13

LE JOUR DE LA FÊTE

Maybe he shot again, I don’t know. The avion was going too fast, leaving la montagne too far behind for me to hear. By now, I was getting somewhat accustomed to riding along through le ciel in an avion. I recognized at least for a little while I was tolerably safe. That little wheel in front of me moved again as the avion tilted into the wind and gently rocked back on even keel.

I saw the wheel move every time the avion did. I remembered a little of what mon oncle had told me. I took hold of the wheel, and in a way, it was like riding a bicycle. I mean, I sat astraddle the canvas sling, my legs dangling below the avion, holding on to the little wooden steering wheel as if it was a pair of bicycle handle-bars. I pushed the wheel forward to see what would happen. I considered I’d given it a gentle push—but whoosh! I thought the whole bottom of my stomach was going to cave in as the avion suddenly stuck its nose down and dived.

I let go that wheel as if it was a hot iron. I clung to the frame. Well, mon oncle had been right. The avion tilted upwards again, even and smooth, the way a horse does when you’ve accidentally raked it with spurs, jumping suddenly, then quieting down again after teaching you not to be too impetuous. I suppose by now we’d been voler-ing five or six minutes. Maybe less—it’s hard to judge when seconds seemed to last half an hour.

We were coming down in a long flat slant. A mile or so ahead of me, I could see le village unfolding, like a tiny flower growing and opening up in the middle of a crumpled green sheet. The rush of wind was so strong in my face, my eyes watered. I had to keep blinking them. I tried the wheel again. This time I was careful not to shove it forward more than half an inch.

The avion now was docile as an old mare. It dropped its head a trifle; it merely picked up more speed. Next, I hauled back on the wheel. The avion lifted upwards, its speed slacking off. If it hadn’t been for the fact that those men had mon oncle and the Meilhac twins back on the meadow, perhaps right now shooting them, or making them dig for the stored treasure, I might have enjoyed that ride as I gradually lost my fear. I turned the wheel to the left—the avion swung toward the left, with no trouble at all. When I twisted the wheel to the right, the avion did the same thing, although the wind came more from this direction, and we rocked a little, the great wings rippling, the wires stretching tighter, the humming noise coming more sharply.

Of course, without a motor we didn’t voler nearly as fast as an avion hauled along by an engine and a propeller, but it seemed to me we were traveling a lot faster than I’d realized. When I looked down the next time, I saw that le village had opened up. It was closer to me. The church steeple looked about a foot high. I could see people swarming out in la rue. Off in the distance, men working in the vineyards and fields had dropped their rakes and hoes and were looking up, shading their eyes. In that clear air, I heard their shouts—every noise distinct, but far away. I had the impression of being a giant, walking hundreds of feet above le village and checkerboard fields and meadows and streams, with a crowd of tiny human beings way down below me, everything in reduced size, the voices reduced in volume, a cow about an inch long making a lowing sound that came up to my ears almost as a squeak.

I heard a faint put-putting, very much as if a little model airplane motor was traveling along somewhere a couple of feet below me. I peered across the other side; I saw a little automobile colored green, the size of those pressed iron toy automobiles which kids half my age buy in toy stores. As I watched, I saw the smallest arm imaginable lift up from that little figure in the toy green automobile. It was Dr. Guereton’s green automobile. Probably he’d had an early call and, returning to St. Chamant, saw the avion, thought mon oncle was in it, and believed he was waving to him. I tried to shout down at him, “Hey! Stop. Reste là!” wanting him to wait there until I could get this thing to terre—to earth. An automobile could get back up la montagne in a hurry—almost to the top.

But it wasn’t any use to shout. I was too high. By now, I must have been voler-ing nearly eight minutes or more. I began to be worried. The avion had been too well designed. It wasn’t coming vers la terre—toward the earth fast enough to suit me. I didn’t dare think of what might be happening all this time back there on the meadow behind me. When I peered over on the other side, I saw the avion was now passing directly above le village. I could hear the tiny cries of people below me but they couldn’t hear my shouts at all. It’s a funny thing, that noise will travel upwards a lot better than down. I saw the oxcart and the ox, plain as could be, right in the middle of la rue where le forgeron was starting toward la montagne. Le forgeron was standing up in the oxcart, jumping up and down, waving both hands. He probably thought mon oncle was in this avion, too, just as Dr. Guereton did—just as everybody else no doubt did. At least, one thing was proved: le village could see mon oncle hadn’t been a muddlehead when he boasted about his avion.

