Jean & Charlotte-Philippe Valcour’s residence;

Rue de l’Ouest, Paris.

The smoke-stained curtains were parted demurely for a second or two; Charles peering briefly through the water-streaked window
to see what the conditions outside were like that evening; Christmas Eve.
The cobble-stoned street outside had a grimy layer of slushy snow blanketing it.
The slowly thawing wet-snow was marred by a scattering of boot and shoe impressions, along with horse hoof indentations and parallel grooves slicing through it,
left by passing carriages and wagons.
In that part of Paris, not far from a renowned cemetery, street lights were very feeble, still using flickering, unreliable wax-candles inserted in glass-paned
compartments; the winter darkness made more dismal as a result.
Charles sighed & shrugged, returning to his padded wooden chair parked beside the warmly inviting fireplace where he once again plopped himself down, drawing a nearby oil-lamp closer; scooping up an American periodical, the Southern Literary Messenger, dated June, 1835, turning its pages to finish reading a short fiction story that caught his eye, written by an upstart American writer from Baltimore named Edgar Allan Poe.
Thanks to his wife’s persistent
tutorial efforts, Charles could now
comfortably converse in and read Anglais.
The story written by that emerging American author was called “The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall.“. In later years it would be recognized as one of the first
science-fiction works to be published by an American author. But, Charles could see little ‘science’ in that work of fiction. He winced
every so often; occasionally shaking his head; even bursting out in laughter as he read. Charles also used a pencil to underline passages for future reference.
Supper being over; the dishes, utensils and kitchenware having been washed and dried, his wife quietly slipped into the den where her husband was reading, bearing with her a violin, a bow, and some sheet-music which she spread out on a short-legged table near the fire place.
He interrupted his reading, lifting his eyes to acknowledge his wife’s presence.
“Ahhh – - – You are about to entertain me with some appropriate music played this Christmas Eve, my dear?”
His tender query was met with a silent but warm smile, his wife making tonal adjustments to her instrument; taking her time tweaking the pegs.
“Don’t mind me, dear.” he softly implored, “My eyes maybe open to this literature, but my ears and heart are always open to your lovely melodies. Besides! I’m just a chapter away from finishing this periodical story. It’s well written, though much of it is devoid of scientific facts. Imagine! The hero in this story journeys to the Moon by means of a – - – balloon, aided by a preposterous method of shrinking the vacuum between the Earth and the Moon.”
He snickered, shaking his head derisively.
“I’ve already read it.” Charlotte mumbled, appearing to be paying him scant attention as she continued to tune her violin, “Maybe you’ll have opportunity soon to read one of Mademoiselle Austen’s books; like, Pride and Prejudice, perhaps.”
He tried to conceal a smirk. “Yes, I suppose it could happen, my darling. I see you now have a small but growing collection of books written by women. I have read Mary Shelley’s, Frankenstein,” he confessed. There was a hint of revulsion
in that admission; Charlotte ignored it.
Heartened & curious, she shot him a sanctioning look as she carefully laid aside the violin and bow for the time being, softly shuffling over to his chair where she affectionately draped her arms over his shoulders.
“So you find this American author’s concept of vanquishing the vacuum between the Earth and the Moon to supposedly enable a journey by balloon to that celestial orb to be utter humbug? hmmm?”
He offhandedly grumbled his agreement and nodded. Looking over his shoulders she could see that he was scribbling some math equations on the magazine.
Showing great interest, she asked,
“What are you doing, dear? What are these calculations for?”
He paused and looked up, carefully formulating the answer.
“Let us – suppose that a balloon were to ascend through a – - – theoretically vanquished vacuum, or by some – magic means, up through the aether at an rate of speed of perhaps forty kilometers an hour. And then let us assume that it were to rise high and far enough to be – - – snared by the Moon’s gravity and begin to descend to its surface at that same speed. It would take something like four – hundred – days to span the distance between our world and the Moon!” he scornfully and emphatically declared.
She gave him a little kiss on the cheek.
” I see – - – So how will humanity journey to the Moon in ages to come? Perhaps propelled there in a hollow projectile by a large cannon?
Could it be that the occupants inside may use a series of – - – electrically-detonated gunpowder charges to slow their shell’s descent onto the Moon’s surface?”
Charlotte’s musings, posed as questions, aroused his interest.
She could sense that he was vigorously
pondering a response. Charles once again began to scribble a series of math, as well as physics equations over the remaining untouched margins of the periodical.
He sighed in disappointment upon completing and examining the work.
“The speed of cannonballs emerging from barrels has been measured at rates of over three-hundred meters per second of time.
But to reach the Moon? You would have to accelerate a projectile to theoretical speeds of over eleven kilometers per second to overcome the pull of Earth’s gravity.” he cynically groaned, adding, “And when you take into account the resistance of the elastic fluid, the emergent speed would need to be practically greater still.”
Making some quick mental estimations, Charlotte shook her head ruefully,
“That would mean an unrealistically huge cannon whose barrel would surely rival the height of the highest cathedral spires, several times over – – - and would require gunpowder
in quantities that are extraordinary! Perhaps enough explosive powder to fill the holds of
a thousand ships or more.”
Charles canted his head and tenderly
planted a kiss on one of her hands.
“That is very insightful and true. But
there is something else,” he admitted, while continuing to jot down numbers and algebraic calculations, “If an imaginary
cannon barrel of perhaps a kilometer in length were to propel a projectile to an departure speed of eleven kilometers per second, the mean accelerating rate in the barrel would be? – - – Over sixty-thousand meters per-second of time squared by my calculations.”
Her forehead furrowed in thought as she struggled to comprehend the enormous figure, and what it implied.
“The Earth’s gravitational acceleration value
has been calculated to be just under ten meters per-second of time squared,” she thought aloud, continuing, “and it has both a mathematical and an all too tangible relationship to the measured weight of our body substance – our physical mass.”
Charlotte reached down and grabbed the pencil out of her husband’s hand and scribbled some math of her own over the open magazine page.
“See!’ she posited, “I’m of about fifty kilograms in corporeal quantity. If there were an imaginary place in the cosmos where the gravitational attraction and pull were somehow to be zero, my body would still have fifty kilograms of substance or corporeal quantity! – - – But with the pull of Earth’s gravity, it can be considered fifty kilograms substance multiplied by the acceleration value of Earth’s gravity. That would mean my weight could be considered as a value of nearly five-hundred kilogram gravity-weight units…”
It was as if a light had turned on in Charles’ brain.
“…Which would mean that if you were to be shot out of that imaginary cannon your body would very briefly be subject to gravity-weight
numbers that would soar to – fatal and hideous values of over – - – three-million kilogram gravity-weight units, according to the suggested measure you give.” he elucidated, shuddering in revulsion as he concluded, “If some fool were to gather and stack a pile of wood and brick comparable to the weight of this house, such an enormous quantity and weight crushingly bearing down and compressing some wretched soul’s flesh would fall short of the gravity-weight measurement applied on each of the – - – victims inside that imaginary Moon-bound projectile.”
Charles was eager to divert the subject away from such a hypothetically gory scenario. He became thoughtfully silent, taking in a deep breath and lightly patted one of his wife’s hands.
“My sweet thing? I commend you on your remarkable reinterpretation and reapplication of the kilogram measure, which as we know
was meant to be a measure of weight alone.
But to use it specifically as a measure of corporeal substance – of mass of the substance, aside from its weight in Earth’s gravity, or it’s weight in the Moon’s gravity is a wonderfully novel concept. I think I will use it from now on as such in my science writings, would you approve?”
He didn’t notice the playful glint that came to her eye,
“Of course, my dear. As for the kilogram?
It can still be used as a weight-measure in markets,” she flippantly remarked, “but in the halls of science it should become a measure of substance alone!”
He was silently agreeable.
“Are you now going to compare me to Countess Emilie du Chatelet?”
she jestingly whispered in his ear.
“No! She published her results. You have yet
to do so. We’ll do it together. And I wonder if we can compare her clearly revolutionary discovery of physical quadratics to your admittedly novel and commendable method of reapplying the kilogram measure to substance instead of weight? You would best be compared to Monsieur Lavoisier’s wife.”
Charlotte started giggling. She was sure that he was only being half-serious.
It was her turn to jest in part.
“Flattery is a sin,” she scolded, “and besides, where can one still purchase those powdered pompadour wigs?”
He shrugged.
Shaking off the silliness, becoming quietly contemplative, she resumed her speculation.
“So no cannon, nor balloon would suffice to send any members of humanity to the Moon anytime in the future. – - – what about rockets?”
Charles wasn’t too impressed with the suggestion.
“The day I live to see a rocket ascend higher
than the summit of Mont Blanc
will be the day I strap wings to my body
and soar like the birds.” he skeptically quipped.
Then he thought better of it, pausing to readdress the issue. “Of course that Englishman, Monsieur Congreve
I have heard had plans to build an iron-tubed
rocket that would have weighed a ton – - -
and I wonder if an enormous assembly of those types of rockets? – hundreds, more likely thousands of them, clustered, would
suffice?…”
He gave his head a quick vigorous shake,
doubting his own offhand conclusions.
“No! It’s silly! I’m…”
His words were cut off in mid-sentence, he being distracted by Charlotte’s sudden and obvious discomfort accompanied by a deep moan as she rushed off towards the commode where he heard her vomit.
Alarmed, he thrust himself up off the chair and hurried over, anxiously awaiting her reemergence from the facilities.
She emerged wiping her mouth with a clean cloth, demurely smiling and nodding reassuringly, “You need not worry, my dear, I have had these episodes over the past week. You have been so busy lately, working late hours, and waking late, that you
haven’t witnessed my spewing at other times. – - – I am bearing your child.”
She reverently declared, nervously beaming.
He became numb, unable to respond right away to the news. At last his pleasant sense of shock subsided and he erupted in joy; embracing and kissing her with gusto.
A few minutes later she gently nudged him aside, and wandered over to her neglected musical instrument, picking it up and raising it to her shoulder.
“We can carry on later. It’s Christmas Eve. It’s time for some appropriate music.” his wife calmly remarked; then began to melodiously stroke the strings of her violin with the bow.
As a familiar and moving melody poured off the strings, her husband started to sing along: “Angels from the Realms of Glory – Wing
your flight o’er all the earth – Ye who sing Creation’s Story – Now proclaim Messiah’s Birth…”

Tuesday, mid-morning; October, 11, 1836;

Physics laboratory at the College de France,

Paris.

