He summoned Griffith, hoping to obtain good advice from him.
He was surprised o see how much the trainer had aged considerably since his first visit to the archbishopric, although Peau-de-Balle had only been wearing the amethyst colors for six weeks.
Griffith’s gestures were depressed and his speech desolate.
“You see, Monseigneur, my horses are all falling sick…I now resemble a product of Le Sancy96…and my limbs are trembling like an old man’s...”
That last circumstance might have been explained by the fact that Griffith had resumed drinking like a fish, but he did not tell the archbishop that, even though the latter had the power to redeem sins.
He continued, however: “Monsieur, I want to tell you that with regard to Peau-de-Balle, diabolical things are occurring.”
“In that case,” the prelate proposed, “it will doubtless be necessary to perform an exorcism.”
“I doubt that that means would be efficacious. It would need something else entirely to decide Peau-de-Balle to gallop.”
Having reflected at length, Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes believed that he had found a solution.
“Bijou, the old horse that pulls my carriage, is beginning to get too old. Perhaps I could replace him with Peau-de-Balle. I don’t mind having a horse that doesn’t gallop.”
That’s what he’s got! thought Griffith, in despair. “But Monseigneur,” he said, “Peau-de-Balle won’t consent to trot either. And then, what would the papers say if Your Eminence harnessed a fabulously expensive thoroughbred to his carriage?”
“You’re right, Monsieur. So, there’s only one thing for me to do: get rid of the horse, which is attracting the worst attacks on the part of the enemies of religion, without at all fulfilling the objective to which I thought he was destined by Providence. Monsieur Griffith, I received a letter this morning from a breeder who has offered to buy him for his stud.”
“That’s impossible, Monseigneur,” said Griffith, swiftly. “Peau-de-Balle has no aptitude for reproductive functions.”
The prelate did not insist. He did not want to embark on terrain in which discussion would be difficult for a prince of the Church.
“We’re back, then,” he said, “to the solution recommended by Abbé Tacot, on which I didn’t want to settle to begin with. You know, Monsieur, that Baron Isaac de l’Échelle-Jacob is still offering a hundred thousand francs in cash for the horse.”
Griffith pulled a face.
“Yes, yes,” said the archbishop, who misunderstood, “I know. Abbé Tacot once saw grave inconveniences, from the viewpoint of dogma, in my dealing with that Israelite. But our eminent casuist came of his own accord to suggest an expedient that might settle everything for the repose of our consciences. I shall cede the horse to Comte Jérôme Thomas, a fictitious buyer, who will then cede it to Baron Isaac, the true buyer.
Griffith had exhausted all his energy during a month of desperate and futile struggle against fatality. He no longer had any hope, even in Fred or Tod; to his dispatch requesting help, the Americans had replied that they disclaimed any responsibility. Peau-de-Balle had been delivered in good condition, had functioned perfectly well throughout the spring, and could only have been put out of order by some fault on Griffith’s part; they would not, therefore, cross the herring-pond again to come and repair the automaton, being presently occupied with things that were much more interesting.
The trainer had abandoned himself to his evil destiny. The new blow that had been delivered, unconsciously, by the excellent archbishop was, however, the most terrible that could strike him. Ely Pauwels and Baron Isaac were his mortal enemies, and the last people he wanted to see in possession of his secret.
If Peau-de-Balle had remained usable, Griffith could have hoped for their silence, based on their evident interest, but a broken-down Peau-de-Balle could only serve to doom him.
The trainer thought he was reading his death-sentence when, twenty-four hours later, two news items appeared in the sporting press, which dissipated his last illusions:
Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes has sold Peau-de-Balle to Comte Jérôme Thomas.
Comte Jérôme Thomas has sold Peau-de-Balle, with his engagements, to Baron Isaac de l’Échelle-Jacob.
He had, however, a respite that he had not expected. Baron Isaac, to his great surprise, wrote to him asking him to keep the horse in his stable until after the Grand Prix de Deauville.