But the thing wouldn’t stop. It kept on, sailing away as if it enjoyed the experience. Le village slipped behind me. The avion crossed the stream, about four hundred feet high, the cows now larger in the field, their frightened moos coming more loudly. I became desperate. I could see myself going around all morning in this avion, giving all the time in the world to Monsieur Simonis and his gang on that montagne. I shoved the wheel forward; I shoved it forward as far as it would go. The avion gave a sickening lurch. I shut my eyes. The wind roared in my ears. I clenched my teeth, determined to keep the wheel shoved forward until we were a few feet above the ground.

But just as mon oncle had told me, his avion wouldn’t continue diving. It lurched downwards ten or twenty feet, speed increasing—brought up its head with a kind of thump, the wings trembling, the wires screaming with the strain—and flattened out, shaking itself, the wheel jerking in my hands as if it was attempting to inform me I was to let it go. Now we sailed over the bridge, the long stone fence unreeling under me. I shoved harder on the wheel. Once more the avion lurched down—came up—lurched down again—wallowed—the wood groaning, the linen covering drumming loudly from the pressure of air.

We passed over the cow field and I twisted the wheel. The avion wheeled around and came back toward the cow field, low and lower, in a series of jerky dives and leaps, fighting to keep clear of the ground as if it was alive. That avion may have been built only of wood and wire and cloth, but mon oncle’s brain had gone into it; and right now, in the air, that contraption had twice the sense I had. It knew it wasn’t supposed to fling itself headfirst on the ground. It did all it could to coast down gently, despite my fever of impatience to reach earth—la terre—and find help in a hurry.

A tree appeared. It got bigger. Cows enlarged. They ran. The tree increased in size and shot up from the ground. The avion faltered. A gust of wind hit it. The avion tilted and seemed to give out a sigh and headed straight for that tree. I twisted the wheel to the right. As though it was making its final effort, the avion awkwardly wheeled a little to the right—hesitated about fifteen feet off the terre—dropped—slammed into the tree with one wing and after that there was an almighty crash and thunder. Somewhere a cow was mooing very loudly and for the next few seconds or minutes I didn’t know what was happening at all.

When I opened my eyes, at first I thought I was out of my mind. You remember that blind peddler—well, I thought I saw him bending over me, asking me questions in French, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses! I must have given a kind of yell. I shut my eyes. Next, when I opened them, Dr. Guereton was kneeling before me. The peddler wasn’t anywhere around. I’d been dreaming. I saw a blur of more people and found I was sitting propped against the trunk of the oak tree. Near me was one wing, tipped upwards, like the sail of a boat. Half of the other wing was wrapped around the oak tree and lower branches, the torn cloth snapping in the wind. When I attempted to move, pain sheared me from my left shoulder to my elbow. Now I noticed my left arm was crooked, bent out of shape. Dr. Guereton touched it. I yelped. He said gently, “C’est cassé. Cassé.” He was telling me it was broken. Broken. My arm was broken.

People were crowding around me. Men were running from the fields, climbing the stone wall. They were lifting up parts of the avion, exclaiming to themselves. Dr. Guereton was asking me a whole string of French words I didn’t understand. Right then, le forgeron came leaping across the field, his black beard fanning out in the breeze. His big arms cleared a way through that crowd. He got to me. I was never so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see Monsieur Niort.

I wriggled away from Dr. Guereton. I didn’t care if my arm was cassé. I didn’t care about anything but to make it clear to Monsieur Niort that mon oncle and the Meilhac twins were in mortal danger. He shoved closer to me. He was the first one in all that crowd who had enough wits in his head to realize mon oncle never would have allowed me to make this first flying attempt with the avion. He roared, “Où est ton oncle?”

I cried, “Mon oncle est sur la montagne avec le Nazi!”

“Quoi?” bellowed Monsieur Niort.

“Oui!” I said. “Le Nazi est sur la montagne! Aussi!”

He started back, making a noise like thunder. There wasn’t an instant when he didn’t believe me. He realized I’d never have taken off in that avion if something grave wasn’t taking place right now up there sur la montagne. He jumped up. He spread out his arms, calling tout le monde to attention. He shouted. He bellowed. He got the facts across to them, too, this time.

“Mon automobile!” yelled Dr. Guereton, starting to run, forgetting all about me.

