Although a trifle abrupt, Captain Carbagnac was a good man. If he did not present a tender appearance and sacrificed nothing to sensitivity, he was nonetheless humane in his fashion. While continuing his pacing, therefore, hands behind his back and the wind in his face, he smiled, content with the fortunate result of the rescue, the smile broadening within the superb collar of beard that framed his broad full-moon face.
And, resuming his customary preoccupations, he went back to his daily inspection, like a man who knows the importance of detail, barking orders to port and starboard, darting a glance through the open hatchways all the way down to the engine room, not disdaining to check the propriety of the houteilles—which is the name by which the place designated with the initials W.C. is known on the deck of a steamship.
Finally, having given a cabin boy who got under his feet a clip round the ear, he went down to the lower deck.
There, side by side in two hammocks, the two drowned men were trying to recover their thoughts, and the same words came back to their unconscious lips incessantly.
“Where am I?” said one.
And the other, agitated, as if he were trying to escape an obsession, repeated: “The police! The police…!”
The first was parading bewildered eyes around him while his hammock swayed in the swell “Bémolisant!” he murmured, on perceiving his companion. And, after searching his memory for something that gradually came back to him, he added: “Where’s the other one?”
“The other one, the other one?” the captain repeated, between his teeth. “It appears that there was another one…well, my friend, he’s gone to the bottom. I haven’t seen him.”
He turned toward the doctor. “The brave fellows seem to me to have come through it; we’ll be able to submit them to a little interrogation. I’m curious, at least, to know their stories, these actors...”
Did one of the shipwreck-victims understand those words. Perhaps—he turned over in his hammock as if to escape the announced interrogation, while the other muttered more loudly: “The statue...! The statue…!”
That excitation was followed by the most complete prostration; the unfortunates remained unconscious for twenty-four hours.
They emerged from it at the same time. When Pilesèche opened his eye and learned toward his neighbor he encountered the other’s atonal gaze.
“Are we alone?” he murmured.
“Yes,” replied the other, nodding his head.
And in fact, that part of the deck was deserted, everyone being busy with his duties.
“Where’s the ship going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are we discovered?”
“Alas!” said Bémolisant, without answering the question. “Pilesèche, what have they done with my uncle?”
“What must he be thinking, if he’s still alive inside his nickel envelope, in being himself submitted to such ordeals?”
“We need to find him and free him,” Bémolisant added, with a start. “But how do we get out of here?”
“How do we get back to France...in spite of the gendarmes and the police?”
“As long as they haven’t signaled our capture by semaphore…”
“What if we were to throw ourselves in the water?”
“What would have been the point of making so much effort to save ourselves?”
“I can’t live like this...”
There was a momentary silence then, and Pilesèche, propping himself up on his elbow, without saying anything, swung his long thin legs out of the hammock.
His poor empty head could scarcely hold itself upright, and slumped from one shoulder to the other. Everything around him was spinning, while the pitching and rolling of the vessel swung the hammock back and forth above the floor, which seemed to be fleeing. But his eyes fixed persistently on a pile of neatly-folded clothes, doubtless destined to replace the rags that had survived their shipwreck. He gazed at the small objects that had been removed from their pockets: their knives, their purses, and finally the wallet in which the poor laboratory assistant and opportunist clown had stuck a few papers, among which he had so carefully folded up the copy of the famous cryptogram taken from the scientist’s laboratory.
He had never had time to try to decipher that cryptogram, and had ended up forgetting that it was in his wallet—but an obsession, brought on by illness, drew him back to it now. Who could tell whether the key to salvation might be contained therein?
All kinds of methods came to mind by which it might be easily deciphered. Finally, it seemed to him that he only had it before his eyes, reading it would be straightforward.
Moved by that obsession, stiffening himself against the numbness that was invading him, he leaned out of the hammock and stretched out his arm in order to reach the wallet with his fleshless hand. Just as he grasped it avidly, however, a pitch of the vessel caused him to lose his equilibrium.
Pilesèche tumbled on to the floor, where he remained unconscious until a sailor, passing by, came to lift him up like a feather and replace him in is hammock, without perceiving that the invalid was clutching the precious wallet in his clenched fist, and pressing it against his heart.
As soon as he thought he was alone Pilesèche took out the piece of paper, soaked by sea-water, and absorbed himself in the contemplation of the half-effaced hieroglyphs...
The two castaways were well cared for. They were administered cordials and soups that formed a delicious diet after the wretched fare of their life as fairground performers. Only one anxiety clawed at them, and that was wondering whether their identities had been unmasked and the news of their capture had reached France.
When Captain Carbagnac came by, they usually pretended to be asleep, as much to listen and try to overhear some indication as to avoid questions. They only risked opening their eyes when they judged that their incognito had definitely not been penetrated.
“Well, my sleepers who’ve woken up,” said the captain rubbing his hands. “That was a nice snooze! And now, my little sinners, it’s time to tell me whether you want to going all the way to the Congo or whether you want me to drop you off in cow country.
“Are we on the coast of France?” hazarded Pilesèche.