“Take a look at this, Professeur!”
Charles-Phillippe was covering his eyes with two, small stained-glass disks; one was tinted sky-blue; the other was a blood-red color.
His focus was on a sheet of paper laying on his desk; alternating bands of red, white and blue blanketing the entire sheet.
Professor Jean-Baptiste Biot leaned over his shoulder, asking, “What do you have to show me now, Monsieur Valcour?”
Charles turned aside and at once handed the two colored-glass disks over to his aging overseer, shifting his chair aside noisily to give the professor some space.
“Ahhh! That is interesting, young man.
There are bands that appear to float above the sheet of paper. It’s a very strong illusion of depth.”
The 62-year-old graying and balding scientist handed the two transparent disks
back to his young assistant, giving him a flickering smile of approval.
“An interesting discovery, Monsieur Valcour. I will examine this phenomena in further detail later on today. I will write up a report on it as well at that time,” he explained, showing some anxiety over the time shown on the nearby clock, “But I have an scheduled appointment
to see my physician this morning – - – Nothing that should cause you or I any anxiety. It’s the rheumatism in my hands
that has manifested itself again. It’s no surprise, considering how extraordinarily cold and damp it has been this October.”
Concern furrowed Charles’ brow,
“I’m sorry to hear that, Professeur. I do hope and pray that it will not hinder you from carrying out your experiments and research activities,
which I know you love to do.”
Professor Biot smiled in appreciation, shaking his head to assuage his assistant’s
anxiety.
“I wouldn’t worry. He’ll probably suggest that I take a spoonful of laudanum every so often, That’s what he has prescribed in the past few years.” he hurriedly explained, struggling to slip on his heavy woolen long-coat. After a quick glance at his chained watch, ensuring that its time was reasonably accurate, he thrust on his gleaming black top-hat as he began to leave. But before he reached the open doorway, looking somewhat apologetic he wagged a finger at Charles, explaining, “Monsieur Valcour! Do tidy things up around here.
It is getting rather cluttered and disorganized in here with all these different materials, devices and apparatus scattered about, cramming every available space.
By the way I do regret that I won’t have an opportunity to meet your friend George this morning. Alas, I was looking forward to meeting him; and I understand that he is bringing with him his two-year-old son – - – Another day, I’m sure.” he sighed discreetly.
Charles couldn’t hide his disappointment.
“I’m sorry that you couldn’t stay an hour longer to make his acquaintance, Professeur, he should arrive by then. Regardless, I will pass on your regrets. And I will endeavor to make their visit a pleasant affair.”
Once more his aging supervisor affirmatively pointed an index finger at him, again drawing his attention.
“….And I will have this laboratory tidied up and reorganized to your satisfaction by the time you return this afternoon, Professeur.”
Charles declared, prompting an approving look from his employer before he departed in haste.
The 27-year-old laboratory worker obediently busied himself, gathering up and moving about different items, including books and science instruments, as well as a handful of devices that he himself had made and tinkered with for his own research efforts.
He too yearned to advance into the front-ranks of the scientists of his day, hoping one of his own science papers would get noticed.
The hour dragged on and finally a clatter of approaching footsteps drew his attention. There was a child’s voice heard squealing impishly; then, what sounded like a gruff middle-aged female voice mildly reprimanding the youth. And then there was a familiar voice heard calling out from the hallway.
“Are you here, Charles?”
Charles briskly made his way to the doorway
to greet the arrivals in the typical Gallic way.
George-Richard Marchand, formally attired in civil servant’s apparel worn beneath a thick warm long-coat, cracked a generous grin. He introduced a slightly portly woman, in her mid-fifties, wearing rather drab working-class clothing, Madame Trembley’s deeply wrinkled cherubic face showed a grudging smile as she curtseyed nervously before being kissed on the hand. She happened to be the youth’s grandmother. George then introduced his awestruck and restless two-year-old son, Nicholas to his friend for the first time.
Charles exuberantly reached down and hoisted up the youth.
“So you are Nicholas!” he cooed,
“It’s too bad I haven’t had the chance to see you sooner. I have been so busy, but that’s no excuse. Let me show you around.”
The young boy was much more interested in the plethora of ‘unusual’ objects arrayed
around the room than in being hoisted to Charles’ shoulders.
He brought Nicholas over to one table in particular where there were two large disks mounted back-to-back on a stand, a string coiled around a shaft attached to the disk meant to spin from which the string was stretched out tautly and slung over a nearby small pulley-wheel leaning over the edge of the table and fastened to a lead weight dangling beneath. An assemblage of gears, an clockwork escapement and a pin-restrained pendulum were integrated into the unique device. The immoveable disk had a a cut-out gap, several centimeters wide, along its rim, that revealed a sketch of a man in a baggy outfit on the moveable disk behind it.
Charles beamed with childlike enthusiasm
as he lowered the easily excitable boy
down onto a high stool, strategically placed within easy viewing distance of the aperture on the fixed disk..
“Now, I’m going to show you, your father, and grandmother a remarkable living illusion!”
Charles announced, eagerly turning to wave the other two adults over, “If you please, George, bring over the oil lamp to improve illumination.”
George smiled and shook his head, uttering,
“What are you pulling out of your bag of tricks now, my friend?” he muttered jestingly, as he complied.
With a touch of dramatic flair, Charles suddenly yanked the restraining pin out of the pendulum’s arresting ring and the entire machine immediately came to life as the pendulum at once swung in harmony with the motions of the falling weight and the spinning gears, axle shaft and fast-rotating disk.
“PAPA, EEE MOOOVE!” the young lad
cried out, almost bouncing out of his seat, exceedingly thrilled by what he witnessed. His grandmother however was shocked, even superstitiously alarmed by the demonstration; ending up crossing herself.
Tepidly impressed, George could only bring himself to smile feebly; clapping grudgingly as well.
“I have a colleague who recently purchased a similar device,” he said, “It’s called a phena? – - -phena? – - – kistoscope. Phenakistoscope! That’s quite a mouthful, and it’s not an easy name to remember too. A Belgian, named? – - – named? – - – Monsieur Plateau invented it about four years ago.” George-Richard explained, struggling to recall the
details, “But now you can find such devices for sale in a few novelty shops I’m told.”
Charles chortled somewhat, shrugging indifferently as he lowered George’s son
to the ground. “I’m not surprised. But my device as you can see operates by a clockwork type mechanism which gives the rotating disk a steady spinning rate. The same
cannot be said for Monsieur Plateau’s hand-cranked version,” he gently protested, “This device of mine also has twenty images compassing the rotating disk; Monsieur Plateau’s apparatus only has something like eleven or thirteen I’m told….”
“…Show me! Show me!” Nicholas excitedly,
pleadingly interrupted Charles, yearning to see the demonstration again. The device’s inventor smiling sadly kissed him on the forehead and handed him back to his father,
“Later, maybe. I have other things to show you, young man. But, first! Some treats!”
Charles hastily wandered over to a glass -paned cabinet and upon opening it pulled out a cherry-red stick of candy from a small bowl and cheerfully offered it to Nicholas.
“Merci.” he gratefully whimpered, immediately beginning to suck on one end of it.
“He is be trained, even at an early age to become a gentlemen.” George boasted,
“But what about you and Charlotte? It’s been
two years since you two married, and yet no children.” he added, showing some concern.
His friend shrugged, “We will be blessed when we will be blessed.” he explained, “It’s not like we haven’t tried. Of course I am a little jealous that my younger brother, Henri
has fathered two children already.”
George sensing that he was treading on unwelcome ground changed the topic of conversation back to the device, “You said that your device here has twenty images? drawings? along the rim? Is that why the flickering was minimal when I viewed the moving – - – pictures? – drawings?”
Charles laughed appreciatively,
“Ahhh – - – my friend, you have good insight.
Yes, the twenty images I’ve sketched and arrayed near the rim of the moving disk are
rotated and viewed at an accurately measured rate of – what else? Twenty images a second. I myself calibrated the pendulum on the device using a metronome that you see over there so that exactly twenty images would be viewed every second, reducing the annoying flickering effect to insignificance.
You cannot say the same thing about Monsieur Plateau’s invention with maybe thirteen images a second viewed on his device, if it should happen to be spun at one rotation per second. Furthermore, I will show you a device I invented and used to arrange and sketch my images to obtain realistic motions.”
Charles motioned to his adult guests to
join him at a nearby counter-top where he took the oil lamp, raising it up on a stand where its strong light streamed through a frosted glass-plate onto a mirror aligned 45 degrees off of horizontal inside a rectangular box.
The light that was reflected downward passed through a thin sheet of paper, sandwiched between two glass plates, on which sheet was sketched a familiar-looking drawing.
The downward projected outline of the sketch
was revealed on a sheet of paper beneath.
He took a pencil and quickly but skilfully
altered the outlines of the image shown on the paper, keeping the basic form of an outlined image of a reclining man, but changing its inclination and subtly altering its posture. George’s memory was jogged.
“That image – that projected drawing looks familiar,” he claimed, “It’s a drawing of that pantomime artist, Monsieur Deburau whom we saw performing at the theatre-du-Funambles four years ago! I remember you later showing us those sketches you made of him at that time.”
Charles responded silently for the moment by stretching out his forearm and demonstratively shifting its inclination back and forth, making sure they noticed.
“You see that?” he challenged them,
‘If I were to sketch twenty or so realistic drawings of the altered positions of my arm
and showed them on that machine, perhaps painting each sketched frame in faithful colors, you would observe a realistic representation of my arm’s motions.”
George and his mother-in-law glanced at each other. George looked like he was warming to his friend’s ideas and handiwork; she remained wary and suspicious of anything that she couldn’t comprehend; having no desire to either.
“By the way, George, I am also designing and will seek a patent on a more ambitious contrivance working on these principles that will use a cloth – belt on which would be sketched and painted one hundred, maybe two hundred consecutive images that will be reeled beneath a viewing frame and wrapped around a – drum of sorts at a good rate of speed to generate similar illusions of motion, but showing sketched gesticulations or activities…”
“…lasting up to ten seconds.” George jumped in, “You can show moving imagery that
would constitute a brief silent story; a mechanical and a very brief pantomime.”
“Again you show good insight into my way of thinking, my friend, ” Charles sincerely praised George, “But enough about this device! I think you and your son came to see the apparatus for my helicoptere experiments!”
Charles hustled his visitors over to a table on top of which was mounted an pedestal with a disk base. The clamp-fastened pedestal base had a hollow metal tube fitted in a hole in the middle, allowing the tube to spin once given impulse by its attached and wound string
that was draped over a pulley-wheel. There was a hook on the end of the string to attach lead weights of different sizes onto. Inside the hollow shaft of the tube were a pair of
flanking flanges, protruding inward, on which
a pair of corresponding grooves on a narrower and longer hollow metal shaft slipped down onto. That narrower rod had two ‘wings’
projecting out in opposite directions from near the top. And at the top end was a small metal cup, of sorts, fitted.
Charles took one small lead-weight of about 150 grams and put it inside the cup on top of the winged tube. He then took a lead weight of about 500 grams and hooked it onto the string and, with his guests looking on, he let that heavier lead-weight drop.
The string immediately snapped taut and
was swiftly reeled over the pulley-wheel and down, causing the hollow metal shaft that it was attached to – to immediately begin to rotate, rapidly gaining rotational speed. The narrower winged tube inside was likewise spun up; a fluttering sound was heard and it began to rise up inside its tubular sleeve; it’s winglike blades providing the lifting force.
The accelerating activity lasted only a couple of seconds before the lead block hit the floor, causing the lifting force to rapidly wane and cease.
George’s two-year-old son was disappointed. George didn’t look too impressed himself. However, his mother-in-law had enough. Angrily she demanded that her son-in-law hand over his son so she could take him home right away. Not willing to
confront his wife’s mother at that moment, he grudgingly concurred, surrendering Nicholas
over to the care of his grandmother who wasted no time whisking the suddenly tearful and wailing young lad away from those premises.
George gave Charles a resigned look, sighing, “So it is with uneducated proletariat mothers-in-law.” he said, shrugging demurely before changing subjects, “Anyways, my friend, I don’t want to quench the fires of inspiration in you, but just over half-a-century ago an inventor named Monsieur de Launoy and his mechanic assistant, Monsieur Bienvenu designed, built, tested and demonstrated a similitude of your helicoptere device shown here.
The primary difference between his contrivance and yours is that the motive power for his invention came from wound gut-string held under tension; while you use falling weights to generate the necessary lift.”
Charles frowned, shaking his head in exasperation, “No! No! No! That is not a fair
assessment! This apparatus over here is to test the efficiency of different lifting-wing designs that I have been working on. So far….”
he moaned, “….I have designed, built and tested lifting-wings of different shapes that yield lift-weight to drop-weight ratios of – up to and a little more than fifty percent. I think I could do better. The most promising designs are those resembling maple seeds.”
His eyes tracked his friend making an unexpected move by graciously stooping down to pick up the 500 gram lead-weight, offering it back to Charles.
“Here! Wind up the string again and give it another go.” George cheerfully implored, “This time put the two-hundred gram weight instead in the cup on top.”
Charles once more set up the experimental device and let the drop weight go. The rotational wings once more spun up to speed, and lift was generated, though not as much height was gained as by the previous effort. Charles was surprised to see George briskly moving his open hands about beneath and to the sides of the spinning wings. He eyed George inquiringly,
“What are you hoping to learn? Or what have you discovered?” he asked him.
George seemed to ignore his friend for a time.
He finally looked up, thoughtfully replying,
“Wind! You are creating artificial miniature wind blasts by means of this device,” he retorted, “miniature cyclonic wind blasts. There does appear to be a practical potential for this effect, but the problem is – is that the impelled or propelled atmospheric atoms are scattered, their force and impulse being dispersed instead of concentrated or focused.”
Charles pondered his friend’s conclusions
and then asked, “What would you do to
alleviate such a dispersion, George? Use a conduit of some sort?”
George’s face brightened.
“Why, certainly! That is an excellent suggestion! A conduit – a tunnel for artificial miniature winds! – - – A tunnel which would concentrate and guide the flow of the moving elastic fluid. Such a tunnel could be fitted with dividing panels to convert these artificial cyclonic winds in to a – linear flow – - –
And if the artificial-wind tunnel were to have a suitably large diameter matched by revolving wings? – blades? of sufficient lengths, with the necessary power available to spin them at great speeds, then one can insert an experimental water trough inside
on which a model of a sailing-ship, or any kind of ship model can be tested. One can suppose build miniature windmills to test the efficiency of different designs in such a machine. What else can it be used for?”
Charles spread apart his hands silently
and solemnly, “Time will tell.” he replied.