“Hey!” I said, as the men streamed away from the tree, toward the road and the automobile. It wasn’t my idea to be left behind. I managed to get to my feet, feeling dizzy and weak. Women of le village took hold of me. I shook free of them. I started running, the excitement pounding through my blood. I saw men piling into Dr. Guereton’s green automobile. “Hey!” I yelled with all my breath. “Hey!”

It was like hearing thunder again when my name, “JEAN!” was shouted. Le forgeron jumped from the automobile. He grabbed me and he said, “Je ne laisse pas Jean!”—I will not leave Jean! His arms were big around as small barrels. He cleared that wall, carrying me with him, in one leap. I know it’s hard to believe. All I can say, I know he did, because I was there. He laid me gently on a man’s lap and stepped on the running board, and off we drove toward la montagne.

We rocketed through la rue de St. Chamant, careening at the crossroads, past the church, past the cemetery, past la maison de Monsieur Capedulocque, the donkeys braying at us, the chickens and ducks clacking and screeching. In the rear, all the men de St. Chamant trailed after us, on foot, on horse, in carriages, in carts, with muskets they’d picked up from their homes, or with pitchforks and rakes and clubs.

“Vite! Vite!” thundered le forgeron, leaning over, holding me against the man sitting in the seat, as the automobile pounded up the narrow road.

Dr. Guereton turned it into the montagne path. After that, the automobile labored. It groaned. Finally, it stopped. I hadn’t paid any attention to who was riding along with us, but as the men jumped out—for a second, I was startled. Plain as life, I saw that blind peddler get out, too, and go hurrying up the montagne ahead of all the rest, as if his life depended on it. And he wasn’t wearing the dark glasses. I began yelling! That blind peddler wasn’t blind. He was a fraud.

Le forgeron thought I was telling him not to leave me behind. I was afraid that blind peddler was one of Monsieur Simonis’ gang and I kept trying to tell le forgeron, but it wasn’t any use. I didn’t have the French to do it. Le forgeron hoisted me to his shoulders—épaules. I wrapped my legs around and under his arms, with the one hand clinging to the black bushy beard. I was in a sweat to reach mon oncle. I was dead certain the peddler had streaked up there to help Monsieur Simonis. You can’t imagine what terror I had as le forgeron carried me up that path on his épaules.

Halfway there, we heard somebody above us shouting in mortal fear. Next moment, out from around a turn leaped Albert, running as if a pack of tigers were after him. He saw us—dug his feet into the terre in an attempt to stop—and mon oncle appeared, right behind him. Mon oncle gave one leap. He landed on Albert’s épaules. He slung him to the ground, slammed him on the head a couple of times, jumped off, picked him up, hit him, and let him loose. Albert slumped to terre, eyes streaming tears, all the dye leaking from his moustache. It was the most awful, cowardly spectacle you ever saw.

Mon oncle noticed us. “Hola!” he said.

Le forgeron advanced, with me riding high on his épaules. “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?” asked le forgeron, the doctor and the other men from the car following. Two of the men picked up Albert and held him.

“Where’s Monsieur Simonis?” I asked. “Did that peddler try to hurt you? Where’s Suzanne? Where’s Charles? The Meilhac twins aren’t dead—are they?”

“No. The Meilhac twins—they—” he said, with peculiar emphasis, “they are very much alive. They are all right. Where is mon avion?”

“Ton avion,” said le forgeron, “est cassé.”

“Cassé?” said mon oncle, not a muscle moving on his dark face. He glanced up at me. He told me, “Never mind. I shall make another one. Are you hurt?”

By now, more people from le village were arriving.

Mon oncle was explaining to them in French. I saw the men holding Albert grip on to him more tightly. Albert was shouting, “Kamerad! Ich bin ein guter Mann!” which wasn’t French at all—I knew that much—but German. Mon oncle wanted to take me, but at that le forgeron laughed. You see, of all those people, mon oncle was the smallest. I still don’t see how he had the courage to leap on Albert who was nearly twice his size, or why Albert didn’t stand and face him instead of running away. I guess that is the difference between someone who’s brave, as mon oncle is, and someone like Albert who gives up and quits the minute he knows his game is ended.

The blacksmith—le forgeron, I mean, he told mon oncle, “Jean reste ici, sur mes épaules!” and he held me on his shoulders. Mon oncle half smiled. “Viens!” he told tout le monde, proud and fierce, as if he’d elected himself the general of them all. In about ten more minutes we reached the meadow.

