to go up this time, so as to be quite sure of not making a mistake. He comes down joyfully.

  “Less than a quarter of an hour, and this time, we’re there!”

  What devilry! All these thickets look alike!

  Fourth pine. It is Moderan’s turn. He has found it. In mid-descent, astride a branch, he cries out: “Ow! I’ve been bitten! Again! Again! In the neck, now. Ow!”

  “What?” cries Monsieur Cabrol. “What is it, a snake?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Ah! Ants…big red ants. Oh—there are lots of them!”

  “Come down—it’s nothing.”

  Moderan descends as quickly as possible, shaking his hand and scratching his neck.

  “Did you find the direction?”

  “Yes—that way. It’s easy, always straight ahead. Ow! That hurts…it’s burning!”

  “Let’s march! I’ll put something on your bites at the house. Straight ahead—that must be this way…”

  “Yes, Uncle…oh, it’s burning—and I’ve got ants running down my back. Thump me, Andoche! Wait, you’re going wrong…straight ahead, that’s the other way…”

  Fifth pine. It is Monsieur Cabrol who climbs up in his turn, and finds it hard. When he arrives on high, painting somewhat, he is heard uttering exclamations.

  “Have you found it, Uncle?”

  He does not reply, but there is a noise in the high branches; broken branches fall, and Monsieur Cabrol clambers down rapidly.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  The uncles seems upset. “Well! I got up there…fine! There are interleaved branches and leaves forming a platform. I take a look, prudently, and find myself face to face with a huge vulture in the process of feeding its chicks. Or it might have been hatching its chicks…I didn’t stay long. Can you hear the birdsong up there?”

  Another quarter of an hour lost in getting turned around. Sixth, seventh and eighth pines. Monsieur Cabrol begins the eighth climb. He is hoisting himself up into the lowest branches when suddenly, down below, Andoche and Moderan start shouting.

  “Look out, Uncle—wild boar! A band of wild pigs!”

  A galloping in heard in the thicket; it is a charge of wild beasts, which rush forward, breaking or tearing off branches and leaves. They arrive at the foot of the pine-tree, where Monsieur Cabrol, clinging to the trunk, throws pieces of wood at them.

  “They aren’t wild boar,” Monsieur Cabrol shouts. “There aren’t any here—it’s a band of peccaries, I think.”

  Andoche and Moderan are also hastily climbing trees.

  “What should we do, Uncle?”

  “Nothing—no noise; let’s keep calm, they’ll go away…”

  A quarter of an hour passes by, then 20 minutes, and the peccaries are still there, noses in the air, sniffing and rubbing themselves on the trees. Having grown impatient, Monsieur Cabrol shouts to his nephews: “I’ve left my pistol under the roots of my tree. You have yours—shoot at the brigands!”

  Andoche and Moderan, sitting astride low branches, have their pistols, loaded with paralyzing bullets. They take careful aim and fire half a dozen bullets. The peccaries do not seem to notice them, and continue grunting and scratching at the foot of Monsieur Cabrol’s tree.

  There is a further detonation, at the very foot of the tree. A peccary has disturbed the pistol with its underbelly while rooting around among the roots. The peccary rolls on the ground. Having shaken its legs violently, it is no longer moving, but continued grunting angrily.

  Andoche and Moderan fire again. This time, two peccaries are felled in the same way as the first; the others, gripped by panic, flee at a full-out gallop.

  Monsieur Cabrol and Moderan have come down, and are contemplating their enemies fearfully. Andoche has leapt into the pine tree and is climbing up. He stays up there for two minutes, then comes down again triumphantly.

  “I saw it,” the aid. “It’s not far away, to the left.”

  They have departed, without lingering to look at the injured peccaries, which will be unable to move a muscle for at least two days.

  To the left? But where is the left, in this labyrinth of gaps and these thickets of brushwood. Ninth, tenth, etc…

  Thirteenth climb. Where are we? No more reference-points; night has fallen…and fatigue is beginning to make itself felt. Monsieur Cabrol’s arms are worn out by all that climbing. He sits down, discouraged. How are they going to get out of this?

  Suddenly, Phanor’s voice is heard in the distance—faithful Phanor is getting anxious and is calling out. Saved! Thank God!

  Soon, Phanor, shooting through the undergrowth, arrives like a hurricane to throw himself into the arms of the poor strays. Understanding their distress, he takes the head of the column, and five minutes later, still yapping encouragements, leads them on to the plateau in front of the reattained Villa Beauséjour.

  XXII. Culinary Reunions.

  Naturally, it takes more than one day of rest to recover from the fatigue of that excursion in the forest. Monsieur Cabrol has decided that they will go to see the savages by air, with the Villa Beauséjour. That way, they are certain not to go astray.

  And they will find another camp-site; this one is not sufficiently convenient as a center for excursions.

  A few days later, the Villa Beauséjour takes off. Everyone is here? No one has been forgotten? Let’s go!

  Alas, they have been under way for a few minutes at an altitude of 100 meters when Melanie when Melanie cries out loudly: “Babylas! Where’s Babylas!”