What new knavery can he be planning? Griffith wondered, pensively. In any case, for a fellow who spends his life organizing surprises for sportsmen, he’s going to take a large caliber shot in his own locker when he takes delivery of Peau-de-Balle!
IX. The Last of Baron Isaac
You might be wondering why, in the present conditions—which is to say, in the conditions known to the public—Baron Isaac had offered a hundred thousand francs for a beast that was considered a consummate rogue.
It was because the Baron, who was in reality cunning, had the pretention of being even more cunning than he was, and in business, as everywhere else, the intelligence that one wants to have spoils that which one has. Baron Isaac had got it into his head that Griffith had been having Peau-de-Balle pulled for a month, with a view to the Grand Prix de Deauville, in which he wanted a good price.
“It’s all for show, this shirking,” the financier had said to Sem Lévy. “But do you know what Griffith’s doing, now? His pulling is pulling my chestnuts out of the fire! I’ll be damned if I can’t relieve the archbishop of his horse before the Grand Prix de Deauville!”
In one sense, at least, the Baron had judged the matter accurately, and had succeeded in his objective. Peau-de-Balle was going to run in the Grand Prix de Deauville in his colors.
As the financier did not want to share the windfall with Ely Pauwels, by reason of an old grudge, and, on the other hand, he wanted the responsibility for whatever might happen, if there was a fuss, to fall on Griffith, he had left the crack with his old trainer temporarily. The latter had brought him from Chantilly to Deauville under his personal surveillance. Gustave Louffe, naturally, accompanied him and was due to ride him.
When the first prices were posted at the Hippodrome de la Touques, at the start of that memorable meeting, Peau-de-Balle was put up at twelve to one. Point by point, large bets laid by the new owner brought the price down to nine to two.
And Griffith, who was no longer anything but the shadow of a trainer, said to Gustave Louffe, who was no longer anything but the shadow of a jockey:
“What consoles me a little bit—a very little bit—is thinking about the loss that that pig is going to suffer. It’s not because you’re wearing his dirty silks that the mechanism is going to repair itself. We won’t see his face, unfortunately, when he realizes that he’s paid a hundred thousand francs for a broken-down horse. We won’t see it, because by then, we’ll be on our way to New York.”
Indeed, Griffith had sagely judged that within the hour, the French training centers were going to become uninhabitable for him, as well as his jockey. It was preferable to get away before the bomb went off. They could always find out from the newspapers what had happened.
Gustave Louffe shook his head sadly. What had happened was his fault; he had ruined his employer, his trainer, and now it was necessary to take the road of exile!
He had spent the night yet again attempting repairs, but without any conviction, or even the desire to succeed, in order for Baron Isaac to profit—in truth, he did not want things otherwise.
The horses went down to the start. A connoisseur made the remark that Peau-de-Bale’s action was smoother, and that the sea air seemed to have been profitable to the horse.
In the crowd, the usual comments were heard.
“Why is he running in Baron Isaac’s colors now?”
“Because the archbishop is in mourning for La Tafoireau!”
“Shut up, you idiot. He wasn’t in mourning a week ago, was he? Well, he is now! The story is that all of that’s a s
cam: La Tafoireau, the archbishop and the baron are all in the swindle together. They’re doing it to confuse you. You’ll see whether he stays at the staring-post today, Peau-de-Balle! I’m going to put five francs on.”
“You won’t collect your imaginary money. Look at your horse, how quiet he is! While the others are passing the wining post he’ll still be over there—you can admire him. That’s all you’ll have for your hundred sous.”
However, when the flag dropped, Gustave Louffe, to acquit his conscience, pressed the gallop lever. To his great surprise—and to the great surprise of the starter and the public—Peau-de-Balle set off.
“He won’t go far,” said a voice.
That was also the opinion of Gustave Louffe. However, the automaton continued at its regular speed.
“He’s surely not going to have the cheek to win today!” said one sportsman who had not bet on him.