WHICH PATH TO TAKE.

Shortly before noon,
Saturday; July, 07, 1832;

Cafe du Bonne Camaraderie,
Rue des Ecole, Paris.

“Hey! What are you doing there sitting alone by yourself, scribbling away on some sheets of paper? What are you scribbling? Some gibberish I imagine!” George-Richard jestingly called out,
startling his fellow alumnus and friend, Charles-Philippe who had been deeply engrossed in working on some sketches, notes and calculations that he had busied himself with on top of an outdoor cafe tabletop.
Charles snapped out of a state of virtual obliviousness to his surroundings, so involved was he in his activities, thrusting
himself sideways on his chair to face his
arriving acquaintance. He immediately noted the attractive young female that his friend
had arrived with. Charles perked up and politely rose to greet the two.
“Greetings my good friend, George.”
he uttered amiably before planting kisses on his cheeks, and then turned and took hold of the young lady’s offered hand and gave it a kiss as well, hastily sliding out a chair from the table, “I’m glad to make your acquaintance – Welcome! – May I offer you a chair, here? mada? – - – made?…”
“…Mademoiselle! – - – Mademoiselle
Charlotte-Louise Dupuis.” she explained, adding, “And yes, I will take a seat. Visiting the popular sites in Paris is very draining.
Merci Beaucoup. And you are! – - – Monsieur Charles-Philippe Valcour from Bayeux! George over here told me a great deal about you on the coach to Paris.”
Charles snickered softly, “I hope he told you only good things. Your accent! It doesn’t sound like you’re from Chartres
where I understand George went to visit his family these past few weeks. And, George, this beautiful woman is distracting me – - – I’m sorry! I meant to ask you how your trip went?”
His friend having helped himself to a spare chair beside the table seated himself and gently rocked his head side to side in silent response, not looking particularly impressed, replying, “It went well. But it’s great to be back in Paris…”
“Waiter!? Waiter!”
The young woman temporarily ignoring Charles’ comment drew the attention of one of the young servers wandering about with a tray containing glasses and cups filled with different beverages.
“Yes, Madame.” he nodded in anticipation, having hastened to the table.
She politely smiled at his error,
“Mademoiselle! It’s Mademoiselle Dupuis. And I would like a small glass of sherry if you please.” she explained, almost patronizingly. A faint look of
irritation flashed across the server’s face, perceiving the young woman to be slightly impudent.
Sighing barely audibly, he responded, “Yes,
Mademoiselle.”
Charles and George looked at each other in
mild astonishment. They found it remarkable that a young French woman lacked such deference towards men.
“Monsieur Valcour? Regardless of my – accent, I am originally from Chartres. Like your friend George here I also spent much of the
month of June and part of July visiting family and relatives. My father is a banker
there.”
Charles was attempting to interject when she preempted him, “As for my accent? That is probably due to the fact that I spent almost a third of my still youthful life living and studying in England. I attended a school, if you wish to call it that, called the Newington Academy for Girls, founded by a very progressive-minded couple, whose names are Monsieur William Allen and his wife, Madame Grizell Hoare; both of whom are Quakers and abolitionists.
That – academy, which was established only
eight years ago, offers comprehensive and advanced education to girls and to young women like myself.”
Looking astonished, Charles slowly gesticulated, “And this school or academy – - – is it in London? How long did you attend? And what did you learn there?” he asked, clearly interested in finding out.
“It’s located in a town called Stoke-Newington, a little more than eight kilometers north of London.” she enthusiastically replied,
“I attended the academy for seven years,
finishing my intended courses this spring.
And the subjects taught there are diverse…” she gushed,”…ranging from the arts, languages and theology to the sciences. And I studied and read up on the works of Shakespeare, Bunyan and Milton. I studied mathematics; including algebra, trigonometry and calculus. I studied the works of Newton
and that of other natural philosophers. Oh!
And I now feel quite comfortable conversing in, and reading and writing Anglais.”
Charles’ jaw nearly dropped; he glanced over at George, looking for confirmation from his friend.
The young man from Chartres
kept mum; silently indicating his disapproval, wary not to say anything that would incite the young woman to respond reproachfully.
He had already experienced her sharp verbal jabs to his regret.
“I can teach you Anglais, if you wish, Monsieur Valcour.”
she offered him, confidence in her voice.
Charles no longer looked surprised; he showed a look that went beyond mere admiration. His heart was beginning to rule his emotions.
“I would gladly take you up on your offer,
assuming you plan to stay in this city. – - – You are planning to stay?” he asked, earnestly
anticipating a favorable response.
She nodded, sipping her strong drink before
explaining,
“I came to Paris to offer my services to those who want their children taught to play violin.
I was taught to play the instrument and to read music before I went to England.
The music of Handel and Mozart are my preference. And I will also work as a seamstress in this city to earn additional income.”
George-Richard paid no attention to the two at that moment, distracted by the waiter
who came over to offer him a beverage.
He asked for a “Schweppes” mineral water. Meanwhile, Charles had virtually ignored his own bubbling drink, showing more interest in the female visitor than in his own imported carbonated beverage.
“Oooh! My manners!” she exclaimed,
“I meant to offer you my congratulations, Monsieur Valcour on your graduation and attainment of a Master’s Degree in the Sciences from the Polytechnique. I’m also delighted to learn from your friend here that you have turned aside all offers to take up a military commission that you are apparently entitled to receive upon your graduation there. Welcome back to civilian life.”
Not waiting for his reply, she immediately glanced over to the sheets of paper that Charles had been working on; intensely curious as to what they contained.
“Merci.” he softly intoned;
having taken his time responding to her compliment, “But, please, call me Charles.”
He at once noted her interest in his papers.
“Do you want to take a look at what I have – scribbled down on the sheets, Mademoiselle Dupuis?”
She silently nodded; a soft inviting smile rolled across her face. Her heart was beginning to rule her emotions too.
“Yes – please. And do call me Charlotte.”
she cheerfully requested.
He obligingly pushed the papers in her direction at once. She studied the technical-looking drawings and the accompanying notes
and calculations with a great deal of interest, and at times puzzlement. At last she looked up, asking,
“A helicoptere? Is that what you plan to call this – - – device that will rise to great heights in the air, Charles?” she asked, musing aloud.
It was his turn to nod.
“Yes! I derived the name from the amalgamation of the Greek words for spiral or curved, which is helix; and for wing, which is pteron. Just look at the winged seeds that fall off the maple trees, They call them Samara…” he breathlessly emoted, having an index finger twirling
to accentuate his explanation, “…and when they drop, the spinning motion of those winged seeds slows them down like a parachute. However – in theory – if they should spin faster they will either hover in equilibrium with the pull of gravity in the elastic fluid, or they will rise against it if they spin sufficiently fast.”
She spread apart her hands, a look of generous approval on her face.
“That is quite a reasonable explanation and conjecture, Charles. I gather that you do not
plan to have a steam engine as the prime mover for this planned device. Is it because of the weight of the boilers and the fireboxes?”
He casually nodded, answering,
“That’s quite correct.”
“And why then this proposed use of – an pressurized acid-gas powered piston and cylinder engine to rapidly spin the – rotating wings? Why not use compressed-air stored in metal cylinders? Or strong clockwork springs…?
George jumped into the conversation, giving Charles a sharp, mockingly scolding look,
“…Aha! So that’s why you asked our former chemistry lecturer, Professeur Gay-Lussac a question about the – possibility of developing an engine powered by fixed air liberated from chalk by muriatic acid! You scoundrel you.” he laughed.
Flustered, Charles didn’t know whom he should respond to first. Regaining his composure he politely waved off George’s ribbing, then started to correct the young lady, “Proper scientists nowadays do not use the words compressed-air if referring to the
common atmospheric mixture. We prefer to describe it as compressed elastic fluid.
As for why I wouldn’t use compressed elastic fluid to provide the power needed for this proposed machine? I have carried out calculations that show that compressed elastic fluid, even at stored pressures of – say – ten or twenty atmospheres, would only generate sufficient force to keep the engine for this helicoptere functioning effectually – enough to produce lift – for a few seconds of time at most. Ten perhaps,
or a little more. Not satisfactory at all.
A clockwork spring-driven device would be inferior still. It would either fail to generate
a suitable force to propel a passenger-carrying winged craft upwards, or it would only generate the necessary force for lift for maybe a second – optimistically. So you do see the disadvantages of using those two inferior power sources for such a machine, do you not?”
“I do.” she acknowledged, “But would an hypothetical acid-gas engine powered helicoptere have any advantages over – say – an hydrogen-filled
balloon?”
Charles paused cautiously and thoughtfully,
“Ahhhhh – - – While a hydrogen balloon can stay aloft for hours, and reach altitudes that
couldn’t possibly be attained by my designed helicoptere, since the planned
acid-gas engine required would use up the liberated fixed-air in less than…”
“…one, maybe two minutes!” George abruptly interjected, declaring, “I haven’t forgotten the details of the explanations that Professeur Gay-Lussac gave you, my friend.”
Charles snickered somewhat, briefly distracted, before collecting his thoughts once more. Charlotte showed great interest
in what he had to say.
“Go on!” She urged him, “You were saying?”
“Yes!” he went on, “George is quite correct.
The acid-gas engine required for this winged
machine would use up its supply of fixed-air in one or two minutes according to my calculations, even if I were to provision it with over a hundred kilograms of chalk with the additional and corresponding quantity of muriatic acid. But if that means only one minute or so aloft? that would be sufficient since this machine would be intended for use as a military observation platform. And unlike a hydrogen-filled balloon,
which at times takes hours to inflate, and often requires expensive and hazardous chemicals as well, but in much larger quantities, to produce the necessary but perilously combustible gas, this helicoptere would have obvious advantages over it
in that it can be transported partially disassembled to where it is needed by means of a special wagon. And upon arriving at its destination it can be speedily deployed, reassembled and sent aloft with an observer in a matter of minutes.”
“I see.” she subtly scowled, sounding disappointed, “Yet another device or machine
invented by men for the expressed purpose
of fighting a war to kill more men – – – Haven’t you read the book of that ancient Jewish prophet, Micah?” she mildly entreated.
Uneasiness and guilt washed over Charles.
He thoughtfully, silently fingered his paperwork after she wearily slid them them back to him.
“Of course. The Old Testament. Micah – - – chapter – four – verse – three? They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks! Of course, the prophet Isaiah also repeated that statement, more or less in chapter two of his book.” he replied, revealing some uncertainty.
She responded with a brief playful flurry of rapid hand claps.
“Tres Bien! Bravo! Bravo! Well done! It’s clear that you not only read it, but it’s also evident that you possess a copy of the Holy Book. Astonishing! – - –
You being a baptized Catholic – a layperson at that – it amazes me that you have a copy of the Holy Scriptures considering the edict that came out of the Council of Trent,” she commented, expressing genuine astonishment,
“What were they afraid of that they went to all the trouble of trying to keep the Holy Bible out of their laity’s hands?” she mused in passing.
Charles squirmed a little, showing some irritation as well, “Amazing or not, I do have a copy. As for me being a lay Catholic?
I was sprinkled by a priest when I was too young to make the decision for or against.
And since I believe the Creator has given all
adults a freewill to choose whether we want to be religious or not, I chose not to be.”
He added, “And you, Charlotte? Your – aversion to things military clearly shows the influence of the Quakers on you. Was your father one?”
Frowning, she moaned in protest, “No, and where is this conversation wandering off to? I believe it wondered off when you quoted Micah. All I wanted was for you to consider the possibilities of turning potential instruments of war into profitable peacetime utility.”
Chastened somewhat, Charles exhaled contritely, “I see.” he breathed out, “Yes, you have expressed a commendable goal to pursue. – – - Perhaps this planned helicoptere of mine may hoist up an land surveyor in peacetime to reconnoitre a landscape for purposes of road building, canal excavation, or locating ideal settings for new towns or cities.”
She immediately thrust a finger affirmatively in his direction as she abruptly arose from her chair.
“Now that is what I want to hear from you!” she firmly extolled, shooting an anxious glance towards a nearby door. “I need to find a water-closet to relieve myself. I hate these common public latrines, like the one down the street; I avoid them if possible. Do these premises contain an accessible water-closet, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” Charles nodded, pointing to that same doorway, “ask the proprietor. He will escort you to it.”
“Merci.”
And she was off in a hurry.
As they waited, giving one another a look of
anxious expectancy, it was George who finally spoke first.
“What do you think of her, my friend?” he almost whispered, “I myself think that she’s rather too outspoken; even socially uninhibited, I might add. – It’s a shame – What do you think, Charles?”
He allowed his eyes to wander from place to place, reluctant to reveal his true feelings for her to his friend.
“She’s interesting.” he finally remarked rather coyly.
“By the way!” George announced, “She has purchased a ticket in advance to go see that pantomime performer and actor, Monsieur Jean-Gaspard Deburau, tonight at the theatre-du-Funambules.
I also bought a ticket to the eight ‘o’clock
show. Do you want to join us?”
Charles dreamily nodded. At last he blurted out, “I think I’m in love with her.”