  She thought he was sleeping peacefully in the room where she had shut him up for the departure, but he’s no longer there. He must have gone out of the window, the reckless individual!

  “Let’s go back,” says Monsieur Cabrol.

  As long as we don’t get lost, this time, Moderan thinks, anxiously.

  The Villa Beauséjour veers to starboard and turns back. There is the plateau on which they camped.

  “Babylas! Babylas!” Melanie calls from the balcony.

  Babylas does not answer. No Babylas. Melanie is heartbroken, and blames herself. What will become of the unfortunate Babylas, lost in the woods?

  Suddenly, a modulated miaowing is heard in the room, and Babylas, re-entering the dwelling at the rear, leaps on to Moderan’s shoulders and rubs against his face, purring joyfully.

  The Villa Beauséjour gets under way again. This time, it is impossible to go wrong; the hill with the Indian ruins appears above the somber mass of the forest, not far away. After a ten-minute flight, they are hovering over the ruins, and perceive little figures emerging from all the holes, who raise their arms to the sky, shouting.

  Monsieur Cabrol spots a suitable place to land on one side; he makes a slow tour of the ruins to weigh up the
ensemble, and then sets down gently on the ground. Immediately, the Villa is surrounded at a respectful distance by a noisy crowd, the members of which open astonished eyes and jostle one another to get a better view of the house that has fallen from the sky, and the people at the windows making gestures of friendship.

  Monsieur Cabrol recognizes a few of the Indians from the other day in the crowd, busy giving the others explanations. The inhabitants of the lost village have occasionally—very rarely—caught distant glimpses of aircraft or dirigibles passing high in the clouds, without quite being able to imagine that such improbable birds might really exist. Today, here is one of these birds close at hand, on the ground—and the bird is a house, with residents! With wide open eyes, they draw nearer in order to touch it.

  Here comes the old chief; he pushes through the crowd and comes to bow ceremoniously to Monsieur Cabrol and invite him to enter his domain.

  People are still emerging from all the openings, the women dragging groups of children, pouring out on to the stony paths and the patches of grass growing in the rubble.

  The whole thing is a sort of pyramid of superimposed terraces, pierced with irregular openings, with monolithic columns and the debris of sculptures among the tufts of vegetation, lianas hanging down from on high and brushwood climbing upwards. Following in the footsteps of the old chief, Monsieur Cabrol and his nephews have entered the ruin, somewhat complicated inside by virtue of collapses. It is evidently a former temple, all the corners of which are being used as habitations. All the galleries and rooms are occupied, down to the smallest hole.

  “It’s quite well-lit for a cellar,” says Andoche, “but as a habitation, it’s somewhat lacking in modern comforts. All the same, it’s curious!”

  Meanwhile, the old chief, who has not left Monsieur Cabrol’s side, seems to have something to ask of him. He speaks, trying to explain. Finally, he taps Monsieur Cabrol’s pockets, palpates them, and ends up putting a finger on something hard in one of the pockets. The old chief smiles, and Monsieur Cabrol understands.

  It is the box of pills. The old chief has retained the memory of the refreshing pills. The visitors will offer them to him and show a little goodwill to these worthy people.

  Monsieur Cabrol opens his box and, after having served the old chief, distributes a few well-chosen pills all round. They are synthetic pills of an excellent little Saumur. There are enough of them for the important individuals and the women of the tribe, who are suspicious at first but soon reassured, and who feed them to the children. Everyone is satisfied; a few ladies manifest an exuberant gaiety; the Saumur has gone to their heads and made them loquacious and noisily boisterous. Fortunately, the box is empty.

  They have an excellent installation beside the ruins, slightly behind and to one side, in order to have a view of the whole site. They will be very comfortable there for a few days. What a fine opportunity to make a little trial of prehistoric life!

  The afternoon is entirely devoted to a detailed tour of the troglodyte village, the shelters beneath the rocks and the caverns opening all around the old temple.

  The furniture, which is very rudimentary, is composed of beds of dry grass in wooden frames in the most luxurious caverns or chambers, a few crudely-fabricated trunks, and earthenware pots with a few utensils. Monsieur Cabrol takes notes. The men of the tribe hunt in the woods, when they are not idling in the Sun; the women have more to do, with the housekeeping, the children, the fabrication of garments of animal-hide or fabrics they weave themselves.

  Surprisingly enough, they catch a few Spanish, English, French and Italian words in the Indians, Araucan or Patagonian language.

  As soon as night falls, there is silence around the ruined temple, all the inhabitants having gone inside. Only a few men remain outside, sitting in a circle amid the stones, watching the Moon rise over the mountains. When the biochemical lights go on in the Villa, the latter come to roam around the balconies in order to contemplate that interior moonlight, brighter than the other, admiringly.

  A few fine days follow, employed in hunting-parties and excursions into the forest with the Indians. All day long, Melanie entertains visitors: the women of the tribe, curious and inquisitive. Unfortunately, they hardly understand one another at all, and have to converse in sign-language.

  Phanor always goes out with his masters, but Babylas does not get bored; he hunts too, around the ruins, among the fallen stones, where rats and mice of different species are abundant, running or hopping everywhere. Babylas amuses himself greatly.