Peau-de-Balle was still galloping. If his jockey had reflected, if he had thought about the certain scandal, and also of the fact that the returns of the high price were about to fall into the pocket of that old scoundrel Isaac, he would certainly have pressed the stop lever and restored the normal order of things—which is to say that events would have unfolded according to the anticipations and the desire of the majority. But Gustave Louffe was not thinking about anything—or, rather, had only one thought filling his head. The automaton was repaired! The young man abandoned himself once again to the intoxication of victory as well as to the vertigo of the race.
Without the slightest hitch, Peau-de-Balle came into the straight. His competitors were far behind.
Baron Isaac was jubilant.
“Eh! Would you believe those thieves!” he said to Sem Lévy. “I saw through them!”
Peau-de-Balle passed the winning-post in the midst of a tempest of howls and whistles. The Gospodar session was an ovation by comparison.
At the weigh-in, canes were raised; the security staff had to protect the re-entry of the equine automaton. When he came into the ring, Griffith, very pale under the insults that rained down upon him, ran forward to take him by the bridle.
The trainer had a strong desire to escape before the end of the presentation; his berth on the transatlantic from Le Havre was booked, and he no longer had anything but rotten apples to receive in his face if he stayed in Deauville. It is necessary to say to his credit, however, that he did not want to abandon Gustave Louffe in the hornet’s nest, and he decided to wait a little longer, seeing that things were turning bad.
“Get down, my lad,” he said to his jockey.
But Ely Pauwels came forward, followed by Baron Isaac, and shoved Griffith away.
“Pardon me,” he said, in a mocking tone. “I’m in charge of the horse now.”
But in his turn, Ely Pauwels had to stand aside. Two commissioners from the Societé arrived with the veterinarian Podsnap, whose expertise was habitually employed in official matters.
“Messieurs,” said one of them, “would you kindly leave this animal in the custody of Monsieur Podsnap temporarily, who is charged with examining him. His race today and is previous races give rise to the suspicion that he has been drugged—doped, as the Americans say...”
“I have nothing to do with it!” shouted Baron Isaac, bravely.
“Certain large bets, of which it will also be appropriate to seek the origin…,” the commissioner tried to continue.
“Pardon me! I’ve made the bets I wanted to! But it’s not me who gave orders to Griffith to cheat and pull his horse!”
Griffith went even paler, and was visibly desirous of falling upon the Baron tooth and nail, but he controlled himself, and even put on a singular smile. His decision was made.
“If you’ll permit me, Messieurs, I’ll demonstrate to you here and now that my horse has never been utilized for culpable maneuvers, and that doping has nothing to do with his case. I only ask, for that experiment, that a skillful rider of indisputable honorability be put in Peau-de-Balle’s saddle momentarily.
His gaze seemed to wander over the audience and settle, with apparent sympathy, on Baron Isaac.
“Monsieur le Baron de l’Échelle-Jacob, to whom the horse belongs, seems to me entirely designated for that proof, by his qualities as a brilliant rider as well as his quality as owner.”
Griffith’s request was both strange and audacious, but Baron Isaac, whose pretentions as a horseman were at stake and who feared, if he refused, seeing the sportsmen present smile, came forward deliberately.
“But of course, but of course! I’d like nothing better.”
And, stimulated by self-esteem. He got into the saddle with more agility than one would have thought.
A gleam appeared in Griffith’s eye; he had his enemy in the trap.
“Are you comfortable there, Monsieur le Baron?” he asked.
And, with the sleight of hand of a conjurer, he activated the gallop switch.
As Peau-de-Balle set off like an express train, the curious crowd scattered in panic. Cries of terror rose up from the weight room enclosure. But the automaton, after having knocked over Ely Pauwels—who was picked up with a few broken ribs—had passed through the railings.
Hooked on to the broken iron wire, various shreds of Baron Isaac’s trousers were recovered. That was the only trace that was ever found of him...