Late Afternoon…

He was subject to some occasional and gentle ribbing from his friend over the remainder of the day when Charlotte was out of earshot. Charles graciously brushed off
his friend’s wisecracks, pretending not to hear them. Charles was romantically distracted,
hardly taking his eyes off of the young woman from Chartres.
She did wander about that afternoon, not venturing too far from her male companions, either viewing something of interest or asking questions of strangers.
That evening the three climbed into a hackney carriage and instructed the driver
to take them to the theater located on the
Boulevard du Temple.
Charles had little interest in theatrical
entertainment or drama then, preferring his books, but his heart overruled his mind that evening.
Seeing the three-story building housing the theatre-du-Funambules for the first time, Charles wasn’t too impressed with its drab masonry exterior and its plain
marquee displaying the title of the production
that was being staged that summer night. However those thoughts vanished when he saw a somewhat paunchy man with outrageous chalky white makeup and wearing a baggy white outfit take the stage that was remarkably well-illuminated by gas lamps and perform a dramatic play in astonishing silence.
Forgetting his two companions seated next to him, Charles was mesmerized. Having just sufficient light where he sat to see and pull out a blank sheet of paper and his pencil he began to discreetly sketch the performer in four different poses that stood out for him. He didn’t realize at that time that those four drawings were to serve as an embryo for a new form of entertainment and image recording.

Close to Midnight…

His two companions dropped him off a short walking distance from his residence.
It was ill-advised. Charles was slightly disoriented and illumination was poor. He took a wrong turn and ended up on an unfamiliar street. There was a lot on his mind that night as well…

Having graduated from the Polytechnique with honors that spring, and with two notable references obtained from Professor’s Gay-Lussac and Ampere, he was able to secure employment of sorts for the time being as an humble laboratory assistant to a somewhat controversial physics professor named Jean-Baptiste Biot who taught and carried out scientific research at the College de France, earning Charles only twenty-five francs a day; a barely adequate sum, with food and rent taking the bulk of it.
He wondered if he would have to look elsewhere soon for more prestigious work with better pay.
And his thoughts kept returning to Charlotte.
Finally, looking up at the stars, locating the Big Dipper, he use its position to try and reorient himself. He wandered over to a street intersection and looked at the nearby, poorly-illuminated street signs fastened to the corners of a building there.
Moaning softly, he asked himself, “Which way? Which path to take? Which direction?”
It was not just street directions he was referring to; he was also thinking of his future.

——————————-

Charles smiled in satisfaction, wiping some perspiration off his brow.
“‘I think I have ground the gunpowder
mixture in the bell jar sufficiently fine, professeur.” he said, looking to his mentor, Gay-Lussac who paid him scant attention at that moment while reviewing some notes that he had brought along with him.
“Good!” he growled softly, responding somewhat flippantly. The professor finally put the papers aside and glancing at his chain watch he mused with some concern,
“It looks like my distinguished friend and colleague, Professeur
Ampere is late. He is supposed to be bringing with him a reliable voltaic pile that he himself made for this experiment. We do need at least two for a good series connection. I do hope he has not been waylaid somewhere; it is getting dark out there now.” he added, staring at the temporarily shuttered window nearby, and then over at the flickering oil lamp off to one corner of the room that was their sole source of light. He shrugged in disappointment,
“Oh well! We can perform this experiment tomo…what??”
Gay-Lussac turned, distracted by a distant faint metallic clatter of a key rattling in a lock, followed in short order by the muffled squealing of a door and then a reverberating clatter of footsteps that grew louder; becoming more obvious when it came from a nearby stairwell.
Giving his bright student-assistant a confident nod, “I’m sure that’s him I hear coming.” he affirmed, ” I lent him a spare set of keys to this building yesterday.”
Charles-Philippe, rubbing his fingers to restore circulation, eagerly rushed over to the laboratory entrance, hastily opening the door for the late arriving scientist-lecturer.
“Bonjour, Professeur Ampere. Welcome.” Charles gushed.
“Bonjour, young man. I do remember seeing you at one of my lectures this past spring.
And I do recall the earlier incident with the horse and carriage.” he smirked, “Charles-Philippe Valcour, is it?”
The science student nodded coyly.
I’m glad I could make it. I apologize to you both for my tardy arrival.” their visitor explained, then turned to give his greetings to Gay-Lussac.
Gesturing to the invaluable package the distinguished visitor carried, Charles spoke, “I see you have brought along the additional voltaic pile that we need. I will be glad to take it. Do you want me to take your hat and coat as well, Professeur Ampere?”
“Merci. Indeed, do take the device off my hands! I will stow my own coat and hat.” he replied, immediately handing Charles the portable electric-power
source.
Professor Ampere was soon scurrying about, examining the set-up for the experiment with great interest; his eyes going over every centimeter of the apparatus.
“I see that you have a glass bowl at the bottom of the bell jar with the ground up and mixed gunpowder ingredients spread in a thin layer inside.” and added, “I also see that Monsieur Valcour your assistant here has drawn up the rod-and-disk pestle to a marked height. Hmmm, looks like the disk is – perhaps, ten centimeters above the bottom of the bowl – - – and the disk is made of iron, isn’t it?”
Gay-Lussac nodded, explaining,
” We made sure the iron disk was free of rust to keep external sources of oxygen away from the powdered carbon and sulfur. Also it reduced the risk of there being an accidental discharge of static electricity. Now, as you can see…” he pointed out, indicating the continuing preparatory work that his young assistant was engaged in, “…how this young man is turning two handles on the top of this altered bell jar to swing two hooked copper wires close together over the glass bowl. Now watch!”
Both professors of science warily observed as Charles-Philippe pushed one hooked wire down into the gunpowder, pressing down on its connecting handle; then repeating this effort with the other: giving each of the handles one final adjustment to make sure the wire tips were only a few millimeters apart.
Charles stopped, looked up and nodded.
“We’re ready to use the voltaic piles.” he affirmed, “Professeur Ampere? For your safety please step behind this protective double-glass shield over here.”
Momentarily mystified, Professor Ampere asked,
“Double-glass shield? How will that offer us protection should, heaven forbid, the bell-jar violently shatter?”
Gay-Lussac slapped his colleague’s shoulder encouragingly, “Relax, my friend. There’s a generous layer of clear gelatin between these two layers of glass. This simple but prudent form of protection is the idea and handiwork of Monsieur Valcour here. He’s very intelligent and practical I confess.”
“I agree.” Andre Ampere nodded,
“I can see how it would work should things go perilously awry during this experiment. Glass shards flying off a shattered bell jar like grapeshot would likely shatter or fracture the
facing glass plate, but the soft gelatin would absorb the force of the impacts, keeping the glass plate on the opposite side undamaged. And the transparent gelatin would also allow us to observe the effects of the experiment with reasonable clarity.
I can see other practical applications for this – - – safety device.
Have you applied for a patent on it, young man?”
Charles paused coyly,
“Yes, I have, Professeur.” he admitted, “Professeur Lussac has been kind enough to assist me in that effort.”
“I’m not the least surprised.” Professor Ampere smiled approvingly as he took his place behind the protective glass.
Gay-Lussac scooped up a pencil and notebook to record the science observations before joining the two men already prudently huddling in the cramped corner behind the glass shield.
They all looked anxiously at each other,
Andre Ampere uttering a small prayer before asking, “My dear friend, I do hope that the vacuum pump still attached to the jar
won’t fly off and knock over the oil lamp over there should the experiment go disastrously.”
Gay-Lussac soothingly shook his head,
“I wouldn’t be concerned about it. We’re only using four grams of powder.” He then called out to Charles who was grimly holding two cloth-wrapped wires well apart,
“Monsieur Valcour! Now!”
A moment later there was an bright yellow-orange flash emitted from the bottom of the bell jar, followed by a sudden expansion
of hot gases and smoke; with whitish particulate matter from the smoke almost instantaneously depositing itself on the interior surface of the surprisingly unscathed bell jar glass. There was also the sound of a loud muffled “boom”.
Furiously scribbling down his observations in his notebook, Professor Gay-Lussac paid scant attention to his two companions
who warily rose in silent relief and triumph,
glancing at each other for momentary assurance.
Concluding his writing for the time being he
abruptly arose, quietly and thoughtfully pondering the results as he did. Then in a moment of sudden spontaneity the three began to hug, kiss and slap each other on the back, joyfully
expressing their modest triumph. They had become the first experimenters to prove that gunpowder can be ignited, even detonated in a ‘vacuum’.