  The Indian women cook, and Melanie begins to take an interest in it. It is a lost art, since the adoption of pills and synthetic extracts. Melanie only knows how to heat up tisanes, or a little milk when Monsieur Cabrol has a cold. The cave-women quickly perceive that culinary innocence, which makes them shrug their shoulders or burst into mocking laughter—and they show her the game that is gutted and butchered, the bloody slices of roasts, and the rabbits fricasseed in large earthenware pots. Melanie watches with such marked astonishment and mistrust that the Indian women almost have to force her to taste their cuisine.

  Monsieur Cabrol heaps notes upon notes. He studies the tribe and its mores, its ideas, when he is able to discover them, its dwellings, its installation in caves…

  The mores are mild, at any rate; the worthy people, living easily, understand one another very well.

  He studies their language. Surprisingly enough, in their Araucan dialect he distinguishes even more strange locutions. He would dearly like to discover the origin of the tribe. Finally, pursuing his investigation, he discovers that the people are not all autochthons. There are among them people originating from different parts of America, and even Europe, who have escaped from industrial civilization and great cities, and taken up residence in these caves. Some are the descendants of people who arrived two or three generations ago; others have arrived here more recently, in search of tranquility, a primitive and placid life.

  Everything begins to get clearer for Monsieur Cabrol; he has assembled numerous notes on the troglodyte village, with supportive photographs. He asks questions, tries to understand; he expects to discover, by pursuing his enquiries, interesting particularities regarding the ideas and habits of these people, lost in the depths of the deserted forest, about their costumes or their more-or-less strange superstitions…

  And time passes, and the notes accumulate…

  When they explore the immense forest, hunting with the savage braves, it is necessary to take part in their hunters’ feasts. There are new experiences for Monsieur Cabrol and his nephews. It is necessary to eat game.

  “Well, the old ways sometimes have something good in them, all the same!”

  Andoche and Moderan proclaim that quite sincerely. In their turn, their savage companions disdain the nutritive ills; they only accord their esteem to the refreshing pills or extracts, to the pleasant little synthetic wines, with which they are increasingly pleased.

  All goes well. Their health is perfect, they have pleasant communications with the family. Phanor and Babylas are in good health too.

  Only one black spot: Melanie has begun to get fat again. Not enough exercise. She refuses to accompany Monsieur Cabrol when he goes hunting, and spends her time sitting on the grass, in long conversations with the Indian woman—in pidgin, of course. Then again, because, for lack of pills, they have to start making use of the produce of the hunt, as if by a strange backward leap, she has acquired a taste for that ancient cuisine, and is even getting ideas that have come down to her from distant grandmothers. She has started reinventing antique dishes and sauces, with which Monsieur Cabrol, Andoche and Moderan, far from protesting, seem to take pleasure in experimenting.

  Monsieur Cabrol remembers having read in a rare and precious 20th century book entitled La Cuisinière bourgeoise,33 the names of dishes that come back to his memory: fillet of beef cooked in Madeira, Bresse capon with truffles; chicken casserole à la Provençale… These names make him dream—and what
can “jacket potatoes” possibly be?

  Malenie occupies herself with them too, and promises to reconstitute them.

  After all, Monsieur Cabrol thinks, it’s still archaeology.

  More than three months have passed in the village in the forest. Monsieur Cabrol’s exceedingly well-documented book is making progress; thanks to all the notes he has accumulated, it is going very well. They can, therefore, think about leaving; it is time to go to the Patagonian Riviera, whether the bathing season is beginning, to find he ideal beach, the little inexpensive spot where Monsieur and Madame des Ormettes will come to join the Villa Beauséjour and spend a little time as a family, before the traveling villa resumes is excursions and its stopovers in the places noted down during its adventurous vagabondage.

  Moderan and Andoche—who will pass his baccalaureate by Tele in Patagonia City—are continuing to work. Monsieur Cabrol has nearly finished his book on The Age of Caves, while still working on his other books.

  Notes

  1 The chorus line of which is “Play up! Play up! And play the game!” Its extravagant use as an instrument of propaganda during the Great War would have ensured that Robida was familiar with it.

  2 There never was a significant school at Chambourcy, nor at the nearby town of Villennes-sur-Seine; the choice of location might have been influenced by the fact that a deserted village near Chambourcy became the site, after the 1789 revolution, of the “desert of Retz,” a Romantic garden featuring several impressive follies.

  3 It is not obvious from the text at this point, but Robida’s illustrations make it clear that an aeroclette is a small helicopter; Gustave’s is subsequently referred to as a helicoclette, although there is also a descriptive passage that lists the two terms separately, as if they were distinct.

  4 International languages were much in vogue in the decades prior to the Great War; Volapük was devised by Johannn Martin Schleyer in 1879, Esperanto by L. L. Zamenhof in 1889, and Bolak, also known as “blue language,” by Leon Bollack in 1899; Ido (Robida has Ito) was a revised version of Esperanto (its name means “offspring), which made its debut in 1907.