Peau-de-Balle, carrying his rider, mad with terror, implacably traversed fields, roads and meadows as blind, brutal and irresistible as a force of nature. Baron Isaac, clinging to the saddle-bow, saw houses and trees flying past him, uncomprehendingly...
The runaway beast went straight ahead, without deviating, without slowing down, without flexing his hocks as he passed over obstacles…it was a veritable nightmare.
Dusk was falling; the fantastic ride might perhaps go on for hours.
It was necessary to end it. The Baron perceived the sea to his right, bloodied by the setting sun. He was about to pass over a beach. If he could steer the runaway horse in that direction, he would be saved; the beast would be forced to stop by the sea.
He let go of the saddle-bow in order to pull on the bit, sideways, with all his strength...
Victory! He felt the neck pivot and the head turn. And Peau-de-Balle was now galloping over the strand.
The horse arrived at the first waves; he did not slow down; he galloped into the water just as rapidly...
His body disappeared. For a moment, perhaps a tenth of a second, Baron Isaac could still be seen, sketching a ridiculous contortion amid the white foam of the green waves...
Everything disappeared...
Then the automaton, evidently, continued to gallop under water for a long time, for as long as its accumulators were able to function. It certainly did not emerge on the coast of England; we would have heard about that.
It must still be somewhere on the sea-bed—and Baron Isaac too.
Epilogue
Griffith and Gustave Louffe had disappeared from the weighing room at Deauville at the same time as Baron Isaac d’Échelle-Jacob, but, fortunately for them, they did not begin the sea crossing in the same fashion as the unfortunate financier.
A transatlantic liner disembarked them in New York. They immediately went to find the engineer Fred and his manager Tod, to whom they recounted their misfortune and that of Peau-de-Balle. Gustave Louffe not having confessed his imprudence, the Yankees told Griffith, in perfectly good faith, that the automaton could not have gone wrong on its own. They were right.
Even so, they were prepared to give the exiles a helping hand. Young Louffe was employed in Fred’s workshop and Griffith, thanks to Tod, found a situation in a big American stable, where flesh and blood horses were trained
Today, they are both following their paths. Gustave Louffe is one of our most celebrated aviators, and Griffith has founded a thoroughbred race in the eastern Republic of Uruguay.
Comte Jérôme Thomas is a senator.
Monseigneur Bénin-Despalmes is a cardinal; he was even elected as a mem
ber of the Académie Française, on the day when his advanced age rendered it impossible for him to draft any more writs of mandamus.
And pilgrimages to Tassigny-la-Raclée are increasing all the time.
E. M. Laumann and Henri Lanos: Aerobagne 32
I. The Leather Bottle
On the twentieth of August last, the great daily newspaper Le Monde97 published the following article, which passed almost unperceived. We are reproducing it in full here because it marked the first episode in an uninterrupted series of dramatic and mysterious incidents of which chance has permitted us to be the historians.
A leather bottle hermetically sealed with the aid of a piece of wood, which appears to originate from the handle of some implement, and sealed with dirty grease, fell on to the deck of the steamship Foch on the first of August in mid-Atlantic, some distance from the African coast, and the latitude of Cap d’Arquin—which is to say, between the tenth and twentieth parallels, fortunately without injuring anyone. The bottle contained, it appears, a rather voluminous manuscript composed of sheets of paper of various kinds, as well as scattered notes, some of which were written on linen. The captain of the ship has taken cognizance of all of it, but is maintaining an absolute silence in that regard.
On the other hand, on the Saharan coast, between the same two parallels, about forty of fifty kilometers into the sands, submissive Tuaregs have discovered the cadaver of man with clothing tatters. The frightful state of the body encourages the supposition that the body had landed there following a fall from very high altitude. What remains of the clothing and, among other things, the number 32 printed on a fragment of cloth, permits the belief that one is in the presence of the unfortunate result of an attempted escape from an aerial prison. In that case, it is a matter of a German prison of which that is the official registration number, aerobagne 32.
The Mirror of Present Events Page 22