“Oh, as to that, no, and if Captain Carbagnac hadn’t had bad weather and the wind in his face, the Francine would have passed Madeira by now, at least. All that I can do for you, if you want to leave us, is deposit you preciously on the coast of Portugal. A little far from Paris, it’s true, if that’s your destination. All the same, it’s still Europe, and by addressing yourself to the French consul, you could be repatriated gratis, with all the honors due to you.”
Address themselves to the French consul? That did not seem to them to be advice to follow. But bah! Once ashore they would be able to get out of trouble. They still had enough money in pocket, which simplified things.
The two unfortunates therefore accepted the captain’s offer, and while the Francine set a course for the little port of Vila Nova de Milfontes, Pilesèche and Bémolisant got ready to leave the ship, dressing in costumes that were half-naval and half-civilian, which they owed to the munificence of their rescuers, the passengers and he captain.
One morning, the ship dropped anchor in the harbor, and the two castaways immediately took their places—not without having thanked Captain Carbagnac and the doctor warmly—in a launch that was going to take advantage of the unscheduled port of call to renew the provisions of fresh food.
It was a good opportunity to take a stroll on terra firma. The worthy captain of the Francine spruced himself up a little and, in company with Dr. Caudelot, had himself taken ashore; they were both glad to stretch their limbs and to have news of what had been happening in the world since their departure.
After an hour spent chatting with the French consul, the two friends went to install themselves on the veranda of the best local hotel, for a little siesta and to catch up with their correspondence.
Facing large glasses full of iced coc
ktails, while the captain wrote a letter, Caudelot started reading newspapers in various languages. Before the rest, however, he scanned the French papers that the consul had lent them, following them in chronological order, devouring the detail of news items, important and petty, that had captivated public attention for an hour while they were at sea.
Suddenly, the excellent doctor uttered an exclamation that made Carbagnac jump in his rattan armchair.
“Damn it, my dear,” exclaimed the commandant of the Francine, “you must have encountered something phenomenal!”
“Phenomenal—you said it!”
“Make me party to this sensational news, then.”
“Do you know who we saved from the waters?”
“Two fairground performers, I suspect...”
“I’ll give you a hundred guesses.”
“No idea, my dear doctor—don’t leave me in suspense.”
“We’ve saved Père Grillard’s murderers!”
“Good God! I don’t believe it.”
“Just read the story of their escape in a balloon...”
“In truth, it’s a strange case. But it’s not my job to tip off the police about the villains they’ve let slip through their fingers. Anyway, they can’t be far away, and if the consul’s got his wits about him, he won’t have any difficulty recognizing the famous Panthéon murderers in the heroes of the story we’ve told him. It’s his business, not mine. All the same, though, I’ll tell the story to my brother while I’m writing to him—they’ll have a good laugh on the Canebière when they hear what specimens Captain Carbagnac took the trouble to save.”
XVIII. In which we encounter arrieros and smugglers
Meanwhile, the fugitives had judged it prudent not to stay too long in the town.
They had regularized their presence, thanks to declarations and statements signed by Captain Carbagnac, who had explained their situation. One cannot requite shipwreck-victims to be carrying on their person all the necessary documents establishing their identity, and by avoiding certain indiscreet questions by people who were devoid of suspicion, they were soon able to continue on their way.
In order to conserve their resources, while thinking that they might occasionally be able to use diligences and railways, they departed on foot, all their luggage tied up in a handkerchief on the end of a stick.
They walked without saying anything, doubtless mulling over the same thoughts in their heads.
In front of them stretched a dusty road bordered by stunted trees, curved toward the east by the sea breeze.
The sunlight was sparkling on the reddish dust that was kicked up by the hooves of mules, and the road extended like a long ribbon, plunging into the depths of ravines and scaling hills. It seemed to them that they could already perceive, in the distance, on the blue mountains, the vague silhouettes of French customs officers...
Without looking back they marched, drawn toward their native soil by an unconscious force, in spite of the menacing storm that they sensed before them.
Could they hope to pass unperceived through the mesh of the net extended along the frontiers, where the hundred eyes of Argus inspected new arrivals, no matter how insignificant they seemed?
And if they succeeded in crossing the dangerous line, would they still be sheltered from all danger as they approached Paris, to which they would be fatally drawn back?
But their present security, after the moments of terrible anguish that they had passed through, produced a physical relaxation in them that they had not previously known. When they had passed a restful night in a rather smelly inn, in the midst of innumerable insects that constituted a disagreeable permanent garrison in the straw extended for sleeping, they found themselves back on the road to France, refreshed and replenished, no longer thinking about anything, under the ardent sun, which was making the cicadas sing in the long grass.
Pilesèche was still depressed, in consequence of which he did not say much; he has less resilience and a less supple imagination than his companion, and a brief encounter with a picturesque gypsy camp was insufficient to distract him from his preoccupations.
By contrast, the new impressions chased away the impressions of sad past ordeals in the artist. He was dreaming about fandangos glimpsed in the evening by the tremulous light of the moon and the stars, and the old popular songs, mocking or sentimental, were singing within him to the accompaniment of guitar and castanets.