Charles was sitting on le maire’s head. Every time le maire moved, Charles thumped him and told him, “Silence, traître!” Standing in front of le maire was Suzanne, holding the ax.

And over to one side, leaning on the wooden framework of the runway was—the peddler. He was smoking a cigarette, hands in pockets, and seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. Monsieur Simonis wasn’t anywhere in sight. I was perfectly dumbfounded. I was overcome.

“Voici, Jean,” said Suzanne cheerfully when we arrived.

I yelled at mon oncle, warning him that the peddler was a fraud and dangerous and to take him quick. Mon oncle didn’t appear to hear me. He stood in the center of the crowd and made a little speech in French. Then he called to that peddler who came forward, easy and careless. He said, “Monsieur Joubert—” and more words in French, as if he was introducing the fellow.

Mon oncle caught sight of me. He called, “Oh, Jean. Meet Monsieur Joubert. He is the detective. He stayed at the hotel, perhaps you saw him?”

Perhaps I saw him?

Monsieur Joubert waved at me. “Ah, Jean,” said the detective. “Bon jour! Ça va?” He laughed.

Things were coming too fast for me. I simply stayed where I was and gawked and tried to listen.

The detective pulled Albert free from the men holding him. Albert staggered forth and saw le maire, who had been lifted off the ground. The detective prodded Albert, evidently ordering him to talk and to talk quickly, if he knew what was good for him.

Albert began accusing le maire. I gathered he was claiming le maire had worked in cahoots with him and Monsieur Simonis, the German who had been the local governor of this part of France during the war. I wanted to ask mon oncle why they wasted time here, questioning the two men, instead of hunting for Monsieur Simonis—but mon oncle was too busy to hear me.

Le maire didn’t have any more heart left in him than a chicken might have. To save his neck, he was willing to confess everything. Of course, I didn’t understand more than every tenth word, but I knew enough of what had gone on to obtain the general drift.

With fifty or sixty of the men from le village around him, more coming sur la montagne every minute, le Maire Capedulocque confessed all he’d done. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been quite so eager, but every time he hesitated Charles sort of stepped toward him, grinning—and, I noticed now, somehow, Charles had in his hand the ax that Suzanne had been holding. At the sight of that sharp ax le maire would shudder. He’d choke. He’d step back, lifting his hands. He’d blurt out more of what he and Monsieur Simonis had schemed to do.

During the time the Germans took over this part of France, le maire stayed here in le village, pretending to be a patriot. In secret, he had worked with Simonis. The German had raided the banks of St. Chamant and the nearby town, Argenta, getting all the gold and silver the people had stored there, all the money that had belonged to the Meilhacs, to Dr. Guereton, and to anyone else who had attempted to do any saving. However, that Simonis had been disloyal to his own people, just as le maire was to France. Between them, they’d kept the money, Simonis making some sort of excuse to his German superiors in France that the local banks hadn’t had any gold.

Then, Simonis and Capedulocque had packed up the gold one night, getting Albert to do the real work. Albert had been an orderly—that is, a German soldier assigned to act as Simonis’ servant. With Albert helping, they’d taken the gold and silver in a cart up to the Langres maison, dug a place to hide it in the cellar, and to conceal what they’d done, deliberately blown up the cellar, setting fire to the maison. They planned to lie low until the war was ended and everything was peaceful. Afterwards, Albert and Monsieur Simonis were to return, disguised as Frenchmen, just as they’d done.

From le maire, they’d understood mon oncle, Paul Langres, had been killed during the war. Of course, le maire hadn’t heard correctly—mon oncle had only been severely wounded, but they didn’t know that. Also, from the same source, they were informed the other owner of the Langres place was ma mère. She was supposed to be thousands and thousands of miles away, in the United States, so loin—so far—she wouldn’t ever come here, and would be willing to sell. They’d counted on buying the land cheaply, setting up there in the maison, melting the gold and silver, and escaping safely, all three of them, with their stolen fortune. It was a good plan, I guess, and simple in the details; but, like mine, it got complicated toward the end.

First, they discovered mon oncle hadn’t died. He was recovering from his wounds. Monsieur Simonis didn’t want to take the gold and silver coins from the maison, as they were, because other Germans in other parts of France also had stolen French money and now the government had the police and special agents on the lookout for all such money thefted from French banks. By melting the money into gold and silver bullion, it could be taken out of France and resold in Spain without much difficulty. But to melt all that money down into bullion meant that they had to have time and be undisturbed in the maison. Consequently le maire, acting under orders from Simonis, attempted to buy the land from mon oncle. Mon oncle refused to sell.