An hour later:

Professor Gay-Lussac’s office.

Charles-Philippe, as a youthful assistant to his renowned Polytechnique chemistry professor, tried to stay in the background, feeling somewhat inadequate in the presence of the two middle-aged scientists of repute who were at that moment enjoying their friendly chat accompanied by wine. All three had glasses in their hands containing some fine vintage graciously provided by Gay-Lussac.
The novel experiment that they had carried out an hour earlier with impressive results was still fresh on their minds and remained the main topic of conversation; Professor Lussac having finished writing up the relevant details in his science notebook and then had both Professor Ampere and Charles come over to his office nearby for a celebratory drink.
In his role as assistant to his chemistry professor, Charles had the task of taking a few necessary measurements. He used a thermometer to record the before and after temperatures on the exterior surface of the
bell jar. He measured the net barometric pressure of the gases created by the ignited gunpowder. He also measured how far the rod-and-disk pestle was shifted upwards by the detonation of the common explosive.
It was this last measurement result that would stick with Charles.
When the experiment was repeated the next day, instead of the air being almost completely pumped out it was kept at the same pressure as the air outside the bell jar was as an experimental “control”. When that fresh gunpowder charge was detonated the rod-and-disk pestle was shifted upward no more than 80 percent of the distance the same pestle had been displaced by the ‘explosion’ of an equal amount of gunpowder in the air-evacuated bell jar.
Charles and his noted chemistry instructor and mentor would conclude and calculate that the gunpowder gases that evolved in the near-vacuum conditions had an expansion velocity that was somewhere
between 10 and 14 percent greater than similar gases expanding under normal atmospheric pressure. But that follow-up experiment, with its startling results, was yet to be
carried out; being an afternoon away…

The three experimenters continued to enjoy their wine and fellowship as that Friday night wore on; the two professors doing virtually all the talking.
Standing there listening, Charles-Philippe was intrigued by what he considered a profound statement uttered by Professor Gay-Lussac when he made mention of the late Monsieur Lavoisier’s chemistry research and how it related to the experiment that they had performed that evening; describing the process of oxidization
that that 18th century scientist discovered as an affirmation of the “constancy of change” to be found in nature.
The two aging scientists continued talking for several more minutes, Charles remaining silent in the background for the most part.
However the phrase “constancy of change” lingered in his mind.
The young science student did
ponder something else that came to him; suddenly realizing a possibly that had not occurred to him previously.
Clearing his throat to get the attention of the two professors, he hesitantly asked them,
“Professeur Ampere? Professeur Lussac?
Do you think that a nitrous acid and powdered carbon mixture would be combustible in a vacuum as well?”
Their reply was swift, confident
and rather cavalier.
“Why not?” they replied in near unison, shrugging; immediately resuming the conversion the two had been carrying on between them as if Charles were not there. The conversation carried on for a few more minutes but then began to wilt: it was getting late and the wine glasses were almost empty.
As the wind-up clock in Professor Gay-Lussac’s office chimed Ten O’Clock, his academic peer set aside his nearly drained glass, turning to take up his long coat and top hat, glancing over at his friend and fellow academic, smiling as he slipped them on.
“It has been a splendid and profitable evening, my good friend…”he remarked.
Then turning to look in the direction of Charles-Philippe, he asked, “Monsieur Valcour!”
Charles perked up.
“Yes, Professeur Ampere!”
“Having heard from my distinguished fellow scientist here that you have an interest
in the practical application of machines,
engines, prime movers, I have a book that may interest you. It is no longer in print, and it is exceedingly difficult to find a copy nowadays. It was written by the son of a famous engineer. perhaps you have heard of him. Nicholas Leonard Sadi Carnot.”
Charles was flabbergasted. Feeling slightly numb he stammered out,
“Oh oh oh – yes! I have heard of him and I have been informed by others that his book contains unique insights into heat engines from a mathematical standpoint. You have a copy?” he inquired hesitantly.
“You can have it!” Professor Ampere declared, “I’ll deliver it to Professeur Gay-Lussac. He will pass it on to you. Consider it a gift.”
Charles was again momentarily speechless. At last he softly uttered, “Merci, Professeur Ampere.”
“You’re quite welcome, young man. But before I leave tonight, I have to ask you:
What practical application do you see emerging from this experiment that was carried out tonight?”
Charles thought for a second, then grinning mischievously, he replied, “Perhaps one day the army will mount a cannon on the Moon
and fire a projectile into orbit around that celestial body.”

————————————-

FOOTNOTE:

A little over ten months later, Charles-Philippe
Valcour, assisted by his friend and fellow science student, George-Richard Marchand
put together the same apparatus that had been used that Friday evening. And under the watchful eye of Professor Gay-Lussac, they
successfully ignited a small vacuum-frozen
mixture of powdered charcoal and a highly-concentrated quantity of what they called “nitrous acid” contained within that same bell jar.
The only real difference in the apparatus used in the experiments carried out ten months apart was the use of short lengths of borrowed gold wire, instead of copper, to set off an electric spark in the acidic mixture.
The slushy, highly corrosive and potent mixture, coated with a thin layer of acidic-ice not only ignited but generated an explosive flash and force that rivaled that of
an equal amount of gunpowder within the bell jar, resulting in it fracturing; something that had not happened with the gunpowder tests.
Charles did not need to take any measurements to affirm that the explosive
potency and energy of the “nitrous-acid” and powdered carbon solution was greater than that of exploding gunpowder, but he did cheerfully set about to formally gather the necessary measurements as he intended to do
after the successful climax of the experiment.
Neither he, nor Gay-Lussac, nor George-Richard realized at that time that they had taken an important step towards the development of a new form of rocket and rocket propulsion; those fiery projectiles
used at that time period being little more than
crude unreliable gunpowder-burning ordnance,
or fireworks.

THE CONSTANCY OF CHANGE.

Monday morning; July, 26, 1830.
Charles-Philippe Valcour’s dormitory room;

The knocking on his dormitory
room door was loud, incessant and annoying.
“I’m awake! I’m awake!” Charles growled groggily, “What on earth is happening out there, George, that you have to rouse me from the sleep I so badly need?”
There came a muffled and excited reply,
“Come on, my friend! wake up! The students are taking to the streets! They are throwing up barricades across them! The despicable bourgeois tools of
king Charles are raiding and vandalizing the popular printing shops!”
Charles shook his head in puzzlement as he struggled to the door in semidarkness, rubbing his eyes as he reached for the doorknob.
“Students taking to the streets? Barricades? Tools of the king? What are you talking about, George? What time is it?” Charles demanded to know as he opened the door to his anxious and agitated friend, George-Richard Marchand.
The hazy dim light in the dormitory building corridor clearly showed Charles’ close friend to be attired in the uniform that was normally worn by the Polytechnique student’s only on special occasions, like Bastille Day.
There was fiery indignation in George’s eyes.
“Come on!” he demanded irritably, “Get dressed and join us! It’s just after Ten O’Clock!
It’s going to be another hot and humid day, but that’s not important! What is important is – is that you join us! We will not allow another corrupt and unjust Bourbon monarch to take away our rights and freedoms from us!”
Charles had enough, he angrily waved his impetuous friend to silence.
“STOP!! – – – I will not participate in anything unless I know what is going on and I would have to decide if it’s worthwhile! And I will not join you in doing anything rashly! There would have to be a valid reason for me to join you!” he assertively explained in anger, adding, “I was enjoying a sleep I badly needed, when you woke me, having worked late last night with the professeur,
making and assembling the apparatus for the planned experiment next week. And I do not appreciate being
woken and told what to do by someone whom I consider a friend.”
George glared in angry disappointment at Charles.
“Oh! I see!” he said in mocking derision,
“That bourgeois professeur, Gay Lussac; his bourgeois science disciple, and their frivolous science experiments are more important than
the fact that our nation’s corrupt and tyrannical rulers have sent their lackeys, the police, to raid and shut down the presses and printing shops that represent our liberty! Hmmm?”
George-Richard propped his shoulders
in proud defiance, then flippantly and scornfully waved off Charles, turning to leave as he did.
“Stay behind if you wish.” he sneered.
“WAIT! LISTEN TO ME!” Charles screeched in frustration. George reluctantly, hesitantly turned to face him. It was Charles turn to be agitated. He fought to regain his composure
and succeeded.
“I still want to call you, friend. Think this thing through.” Charles calmly pleaded.
“I’m not much interested in monarchs, government, nor politics in general. And I
don’t see what you are going to accomplish.”
George sighed impatiently.
“We’re going to demand and obtain our rights
and liberties. We’re going to stand for justice.
And if our demands are not met, we will remove this – - – Bourbon king!” he spat out.
Alarmed, a chill went down Charles’ spine.
“Oh no! You and the others out there are not planning to put this king to the guillotine as well? We’re not talking about another Reign of Terror, are we?”
George raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. Then came a flash of irritation as he
strongly affirmed, “Heaven forbid! No!
Unlike Robespierre and his uneducated and bestial peasant rabble, those of us going to the barricades are both learned and civilized!”
Charles nodded politely, but insincerely and
cynically.
“I have to ask,” he said, “Do you think that by removing king Charles, that his successor will meet your approval? in say – - – ten or twenty years to come?”
George-Richard Marchand paused briefly in silent thought; smiled, and then for the first and only time that fateful day, started chuckling; a look of thoughtful disappointment marring his smirk.
“Maybe not, my friend. – - – But I have to do this, even if you don’t want to join us.”
he quipped.
At that remark, Charles urgently thrust out his right hand and said,
“I’m glad you said, friend. We are still friends,
are we not? Even though I don’t join you?”
George looked down at Charles’ extended hand and slowly reached out and grasped it.
Charles reached out with his free arm and pulled George in to give him a reconciling hug, followed by a kiss on both his cheeks; George reciprocating.
Upon disengagement, George nodded, somewhat chastened, “Yes! We are still friends, even if you do not join us. We can as friends agree to disagree. That is democracy indeed. To have the right, and to defend the right to agree to disagree.” George concluded,
“Now I have to go.”
George departed singing “Les Marseillaise” aloud.