Where were the nebulous principles of decadent music, then, and the famous scale of six thousand notes whose apostle he had been? Was Bémolisant about to convert to the musical religion of the old race that sang to coming into the world? Or was that old race about to bring Bémolisant back to a taste for its naïve melodies? An arduous problem, no doubt, about which one could argue for a long time, for the time was lacking for a conclusive experiment—but it is worth noting that the artiste bought castanets and a guitar, and started to sing, during the pauses in the voyage, the old romanceros that have never been written down and are transmitted from mouth to mouth, with the warm accents of old heroic dialects.
Unfortunately, music and the fandango had no purchase on the scientific mind of the former laboratory assistant. Physiology had no truck with such nonsense, and he had been nourished on the xs and ys of vivisection. While his companion scraped the taut strings and pinched arpeggios or sad diminished sevenths, resolving ironically into broken cadences in order not to conclude in banal perfect chords, Pilesèche labored on the translation of his cryptogram or stirred in his head the alternatives contained in the question: “Is Monsieur Grillard still alive in his nickel envelope?”
Let us confess that he dared not make a definitive response, and remained in a dolorous perplexity.
They went by, however, and the voyagers crossed, one by one, the sierras that constitute the skeleton of ancient Iberia, reaching the foothills of the Pyrenees.
As they got closer to the frontier, they felt increasingly invaded by heavy apprehensions. The stages of their journey shortened, under the most various pretexts, and the voyagers scarcely dared advance, invincibly retained by the dread of the vague peril that they were about to confront.
On coming out of a village, they encountered a small band of men following the same route, driving mules laden with rather voluminous bales. Those arrieros, cigarettes in their lips beneath their vast sombreros, darted suspicious glances at them, hardly inclined to encourage conversation.
The two fugitives, however, experienced such a keen need to ask questions and find out which was the best road and the surest means of deceiving the surveillance at the frontier that they approached the muleteers and tried to strike up a conversation with some banality regarding the heart and the oppressive sun—an eminently insinuating exordium familiar in all countries.
The man who appeared to be the leader of the band and who was marching proudly, with his hand stuck in the leather buckle of his hazel-wood maquilla, only replied in monosyllables, with a sullen expression which would have put off his interlocutors if they had not long since double their dose of philosophy.
Bémolisant was well aware that he did not inspire confidence in the Spaniards, but necessity has no law; he needed the aid of local people; these looked somewhat like smugglers, which was not injurious to his program, and it was necessary to take advantage of the fact, at all costs.
Taking the bull by the horns, therefore, he told them that he did not know the country, and asked if he might join them to follow the road—to which the leader replied, summarily: “A su disposicion de Usted!”
To the Usted, it was a matter of bowing graciously as a sign of mute gratitude, his repertoire of the Castilian language not being very rich in appropriate formulae. Above all, he was careful not to appear to perceive the decidedly mediocre pleasure that the offer of his company seemed to cause the descendant of El Cid Campeador;40 and, as the other did not unclench his teeth, he began a monologue aloud, asking questions and supplying replied.
They stopped to
eat in the hollow of a valley where the fresh water of a stream was cascading, and each of them took his provisions from his sack. Bémolisant ever amiable, emitted a few coarse pleasantries in a whimsical Spanish that had the privilege of bringing a smile—was it a smile?—to the Olympian face of his mute companion.
The latter deigned to open his mouth and interrogate the Frenchmen as to their civil estate—after which, without allowing the impression left by that suspicious interrogation to be divined, he stretched out on the grass, turned his back on the honorable company, and dozed off for the siesta.
There was nothing to do but follow his example, but Pilesèche did not have Bémolisant’s superb confidence. He dared not close an eye, thinking that the brave men of Navarre, with their ferocious eyes as sharp as the daggers stuck in their red belts, looked more like bandits than honest transporters of merchandise.
Gently, he nudged his companion’s elbow to recommend prudence, but the insouciant artist was asleep.
When the sun was in decline again, the entire caravan, upright in response to a guttural summons, set forth again. The leader seemed to have lost his mistrust; Bémolisant, judging the moment favorable, told himself that he was not risking anything, after all, and started tell him his story—or, at least, a romance sufficiently adapted to the circumstances.
What the other understood from it, quite clearly, was that the two young men had come a long way—their papers said so, at least—and that they wanted to get back into France, with some reason for not wanting to attract attention there; and that, in sum, they wanted his help to cross the frontier incognito.
The Spaniard gradually relaxed. He explained to them exactly what métier he was following, with his band. He took confidence so far as to tell them his name, which was Juan Calcadores, a native of a little posada near Sos. All that was of no fundamental importance, but what interested the fugitives most keenly was that they were about to reach a small hamlet populated by people who made a habit of traversing the frontier for the requirements of their commerce. In spite of the euphemisms it was easy to understand that it was more a matter of smugglers than globe-trotters—but Calcadores reckoned them to be resourceful men, and that was sufficient.
The Nickel Man Page 28