Secondly, as you know, my family arrived in Paris. That upset all three thieves. Monsieur Simonis planted Albert in Paris, at the hotel at which we were staying, to spy on us. Albert was lucky enough to get the chore of pushing me in the wheel chair, which played smack into the hands of Monsieur Simonis. As you know, Monsieur Simonis learned mon oncle and I meant to come to St. Chamant. He had to prevent this at all costs. He made the effort to buy the land. That failing, he determined to scare me from coming, to get rid of one of us, trusting he could handle mon oncle later. He failed when mon oncle rescued me in le parc.

Well, Monsieur Simonis took the same train we were on—got off that one—followed us, right behind us, snuck up to our maison and for a time lived there in the cellar until I happened upon the hiding place. I guess, by then, he was nearly crazy with worry, blaming mon oncle and me for all his misfortune.

Later on, when they’d put Albert in jail, Albert admitted to a few things le maire had forgotten. Albert was ordered to drive me out of le village. He’d hummed under my window. He had thrown stones at my window, to make me nervous. He swore he hadn’t ever attempted to climb in, though. Maybe he was telling the truth about that. Possibly, at that time, I was already so nervous and scared, my imagination ran away with me, and I merely thought someone actually was climbing in to get me.…

Anyway, when le maire finished his part of the whole miserable scheme, le village might have strung him up right there, if le forgeron hadn’t stepped in and taken charge. He reminded them France had laws for collaborationists. That was what the mayor was—a collaborationist. He would be punished, perhaps beheaded, or at least stuck in prison for fifty years or so, the rest of his life, as payment for all the suffering he’d caused. The people didn’t have as much hate against Albert as they did for le maire. Almost, I pitied that maire. He resembled a balloon with all the air drawn out from it. Monsieur Joubert, the detective I’d thought was a peddler, clamped handcuffs on the two prisoners.

The people milled around the mayor and Albert, Monsieur Niort thundering, mon oncle watching, smiling, his eyes shining. I still felt shaky. I sat near the framework of the runway, in the sunshine, thinking that it was fine to have le maire and Albert caught, but wondering how Monsieur Simonis had managed to escape. That didn’t cheer me, at all. With Monsieur Simonis free, he’d never rest until he’d repaid mon oncle and me for all we’d done. My broken arm started hurting, too. Nobody seemed to notice me any more—not that I blamed them. They were too busy with le maire and Albert, keeping the two talking, explaining. I thought of mon oncle’s avion, cassé, wrapped around that oak tree. It seemed to me as if about everything had gone wrong.

I happened to look up. I saw Suzanne and Charles in front of me. Suzanne reached down, and gently touched my arm. “C’est cassé?” she asked. I nodded. She ran to mon oncle. She spoke to him. He jumped around. Both of them ran back to me. He knelt in front of me. “Jean!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not say you were hurt?” He called to Dr. Guereton.

I didn’t care about my arm as much as I cared that Monsieur Simonis had escaped. Maybe, after all that had happened this morning, I was a little out of my head. I remember, between them, mon oncle and Dr. Guereton carried me, planning to take me back to the automobile. I was shouting not to waste time, to go after Monsieur Simonis. Charles and Suzanne ran along beside me. Suzanne had practical sense, always. She saw I wasn’t going to be satisfied or quiet until I knew how mon oncle and the twins escaped, and where Monsieur Simonis was. Very quickly, mon oncle explained how Suzanne had helped. He said, “Albert and the mayor guarded us while Monsieur Simonis ran to the edge of the cliff to shoot at you. Albert had a revolver. I zink we would right now be dead, maybe, in the cellar if Suzanne had not been so quick. When Simonis was shooting at you, all of us except Suzanne watched. Suzanne ran for the ax. The mayor ran at her. Charles tripped the mayor. Albert forgot me and pointed the revolver at Charles and I—” He snapped his fingers. “I jumped upon Albert and—voilà! That is all. You see the rest.”

I guess I gaped at him. “How did you ever dare to tackle him when he had a gun?”

You know how vain mon oncle is. I guess it’s born in him; he can’t help it. For an answer, he simply snapped his fingers again, said, “Pouf! Am I not a Langres, hein? It was simple.”

And I asked, “But where is Monsieur Simonis?”