FOOTNOTE:

On Friday, July, 30th,1830, after a street clash a day before that came to be pretentiously known as the “Battle at the Rue de Rohan”, king Charles X abdicated.
Louis-Philippe ascended to the throne of France to become the last monarch of that nation.

Chemistry lecture hall;

Ecole Polytechnique

.

At 51 years of age, his wavy brown hair streaked with gray, the highly-reputed and popular chemistry professor, Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac showed himself to be remarkably spry and even animated for his age as he delivered yet another of his appointed lectures at the Polytechnique to a mixed group
of science and engineering students arranged before him.
Restlessly strolling from one side of the lectern to the other,
occasionally glancing at his notes on the stand as if he were preferring to ‘spy’ on those present to see if they were ‘drinking in his words’ he affirmatively drove home some final points and facts on the subject of chemistry to his increasingly restless & weary
students before pulling out a watch on a chain from his long coat to see how much time he had left.
Out of habit he canted his wire-framed bifocals as he momentarily pondered the hour-hand on his watch, his upturned shirt collar keeping some of the students from observing his expression for a second or two.
“Well?” he signed in satisfaction, “I have less than ten minutes left in my lecture time to answer any of your questions. Do you have any? Remember you have vitally important written examinations awaiting you next week.
Please study your notes over the weekend.”
Charles-Philippe was given an encouraging nudge by his blonde-haired friend and fellow student, George-Richard Marchand who was sitting next to him.
“Come on! Raise your hand!” he whispered
to Charles, “I know you have questions you want to ask him!”
Charles-Philippe complied hesitantly, raising his right hand almost timidly. The esteemed lecturer was quick to spot him; a look of
immediate recognition dawned on his face.
“Well, Monsieur Valcour! What questions do you have to ask me today? You usually have more than one.”
Some restrained chuckles were heard coming from the lecture crowd at that last remark.
Charles knew that the esteemed chemistry professor grudgingly admired his inquisitiveness and his usually intelligent queries.
“Professeur! I want to ask if it would be practical to use acid gases, specifically, the possibility of using fixed air for operating piston and cylinder engines, like the
steam engines in use today? but without the need of boilers and fireboxes?”
Gay-Lussac slowly, thoughtfully took in a deep breath trying to conceal a condescending smirk
by jutting out his already prominent strongly-set jaw. He responded with
a touch of subtle humor,
“Young man! I thought you would ask me a chemistry question. It sounds to me like you are asking me a question regarding physics or mechanics. If so, you should be attending my physics lectures at the Sorbonne.”
That reply generated a healthy dose of laughter from many in the audience. Charles squirmed slightly, retorting, “I affirm that it was indeed a question that does involve chemical reactions, professeur. If you were to produce fixed air by dissolving chalk by means of muriatic acid in some kind of strengthened or braced container or vessel you can
release sufficient quantities of fixed air that would produce enormous internal pressure comparable to that of steam within a steam-engine boiler; don’t you agree, professeur?”
The renowned scientist and lecturer
eyed the young man warily with a hint of
annoyance.
“Monsieur Valcour! You’re now asking a rhetorical question! ” Gay-Lussac mildly scolded him, “And since you do not require my response as a chemist, I will
favor you with my response as a scientist in general; one with varied interests, including practical ones. So bear with me a little.”
Charles attempted to protest but restrained himself to allow the distinguished lecturer to continue.
Gay-Lussac gestured to the other students present, “Among these fellow students of yours, Monsieur Valcour, are those
going on to earn degrees in engineering. At some time in the future some of them will be involved in the design, building and operation of a variety of machines, engines and devices.
They already know that, in theory any reasonable fluid under pressure would cause a
a piston & cylinder engine to function.
The questions then become: how long will it function? And how well will it function?
Let’s suppose that one-hundred kilograms
of chalk are to be dissolved by the acid in question inside a – - – gold-plated or wax-lined storage compartment of a theoretical acid-gas engine. If the ratio between the acid and the chalk are ideal, and assuming that the acid is refined to a high-degree of purity, all of the fixed air
from the dissolute chalk and acid within a matter of perhaps – - a minute, maybe two, maybe three. You can see one of the obvious disadvantages such an engine would have compared to a steam engine….”
A slightly condescending smile worked itself across Gay-Lussac’s face. There was a hint of regret with it.
“…That would answer the first question. As for the second question your assumption raises? I would answer it by saying that while indeed high-pressures, and with it, suitable power would be generated by the release of fixed air, there would also be a grievous liability involving the presence of acidic fumes that would attack and corrode gauges, pipes, cocks and the piston and cylinder.
Gold plating would help I suppose, but the expense! – – - And then the residual acidic fumes, as well as the asphyxiating fixed air would have to be vented from the cylinder, to the detriment or at least to the annoyance and discomfort of any man or men operating such an engine.”
Charles-Philippe nodded reluctantly, mildly chastened. He however was not surprised by his chemistry professor’s response.
“Thank you for your reply, professeur.”
Gay-Lussac, once more pulled out and fleetingly glanced at his chained watch,
and then swept his eyes once more over his audience.
“I have a few minutes left. Any more questions? preferably genuine chemistry questions?’
he asked, seeing no one else but Charles putting up his hand. Gay-Lussac grunted
in chagrin.
“Very well. You have another – - – question,
Monsieur Valcour? Hopefully one that is not rhetorical?”
Once more Charles nodded, and shuffling some papers accompanying him, he asked,
“Professeur! Everyone here knows that gunpowder contains
saltpeter. And we all know that saltpeter contains the vital combustion element, oxygen.
But, when the other two ingredients of gunpowder are pounded and ground into powder and mixed, the powdered sulfur and charcoal will have oxygen atoms from the surrounding elastic fluid in close proximity, mingling with them. So my question is – - – will gunpowder explode if two of the ingredients, powdered sulfur and charcoal are not mingled with the oxygen from the surrounding elastic fluid? I pose the question under the assumption that the oxygen bound up in saltpeter may require more than a spark to release it.”
The professor looked slightly but pleasantly surprised.
“That is a good question, young man.” he
admitted thoughtfully,
“I would conjecture that the oxygen contained in the elastic fluid surrounding us would only be a minor source of that element necessary for gunpowder’s rapid process of combustion to take place – – - and I think that indeed a spark would be sufficient to release the element oxygen bound up with, even bonded to the elements potassium and nitrogen in saltpeter to produce the rapid oxidization in any gunpowder mixture. Of course any such conjecture would demand experimental proof – - – perhaps by preparing and mixing the gunpowder ingredients in a vacuum.”
Charles grinned.
“A vacuum such as can be created in a bell jar, professeur?”
the 20 year old chemistry student
commented rhetorically.
The professor nodded in wary agreement, hesitantly responding,
“Of course there is the potential peril of attempting to detonate gunpowder contained within a bell jar. If the quantity of gunpowder
should happen to be too large the bell jar may shatter into numerous shards of glass that would fly off like shrapnel or grapeshot.”
For a second there was awkward
silence in that room; then Charles spoke out once more.
“I volunteer, professeur, if you need any assistance to set up and carry out such an experiment between semesters this summer, even if it requires modifying or making new apparatus! And I’m willing to take the risks!”

Ecole Polytechnique (Hotel de Lassays), rue de la Montagne Saint-Genevieve & rue Descartes, Paris.

As a newly-minted sophomore of that prestigious academy of higher learning which he had been attending for just over a year, Charles-Philippe Valcour appeared
more like a clumsy buffoon that crisp mid-September morning than an orderly and graceful student that he was supposed to be; stumbling and falling more than once; papers and books sent flying and scattering about, causing him to wildly rush about, feverishly gathering up his fallen and scattered items before making a mad dash across a traffic circle that lay outside the grand entrance to the Hotel de Lassays; a multistory stone masonry building housing the esteemed academic institute some simply called the Polytechnique.
Aware that he was running late to his chemistry class he made a reckless dash towards the building’s main entrance-way across the street causing a pair of horses pulling a hackney carriage to rear up, their driver having suddenly yanked back on the reins in alarm.
“YOU IMBECILE!” the irate driver called out,
shaking a fist at the young science student,
“YOU ALMOST GOT YOURSELF TRAMPLED! YOU WOULD THINK YOU STUDENTS WOULD
BE SMART ENOUGH TO WATCH FOR TRAFFIC WHEN CROSSING A STREET!” he loudly berated the young man from Bayeux, who just stood there silent for a moment, looking sheepish and not a little eager to depart the scene as swiftly as possible.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur.” Charles could think of nothing else to say at that awkward moment.
“Driver? Why are you allowing yourself to
be delayed by this young man?” impatiently asked a middle-aged male passenger of his,
“He’s expressed his regrets. Let him go his way without any further comment from you. And we can proceed.”
Charles, his face broadening in delight, recognized the passenger.
“Professeur Ampere?” he excitedly cried out.
Forgetting his chemistry class at that moment he eagerly rushed over to the carriage’s cabin, startling both the driver and the passenger by his unexpected change of direction,
“I am delighted to meet you, Professeur!” he gushed, “I purchased and read your published work, Mathematical Theory of Electrodynamic Phenomena. I love it!…”
“That’s nice. I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
Andre Ampere responded insincerely, impatiently scowling, “But I do have
a class to teach at Collegen de France, if you would allow this carriage to depart,”
Disappointment flashed across Charles-Philippe’s face.
“They did tell me that you now teach mathematics and sciences there after resigning from the faculty here last year,” he explained,
“I do hope you would change your mind and return! Is that why you are here today?”
Professor Andre-Marie Ampere’s wearied face and baggy eyes told a different story: he shook his head.
“It won’t happen, young man. I came here today to pick up some papers in person that had been prepared for me by my friend, Professeur Gay-Lussac…”
Surprised, Charles stammered excitedly,
“Remarkable! Professeur Gay-Lussac is my chemistry instructor…Oh! oh! oh!” the young man from Bayeux was suddenly reminded of an important appointment he was failing to meet, “I’m late for my chemistry class! I have to go!”
“I’m running late as well, young man!” Andre Ampere huffed, “but if you are interested in my science work as you claim, you’re always
welcome to attend my lectures, Monsieur? Monsieur?!” the distinguished French scientist
raising his voice, looking out of both sides of the compartment of the now moving carriage to see if the young man heard him. The Polytechnique student was already up the stairs and near the entrance when he turned to respond loudly,
“My name is Charles-Philippe Valcour, Professeur Ampere! And I will take you up on your offer! Merci!”
The words were barely out of his mouth whe he once more turned to race to his classes, insufferably pleased with himself.

