Free Night Flight by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry Page A

the solutions follow.” The only force that Robineau had to activate was one which functioned in the mechanics’ shop; a humble force which saved propeller-bosses from rusting.
    But this night’s happenings found Robineau at fault. His inspectorial mandate could not control the elements, nor yet a phantom ship that, as things were, struggled no longer to win a punctuality bonus but only to evade a penalty which canceled all that Robineau imposed, the penalty of death.
    There was no use for Robineau now and he roamed the offices, forlorn.
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    Rivière was informed that Fabien’s wife wished to see him. Tormented by anxiety, she was waiting in the clerks’ office till Rivière could receive her. The employees were stealing glances at her face. She felt shy, almost shamefast, and gazed nervously around her; she had no right of presence here. They went about their tasks as usual and to her it was as if they were trampling on a corpse; in their ledgers no human sorrow but dwindled to dross of brittle figures. She looked for something that might speak to her of Fabien; at home all things confessed his absence—the sheets turned back upon the bed, the coffee on the table, a vase of flowers. Here there was nothing of him; ah was at war with pity, friendship, memories. The only word she caught (for in her presence they instinctively lowered their voices) was the oath of an employee clamoring for an invoice. “The dynamo account, God blast you! The one we send to Santos.” Raising her eyes she gazed toward this man with a look of infinite wonder. Then to the wall where a map hung. Her lips trembled a little, almost imperceptibly.
    The realization irked her that in this room she was the envoy of a hostile creed and almost she regretted having come; she would have liked to hide somewhere and, fearful of being remarked, dared neither cough nor weep. She felt her presence here misplaced, indecent, as though she were standing naked before them. But so potent was
her
truth, the truth within her, that furtively their eyes strayed ever and again in her direction, trying to read it on her face. Beauty was hers and she stood for a holy thing, the world of human happiness. She vouched for the sanctity of that material something with which man tampers when he acts. She closed her eyes before their crowded scrutiny, revealing all the peace which in his blindness man is apt to shatter.
    Rivière admitted her.
    So now she was come to make a timid plea for her flowers, the coffee waiting on the table, her own young body. Again, in this room, colder even than the others, her lips began to quiver. Thus, too, she bore witness to her truth, unutterable in this alien world. All the wild yearning of her love, her heart’s devotion, seemed here invested with a selfish, pestering aspect. And again she would have liked to leave this place.
    â€œI am disturbing you—”
    â€œNo,” said Rivière, “you are not disturbing me. But unfortunately neither you nor I can do anything except—wait.”
    There was a faint movement of her shoulders and Rivière guessed its meaning. “What is the use of that lamp, the dinner waiting, and the flowers there when I return?” Once a young mother had confided in Rivière. “I’ve hardly realized my baby’s death as yet. It’s the little things that are so cruel—when I see the baby clothes I had ready, when I wake up at night and there rises in my heart a tide of love, useless now, like my milk ... all useless!” And for this woman here, Fabien’s death would only just begin tomorrow—in every action, useless now, in trivial objects ... useless. Little by little Fabien would leave his home. A deep, unuttered pity stirred in Rivière’s heart.
    â€œMadame—”
    The young wife turned and left him with a weak smile, an almost humble smile, ignoring her own power.
    Rivière sat down again rather