“Oh,” said mon oncle, his face changing. “I zink this afternoon we will send men to the bottom of the cliff and we will find him there.”

“He got away by walking down—”

“Walking?” Mon oncle lifted one eyebrow. He rubbed his big nose. “Not by walking. No. I zink he was more interested in shooting at you than seeing where he was going. For a man who does not take care, it can be very dangerous to stand on the edge of a cliff. The rock crumbles.” He eyed me. “You understand?”

I said, “Oh!” and for an instant, it was like being up in that avion again, and having it drop suddenly. Almost, I could see Monsieur Simonis, standing solitary and evil on the edge of that high cliff, concentrating with all his might on me and the avion, stepping forward, one step, another step, aiming his long pistol—and just one more step—

I said, “Oh.” That was all I could say.

Mon oncle changed the subject. He said Monsieur Joubert wanted to see me a minute before he took le maire and Albert to Tulle, where a jail was waiting for them. While the doctor did what he could to my arm, and we waited for the detective to free himself from the crowd, mon oncle told me about Monsieur Joubert. The government had sent him here secretly, convinced someone in le village was aiding the escaped Nazis—but not knowing who it was. The detective had revealed himself to mon oncle, asking for assistance, pledging mon oncle to remain silent about him.

And the detective had heard Charles and me steal out of the hotel last night, not knowing it was us. He tracked us as far as the graveyard before losing us. After that, he’d gone up the montagne to awaken mon oncle and warn him, telling him something was occurring in le village—he didn’t know what—but to remain on guard. After awakening mon oncle, Monsieur Joubert had climbed higher in the montagne, circling to the east, hoping to find traces of someone hiding in the forest, returning to le village about the time I made my unexpected flight in l’avion.

Now Monsieur Joubert approached.

But before he had time to question me, Dr. Guereton rapidly said something. Mon oncle said, “We will take you to the hotel first, Jean. You can answer questions later on.…”

I don’t know, but I think I must have passed out. My arm hurt a lot. Probably I ought to add here, they did find what was left of Monsieur Simonis; parts of him, I understand, were spread over quite a distance.…

By the following day, Dr. Guereton had set my arm in splints, and I was allowed to come down to the main floor of the hotel. Charles and Suzanne were there, dressed in their best clothes. Madame Meilhac was with them, smiling, her cheeks redder than ever. I’d never seen anyone so happy.

Mon oncle informed me the gold and silver had been located. The men from the banks were up at the meadow right now, loading it into trucks. The banks would be opened. From now on, the Meilhacs wouldn’t be poor.

I don’t suppose St. Chamant ever had as much excitement as it did during the next week. By that second day, the news of what had happened had spread all over the country. In the big cities the papers carried accounts of it. A thing happened that neither mon oncle nor I had counted on. The reporters learned from the village people that I had flown the avion—a boy. At least, that’s the account that was printed. The newspapers seemed to believe it was an extraordinary thing, a perfect miracle, for a boy who’d never before in his life been in an avion, to fly all that way down and almost make a perfect landing. It evidently caused talk all over France, because by the third day, the town was filled with reporters and tourists coming in from as far away as Toulouse and Brive and Marseilles and Bordeaux. Madame Graffoulier’s hotel was packed.

When people asked him how a boy could fly his avion, mon oncle would snap his fingers and say in French, “Pouf! It was simple. I built the avion to be flown by anyone. Am I not a Langres?”

Albert and le maire had been taken to Tulle and jail by Monsieur Joubert, who wasn’t simply a detective, but chief of police there. After putting them in jail, he took a train to Paris to explain everything that had taken place to the police in charge of French security. He sent his assistant, a sharp-eyed little fellow, back to St. Chamant to interview mon oncle, the Meilhac twins and me. He was supposed to obtain the whole story of what Charles and I had done, to make everything official. Well, I didn’t understand enough to do any talking. Charles did all the explaining.

Come to think of it, I guess this was the first time mon oncle had heard Charles’ complete account of our adventure, except for what Charles had briefly told him up on the montagne. Now mon oncle’s face became more and more puzzled. “Quoi?” he said. “Quoi?” He looked at me, blinking.

By and by this assistant to Monsieur Joubert gravely got up. He walked to me. He shook hands with me and made a long speech. It was all beyond me. After he finished, the two policemen accompanying him did exactly the same thing. All the time, Charles looked on and grinned, and acted as if this was the proudest moment of his life. When the police had finished with me, they shook Charles’ hand, and seemed to be complimenting him, too. I wondered what on earth he’d told them.