Saturday; June, 17, 1826; near the
seashore, by Arromanches-les-Bains,
Normandy.

The gathering clouds overhead that early afternoon were bringing with them the threat of rain; Jean-Philippe was grateful that he and his two sons had departed Bayeux early that morning because of it. The flimsy-looking horse-drawn wagon that he was driving rattled uncomfortably over the cobblestone road as it’s journey that day drew to a close,
with the destination coming into view.
He and his two older sons, Charles and Henri could now see the “guest- house”, still under construction, located within easy walking distance of the Channel surf.
“There it is, Papa!” excitedly exclaimed his 14-year-old son, Henri.
“Sit down, boy!” Jean demanded,
“I don’t want you to fall off the wagon and injure yourself!”
Sea gulls screeched overhead as Jean pulled up to the nearly completed two-story building; a pair of bricklayers still working on its exterior, taking time from their work to look down from the scaffolding to politely wave to the visitors.
‘Bonjour!” One of them called out to Jean-Philippe.
“Bonjour!” came the three replies, almost in unison.
“Are you the ones bringing
the furniture from Bayeux to Madame Archambault?”
Jean smiled and nodded, gesturing to a sheet of canvas behind him draped over two sets of disassembled oak-table parts; his two sons sitting
on them.
“Yes,” he sighed loudly in relief, “Is the lady of the house in?”
“As a matter of fact, she is. She’s been expecting you. Knock on the south-side door;
she’ll greet you there.”
Jean appreciatively tugged at his large floppy hat.
“Merci.” he replied while carefully lowering himself to the ground. His two sons had already speedily alighted off the wagon
onto the coarse sandy ground.
As he made his way to the guest-house entrance, that same bricklayer called out once more.
“Monsieur! I understand that you have brought two oak table tops with you.
If you need help to carry them in to the house, please let us know. We’ll be glad to help.”
Jean looked up at him and grinned somewhat smugly.
“I appreciate the offer. Merci. Normally it would take four strong men to carry each tabletop – – - however! These tabletops are made in such a way that I and my two sons here, Charles and Henri can carry each of them a reasonable distance. For now, I think, me and my sons can manage.”
The chief bricklayer paused, looking somewhat skeptical, shrugging,
“As you wish! Call us if you do need us.”
The three Valcour family members were warmly greeted by Madame Archambault.
She even went as far as to prepare a sumptuous meal for them and for her two teenage offspring, Gregoire and Sylvie.
The wearied, hungry and thirsty trio from
Bayeux gratefully partook of the fare and
the conversation. The dining room was still rather Spartan and barren.
For an ad hoc dining table, some upturned & clustered wooden boxes and cut planks were arranged for that temporary purpose.
“I do appreciate you delivering us those tables today” Madame Archambault explained,
“as you can see we have a lot of work yet to be done inside this guest-house. The reputation of your furniture work precedes you, Monsieur Valcour.”
Jean paused between bites, cautiously
weighing his words.
“Merci. I sincerely appreciate the complement, Madame. However, I would ask that you wait until we bring the parts in and reassemble them before you pass judgement on – - my handiwork.”
She smiled. “If you require the services of my nineteen-year-old son, Gregoire, he is available. He’s very fit.”
As she offered Jean the services of her restless teenage son, her 15-year-old daughter, Sylvie couldn’t take her eyes off of Henri. He had his eyes on her as well. Henri, only a year younger than her, found Sylvie to be quite attractive. “Merci, Madame,” Jean respectfully responded, “I am grateful for your offer. Your bricklayers have also offered to help. However – - – I and my two boys here are quite capable of doing everything that will be required.” he gently affirmed, “But if we do need additional help, we will let you know.”
Sylvie’s mother nodded in slight disappointment, wiped her mouth as she finished eating.
“As you wish, Monsieur Valcour.
Jean and his boys polished off their lunch portions soon after.
“Your husband, Raymond. I understand that
he’s a physician. Is he seeing a patient? Is that the reason he’s away this early afternoon?” he inquired,
keeping the conversation flowing as he and the others began to rise from around the crudely improvised table.
“Yes, quite correct. He is presently seeing a patient in Arromanches. He will be in before three
this afternoon. hopefully the rain will hold off until then.” she explained, quickly adding,
“but in the meantime, let me show you and your boys around the property. I’ll show you the rooms where you and your two sons can sleep tonight. Have you seen the patio we have built on the north-side of this guest-house?”
Jean shook his head.
“It will have a canopy installed to keep our guests dry on rainy days; and to keep them from getting too much sun when the summer days get too warm.” she explained, smiling at the the thought, “It will also offer them an unobstructed view of the sea while sitting drinking their wine, coffee or mineral water; especially in the summertime.”
Jean motioned to his two sons to follow him through the doorway as he respectfully let the woman-of-the-house lead the way.
The three Valcours found themselves quite impressed with the north-side view.
“Magnificent!” Jean’s son, Charles was heard to exclaim.
“I’m glad you appreciate it…” she responded, immediately adding, “…of course when strong winds blow, we will roll up the canopy.”
She paused once more, noticing that Charles-Philippe was gazing westward
towards the distant cliffs quite a few kilometers away.
“Well? Young man?” she asked, getting his attention, “You show an interest in those distant cliffs. Beyond them is the more prominent Pointe du Hoc.
You can’t see Pointe du Hoc from here., it’s on
the other side of those cliffs – - – about twenty-five kilometers away from here.”
Jean stepped up to his firstborn and proudly grasped one of his shoulders. Charles faced Madame Archambault. He looked rather inquisitive, yearning to ask questions of the guest-house mistress.
‘My son Charles has a wide variety of interests and is curious about everything it seems. He’s definitely smarter than his father,”
Jean flippantly boasted, “In fact he’s moving to Caen after August, ” he sighed ruefully, “where he will attend a preparatory school for two years, after which he plans to go on to study science at the Ecole Polytechnique.”
She looked impressed.
“Well, good for you, young man, I do wish you the best. My son Gregoire plans to be a
physician like his father. By the way, may I ask you your age, Charles?”
“I will be seventeen this August.”
Bemused, Madame Archambault, silently digested the information, then asked, “What interests you about those distant cliffs to the west, young man?”
Charles looked to his father, then to his annoyed and impatient brother, before responding affirmatively, “I think those cliffs must have been formed during a brief violent episode, thousands of years ago, possibly as a result of the earth quaking greatly in this region. Otherwise, rain water, waves and winds would have worn down
those cliffs into gentle slopes since then.”
She smiled nervously, not knowing how to respond at that moment.
Turning to look at the stretch of coarse sandy
beach nearby, she changed subjects,
“Monsieur Valcour? I would like your opinion. I have plans to see visitors coming to Arromanches
in the summertime either spreading blankets on
the beach before us to enjoy the sea breezes
while partaking of a light picnic, or have them seated in chairs out there, perhaps under parasols to shade them from the sun,
while me and my children would serve them snacks and beverages. What do you think?”
Jean chuckled in comprehension.
“You’re asking me to voice my opinion as a furniture maker; someone who makes wooden chairs for a living.” he explained, “I do know
that wooden chairs tend to sink into soft or wet sand. Also, wooden chairs, each weighing perhaps twenty, maybe thirty kilograms, would
have to be carried and dispersed hundreds of meters out there on the beach – - – You and your children would wear yourselves out taking them out there in the mornings, and then bringing them back for storage in the evenings.”
She bit her lip; grudgingly agreeing with him.
“What do you think I should do?” she asked Jean.
Charles intervened at that awkward moment
“Father? I have a suggestion.”
Startled, Jean turned and realized almost immediately that his eldest son had some practical idea worth considering; he could tell by the look on Charles’ face.
“Well, Charles? What is this suggestion of yours?”
“Father? You know my sister Alexandrie
makes wonderful wicker baskets out of white willow stems….”
Jean immediately turned to Madame Archambault, explaining,
“My daughter Alexandrie is very gifted when it comes to making hand-crafted items; she’s
thirteen-years-old and has been such a great help to me and my wife.”
“Sounds like a wonderful brood you have, Monsieur.”
Ignoring the distraction, Charles added,
“Father? We can wick willow stems, or even
thin branches from poplar trees, and bond the wicked bundles with either horse glue or resin to make remarkably lightweight and strong portable chairs for use on the beaches here.”
Impatient and irritated, It was Henri’s turn to interrupt and offer a suggestion,
“My brother’s idea has a problem. If someone heavy should sit on one of those chairs, the chair legs might sink into the sand….”
Charles tried to interrupt his brother in protest but Henri continued uninterrupted,
“…But my idea would be to fit two lengths of
lightweight planks of wood to the legs of the type of chair my brother proposes, each wide enough to spread the weight on the sand, keeping the chair from sinking. Pine wood would be my suggestion because it is light and easy to work with.”
The trio’s host started to softly laugh approvingly as she gave the Valcour patriarch
an appreciative nod.
“You have two very intelligent sons,
Monsieur Valcour. Do any of you appreciate poetry? she asked.
Taken aback by the question, Jean-Philippe
stammered, turning to his sons for support,
“I suppose.” he explained insincerely, “What
poem or poet do you have in mind?”
She silently turned her attention inward
for a moment, then explained, ‘My husband likes to write poetry in his spare time. One line from a poem of his that I like in particular mentions the fact that those who are successful in life are like birds that spread their wings and soar above the vanity and
the common drudgery in life.”
In response, Jean firmly took hold of both of his son’s and said, “But I think it is time for me and my sons to engage in a little drudgery
and work that we came to do. The day is wearing on and we need to bring in and assemble those tables that you and your husband ordered; and put a two-hundred franc deposit on.”