And when all that was done, Monsieur Niort came to me. He said, “Un brave garçon!” which means, “A brave boy!” and he shook my hand. So did the doctor. So did about ten other men listening to what Charles had told the police. Every time they shook my hand I could see Charles visibly inflate with pleasure, as if he were basking in some sort of glory I’d acquired, I didn’t know what. At last mon oncle said hoarsely, perplexed, astounded, bewildered:

“But Jean. Tell me. How did you happen to suspect the mayor was a Nazi accomplice? How, Jean? You must tell us. We are all ears to know how you managed such a stupendous thing.”

I said, “What?”

Mon oncle said, “Monsieur Joubert was told by Charles, up on the montagne, what you had done.” He added crossly, as if slightly vexed, “I wish someone might inform me now and then what my nephew does. Now, Monsieur Joubert has given specific instructions to his assistant to learn how you first suspected the mayor. Monsieur Joubert was unable to ask you when we were all on the montagne. Well?” finished mon oncle, giving me a peculiar look.

I swallowed. “You mean Monsieur Joubert believes I suspected the mayor of being a Nazi?”

“Yes,” said mon oncle, baffled. “Charles has just told us. He has explained everything, how you told him that night he stayed with you that you’d discovered Mayor Capedulocque was a Nazi and how you showed him German money you’d found in the mayor’s house as proof the mayor was a traitor.”

I just sat there, with my one arm hanging limp, and my other arm in the sling, and my legs stuck out straight in front of me. I noticed Charles was smiling at me. He believed I’d discovered the truth about Mayor Capedulocque long before anyone else, and was pleased because at last he’d given me what he thought was the credit I’d earned. And the fact was, it never had entered my head that Mayor Capedulocque—le Maire Capedulocque, I mean—was a Nazi. My scheme hadn’t considered him as a collaborationist. All I’d wanted was to make le maire think a Nazi was in hiding! When all along le maire knew a Nazi was in la montagne and was doing his level best to keep that fact hidden.

That’s what comes of trying to explain a scheme to someone like Charles in a language you can hardly speak. Charles never had gotten my scheme at all in his head. Now I understood why he’d jumped up that night when I was saying, “Le maire—Nazi.” I’d expected he’d realize what I was driving at—that we counted on frightening le maire by pretending to be Nazis!

Mon oncle asked me again, perplexed, how on earth I’d discovered le maire’s secret when no one else had suspicioned it. The police were looking at me as if they wanted to know, too. A couple of reporters from Tulle came in closer. They were waiting for the mystery to be cleared as well. I simply slumped down and fortunately, Dr. Guereton entered and said I’d been questioned enough for today. So I escaped.

That night, I learned from mon oncle, he’d sent off a cable to my parents to inform them I was well and safe in case they’d seen any of the newspaper accounts of our experience. He was tremendously excited. He said le village had voted Monsieur Niort to be the new mayor. After that, le village had voted for a festival for the avion next Sunday. Invitations had been sent to everyone of importance in the district. I asked, “But isn’t the avion cassé?”

“Ah,” he said, mighty cheerful. “Only one wing. Six of the best carpenters in Corrèze are working on it night and day to have it repaired—réparé—for Sunday. Besides, I do not design airplanes that break, airplanes that remain cassé permanently. I design good airplanes. Pouf!” He snapped his fingers. “It is simple to have it ready to fly by Sunday. Am I not a Langres?”

By Saturday morning there must have been nearly two thousand people camped around St. Chamant, or crowded into the maisons and hotel, for the festival—for la fête. The weather was warm, with sunshine. Charles, Suzanne and I went to the workshop and saw the avion, with mon oncle explaining how by tonight the repairs would be completed. He drew me to one side and whispered, “Ah, Jean—” and seemed a shade embarrassed. “Between us, hein? Just how did you suspect the mayor?”

I didn’t have time to tell him I hadn’t ever suspected le maire, because the postmaster ran in at that moment with a cable he said had come all the way from London. It was from my father. He’d read in the Scottish papers about what had happened and had received mon oncle’s cable, assuring him I wasn’t harmed except for a broken arm. He had cabled to tell us he and my mother were leaving London Sunday and would arrive Monday.

We cabled back to try to tell them to leave at once, to be in time for la fête, Sunday. But evidently the cable didn’t reach them in time. They weren’t there, Sunday morning. Dr. Guereton took me as far up the montagne as his car would go. I walked the rest of the way, with Monsieur Niort—now le maire—on one side, and Suzanne and Charles on the other. Behind us came Madame Meilhac, Madame Graffoulier and the Graffoulier kids, and all the rest of le village—tout le monde—everyone, camera men, the people from the surrounding towns and villages. It was like being on a great vast picnic. They had the band playing in the meadow. Monsieur Niort made a speech. He called Charles and Suzanne and me to the platform on the runway, the avion—now repaired—right behind us. Mon oncle was there, too. All of us had to be photographed. It was the most wonderful day I’d ever seen, le ciel blue and clear, the wind blowing gently.

Suzanne wore a new dress, bought in Tulle. Her hair was curly, done up, and she was pretty as a picture. I couldn’t hardly believe she was the same Suzanne I’d seen way early in the summer playing at “peau-rouge,” until she gave me a quick pinch when nobody was looking. “Bon jour,” said she, smiling.

“Bon jour,” I said, pleased to see that same friendly smile. Actually, she and Charles had deserved the credit, all of it. Monsieur Niort finished his speech and turned to distribute the reward of ten thousand francs—about four hundred dollars—between the four of us, mon oncle, the Meilhac twins, and myself. They helped me down; the band played again. Monsieur Niort thundered to everyone that the moment was now here when Monsieur Paul Langres would this time himself voler in his avion.

I looked up at mon oncle Paul. I looked at the avion. Ah, I thought, the avion is grand—is big. The avion is ready to fly. Oncle Paul bent down at me and grinned and said, “Bon jour, Jean,” as if we were together on a joke or secret. I asked, “Are you ready?” and he said he was prêt; he wished to fly very far this time, to make a record. “Très loin,” he said gaily.

Seeing him up there must have reminded Suzanne of that other time when the avion was ready to fly. She became a trifle nervous. She called up, “The airplane isn’t broken?”—that is, l’avion n’est pas cassé?

Mon oncle said, “It’s repaired, don’t worry, Suzanne. It’s ready to depart.” He said all that in French, but I understood that much. Suzanne said, “Good, but please don’t fly too far,” and everybody around laughed. By now, mon oncle entre—entered into l’avion. He called, “An revoir!” and Monsieur Niort chopped the rope and poussed—pushed the avion and away it slid, down the runway and into the air. I heard people in the crowd shouting, “Bonne chance! Bonne chance!” which was their way of saying, “Good luck!”

Mon oncle didn’t voler right down across le village as I’d done. No, he gave all that crowd a show. He soared in the wind. The avion lifted higher and higher until it was no bigger than a bird. It swooped down low over our heads and we thought for sure it was going to land on the meadow—but no! It caught the draft of air rising from the face of the cliff, soaring once more. Oh! I tell you, it was wonderful to watch mon oncle in his avion that jour de la fête! By and by he soared toward le village. Monsieur Niort, the doctor, the Meilhacs and I went down the montagne in the doctor’s car. We roared to the cow field, the others coming along behind. A big black limousine passed us on the lower road, went ahead and was waiting at the cow field by the time we arrived.

We saw mon oncle land, very gently, the wings hardly fluttering. Three men from the black limousine ran to him. Then the crowd surged into the field. I waited in the car. I saw Dr. Guereton and Monsieur Niort lifting the avion on their shoulders—portant l’avion sur les épaules—and carrying it above the crowd, so it wouldn’t be broken a second time.…

That day of the fête passed all too quickly. That night we had a big dinner in the hotel. You know, I’d forgotten all about my leg. I realized my leg was well. It came to me, all of a sudden, as I was sitting at the table on mon oncle’s right, hearing everybody talk and laugh and joke, with Charles and Suzanne sitting opposite me.

At the other end of the table, Monsieur Niort was introducing one of the men who’d been in the black limousine. He explained this man was Monsieur Parousse, a manufacturer from Toulouse, who’d read in the newspapers about mon oncle’s avion and proposed to establish a small factory here in St. Chamant, if mon oncle was agreeable, where Langres avions would be built. Monsieur Toulouse said something about using rocket motors and producing an inexpensive avion anyone could fly, but I was getting sleepy and didn’t hear much of that speech.

I half awakened when mon oncle leaned to me and said anxiously, “Jean!’ Jean! They are asking me again to explain how my nephew discovered that the ex-Mayor Capedulocque was—”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t finish, because right then my mother and father walked into the hotel.