Dinner had always been a simple affair, but a welcome one at the Valcour household. Charles’ father, Jean-Philippe hobbled into the
common room where the extended family was preparing to eat; what was left of his right foot bothering him more than usual.
Jean’s youngest brother Gaston & his bride Monique were the first to greet him with kisses on the cheeks as he entered, then Jean’s children respectfully took turns doing the same to him before he painfully ambled over to where the children’s wheezing, chair-bound grandfather, Armand was seated.
“Good afternoon, Papa! How was your nap?”
Jean remarked as he bent over to kiss him on
one cheek, “You’re look well this afternoon.” he added politely.
Armand the family patriarch growled angrily; his leathery wrinkled face clearly showing his displeasure. He looked considerably older than his 63 years; a manifestation of a very hard life.
“Young man, how many times have I told you
not to tell lies?” he scolded, coughing and wheezing as he did, “If your mother was still alive, she would slap you. And I don’t have the strength anymore to swat your behind with my cane.”
The awkward & uncomfortable moment quickly passed as Jean warily lowered himself into his chair while his wife and two of his daughters brought in a steaming pot containing barley and lentil soup along with
a loaf of bread & a plate full of cheese.
Jean’s wife, Marie eyed her oldest son as she deposited the pot on the table.
“Charles?”
He sprang to attention. “Yes, mother?”
“Since Alexandrie is looking after the baby, I want you to pour the wine for the older ones
around the table. Alexandrie – Chantalle – Josephine & Henri will be given some goat’s milk.”
Henri looked up in disappointment, “Awww, Mother. I’m nine-years-old, why can’t I have some wine?”
Marie shot him an angry look.
“I don’t want you to talk back to me, young man! You will drink the goat’s milk as I say!”
she irately demanded, before proceeding to go around the table ladling out the soup into wooden bowls.
Henri began to pout, reluctantly resigning himself to the beverage offered him.
“You sit down too, young lady!” Marie commanded her seven-year-old daughter, Josephine who still lingered aimlessly after depositing the plate of cheese on the table.
Marie paused reverently as her husband crossed himself and blessed the food before those seated began to eat, drink and converse. Jean’s wife turned to her eight-year-old daughter, Alexandrie who was still gently rocking a nearby baby’s cradle; the three-month-old infant in it beginning to cry out feebly in hunger.
“You sit down and eat as well, Alexandrie.
It’s time for me to nurse little Maurice.”
she explained.
There was idle talk around the table; even some politics and weather entering into the conversation. But it was Jean turning to his oldest son, Charles seated next to him;
who steered the talk towards recent events and future plans.
“So you want to become a chemist like
your hero, Monsieur Lavoisier, eh? young man?’ Jean skeptically quipped.
Charles smiled nervously and nodded, “Yes,
Father.”
Jean turned to Gaston, both betraying concerned smiles. “It bears repeating, brother, that my son Charles has a good head on his shoulders. He’s wise beyond his years. He’s very well read – – - and his school masters are unanimous in complimenting him on his work.”
Charles squirmed, “Oh, Papa! It’s because I’m curious about things! I love to ask questions! And I love science!” he explained,
“Did you know, Father that Monsieur Lavoisier
showed that one-fifth of the elastic fluid that surrounds us is composed of an element he called oxygen. He discovered that oxygen is absolutely necessary for both fire and life to exist.”
Jean again glanced over at his brother; both shrugging in lack of comprehension.
‘Interesting,” Gaston interjected, “And where do you, my young nephew, plan to receive training or an apprenticeship to become a chemist?”
Charles grinned in anticipation,
“At the Ecole Polytechnique in Paris. They don’t apprentice there, Uncle Gaston.
And it is also a military academy. But I can graduate there as a civilian.
Many graduates from the Polytechnique become civil servants; others become engineers in civilian life.
I would gladly wear the academy’s
uniform! – take the academy oath! – and I would obey the military authorities at that institute, since that belongs to them.
Naturally, I would study diligently; all to obtain the degree in sciences that they offer.
I would have to have four years of education there to receive a Master’s Degree in the sciences. It would open the door for me to becoming a
professional practicing chemist. I would also have to study physics too. That subject interests me a great deal as well.”
Gaston looked bewildered.
“I see,” he replied unconvincingly, “And where would you work after you receive such a – - – Degree?”
Jean grunted impatiently, trying to discreetly wave off the line of questioning.
“It’s alright, Brother, I’ve already asked my son about it. He said he would want to eventually rise to the position of chemistry professeur at the Polytechnique, College de France, or the Sorbonne, starting off as a humble assistant to one of the scientists and lecturers in one of those places.
He claims the pay for such work would be – acceptable.” he sniffed, “I also made inquiries on my own about the Polytechnique, asking a local school master about it. – – – My boy is no doubt very bright and dedicated, but he would have to to a preparatory school for two years and would then have to pass the examinations there before he could be admitted into the Ecole Polytechnique.” Jean frowned, adding, “Such a preparatory school would still be four or five-years-away for Charles, and the nearest one is at Caen.”
he sighed.
“I wouldn’t want to go to the Ecole Poly — Poly – technique,” Henri interrupting his father from across the table, exclaimed, “I would rather work with you, Papa in the shop. Or I would work with Monsieur Carbonneau down the street in his metalwork
shop. I love working with wood. And I love the idea of working with metal too, or even with stone or glass.”
Jean nodded approvingly.
He tapped Charles on the shoulder.
“I think in some ways, your younger brother
is more sensible than you, young man.”
Charles looked disappointed but not surprised,
sadly protesting his father’s claim.
“Papa, you know I would continue to work with you in the shop after school hours – – - as long as I live here in Bayeux. I want to help out in the shop until I am sent off to preparatory school.”
Gaston leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear.
“Jean! Your son is set on becoming a chemist or physicist. And he has helped you out considerably; and not just with physical effort. I like that
suggestion Charles came up with the other day recommending that you should be making tables of oak or other hardwoods, which would have have honeycomb patterns chiseled out under the thick tabletops
to make those tables lighter, yet remaining strong and durable.
He even suggested that I use my carving skill to engrave cameos of Bayeux Tapestry scenes on the edge-boards around those tables. It could bring us good income from some wealthy patrons in the Normandy region and elsewhere.”
Jean silently pondered his brother’s
advice for a minute or two when a knock
came to his door. It was the metalsmith,
Monsieur Carbonneau.
Jean stood up to greet him with a kiss, when he noticed the look of intense grief on his face.
Jean frowned.
“What is wrong, my friend.”
George Carbonneau, wiping some tears from his eyes, muttered, “Our beloved general and emperor is dead.”
Jean was momentarily puzzled.
“Who are you refer…” he tried to inquire, swiftly comprehending, “Are you saying, General Bonaparte is dead?”
Monsieur Carbonneau silently nodded as tears
and grief came to many in the room, “He died on the fifth of May. I learned it from a traveler today.” the metalsmith managed to explain with trembling lips.
The adults in the room could no longer restrain their tears; an era had passed.

Sunday; August, 12, 1821; 18 kilometers south-west of Bayeux, Normandy.

Neither Charles-Philippe, nor his younger brother, Henri bothered to change out of their “Sunday best” that early weekend afternoon.
Charles, having turned twelve
that very Sunday was only too glad to have left the small Catholic church less than an hour earlier, having squirmed impatiently in his pew the entire service. He reluctantly partook of the wafer and wine during communion, considering the idea that a wafer and fermented grape juice could become the body and blood of Christ to be too ridiculous to contemplate.
Before the last strains of the
church organ and the droning Latin prayer of the village priest died away, he and his brother Henri were racing to the door and off on some mischievous adventure that afternoon in the nearby hedgerow country.
Both boys knew that their doting aunt and
uncle, whom they were staying with for the past week, would not be too hard on them,
even if they came back with mud or dirt clinging to their clothing, as long as the two boys would return to their uncle’s home in time for supper, after which the two expected to be treated with pastries that their aunt prepared for Charles’ birthday celebration.
Charles had heard a report from one of the local lads that there was a honey-bee nest clinging to a branch on some solitary tree in a nearby farmer’s field. Charles, a voracious reader of books, both borrowed or bought, had read that beekeepers around the world used smoke to ‘pacify’ the bees, allowing the beekeepers to access the honey.
Charles brought with him a bag containing tinder, a small flint stone, and an iron hammerhead. His brother Henri brought along a long stick and bundle of damp straw tied to it that they had stashed under a nearby hedgerow the evening before on which bundle they had also poured some tar.
Upon locating the tree-branch mounted shelter for that Apian colony they warily and as covertly as possible set about to set the tinder, straw and tar on fire in a nearby hedgerow corner, finding that it wasn’t as easy as they thought. But their persistence paid off; thick acrid smoke began to billow out
of the damp bundle.
Grinning at each other, Charles impatiently grabbed the lengthy stick the smoldering bundle was still attached to and rushed over to a spot under the elm tree where the
bee colony was located.
Charles coughed as some of the irritating smoke drifted his way. “Well, brother? Let’s see what happens now.”
Henri watched for several minutes as the agitated swarm of bees began to show signs of reduced aggression and activity.
“OUCH!!!” Henri cried out, as he angrily swatted away one of the stinging insects from his neck,
“I thought you said that the smoke would
make these bees harmless!!” he protested.
Charles shook his head and smiled,
“It’s just a few bees that wandered off from their nest here. Stand back, brother!
We are about to treat ourselves!”
Charles-Philippe pressed the smoldering
tar and straw wick on the end of the stick
hard against the nest; breaking it open and
filling it with smoke before it and the
honeycomb it contained plunged to the ground.
“OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!”
Crying out, both boys were vigorously swatting away bees that had not been overcome by the smoke.
To Henri’s surprise, his brother desperately drew in most of the length of the stick and allowed himself to be bathed in its smoke.
Charles was violently hacking for a few seconds before thrusting the smoking end of the stick back towards Henri to wreathe him in the irritating emissions as well.
“What are you doing?” Henri angrily protested. He too began to cough severely
before bolting from the scene, rapidly put some distance between himself and his brother.
“Driving the bees away, what do you think?”
Charles replied, adding “If you leave now, you’ll miss the honey.”
With the broken Apian shelter on the ground, Charles began to lay a pall of the acrid smoke over it, pacifying the remaining
incited bees for the time being.
Briefly distracted by some nearby cowbells, Charles courageously threw away the smoldering stick and then promptly thrust his hand into what was left of the nest
and yanked out the sticky honeycomb, swiftly
and prudently brushing off the smoke inhibited bees before rushing over to his reluctant and wary younger brother, grinning at his success.
“Here is our real treat today, brother.”
“Hey!” a local farmer yelled towards them from a spot beyond some nearby grazing cattle, ‘What are you two doing over there?!!”
the farmer angrily shouted.
Startled and alarmed, the two boys took off at once, and with their sweet & sticky prize in tow they rushed towards a small gap in the hedgerow, scrambling through to the other side as quickly as possible.
Upon reaching the nearby road, where their speedy exodus slowed to a walk, the two boys, their clothes reeking of smoke, looked at each other and started to laugh.
‘”Here!” Charles said, as he struggled to break the honeycomb in two, offering one piece to his younger brother. Henri’s sibling was startled to find that the honeycomb exhibited unusually strong resistance to his effort to tear it in two.
As Henri took one of the sticky sweet portions, gratefully starting to lick it, he couldn’t help but notice the inquisitive
and thoughtful look on his brother’s face.
“What are you thinking?” Henri asked,
somewhat puzzled.
Stopping in his tracks, Charles turned to face his brother, pausing a moment in deep-thought before responding, “I think it’s the hexagonal
structures in the honeycomb that give it its remarkable strength.” he responded, “This thing is amazingly strong and light.”