CHAPTER THREE:

THE FAMILY BUSINESS; STRONG AND LIGHT.
Shortly After 7:00 PM, Wednesday; July/02/1845.

A Converted Lecture-Hall Stage at the College de France, Paris.

"Just a few more minutes, Monsieur Deburau. Please continue to hold that pose." Professor Valcour calmly pleaded,
"I realize that your body must be stiff and aching from all these long hours of posing. I do earnestly thank you for your patience and perseverance. We are almost done." he confidently assured him.
As the gradually fading glare of limelight continued to illuminate him against the backdrop of a black satin curtain, the famous French pantomimist, Jean-Gaspard Deburau
silently continued to endure his agonizingly motionless posture; the blackened adjustable restraining-framework fastened to his limbs and
tucked away behind him did not alleviate his growing urge to twitch
or move his muscles in some way to
resist the effects of the voluntarily enforced rigidity of his aging body.
Charles could sense that the pantomimist's endurance was near the point of breaking. He too impatiently yearned to see the remaining minutes pass by swiftly.
"Please, just a few more minutes, Monsieur Deburau. Just a few more minutes." Charles implored, almost whispering in a low voice.
As the last minute of that unique 'moving-image' daguerreotype session
came to a close, Professor Valcour
speedily clamping the covering-cap
on the specially modified and enlarged camerae obscurae, and then cheerfully called out, "It's done, Monsieur Deburau. My most humble thanks to you."
The long-faced 48-year-old mime immediately took in a deep breath and then slowly exhaled in both gratitude and relief.
"Ahhh - - - No one is more glad that it's over than I," Jean-Gaspard earnestly confessed, "No more ten-hour daguerreotype sessions for me - ever! But there is the matter of the two-hundred franc fee, Professeur. You have given me fifty francs already as a deposit - you still owe me one-hundred and fifty. Can I expect
the remaining amount this evening? Or should I wait to receive it later this week?"
Professor Valcour smothered a smirk
as he walked up to the talented pantomimist who was still fettered to the restraining-framework.
"I would think you would wait until
you are released from your restraints before inquiring about matters of money, Monsieur Deburau." Charles wittingly remarked, immediately turning serious,
"but I can assure you that I am a man of my word. I will give you fifty francs that I have on me now, and would you be willing to wait until this Friday afternoon for the remainder of the agreed to amount owed you?
That way you will not only receive the final payment on a convenient
day for both of us, you will also have the privilege of viewing the
developed daguerreotype images of your poses as moving-image illusions
on one of my chronokinetoscopes!
In addition, you will also have the honor of being introduced to Monsieur Louis Daguerre
who has informed me that he will pay me a visit this Friday afternoon, coming over to my house at around five o'clock to personally view those unique moving-image daguerreotypes as well! What do you say to that, Monsieur Deburau? Hmmm? My wife can set an extra plate at our table for you - and she is an excellent cook." Charles urged, eagerly awaiting an affirmative answer from the mime as he loosed him from the photographic-session restraints.
Freed from his restraining fetters, rubbing his hands and wriggling his torso to restore circulation
and to ease the stiffness in his muscles, Jean-Gaspard Deburau stayed silent, his makeup-pasted face revealing nothing to indicate how he felt about the offer.
He finally cracked a silly-looking smile and said, "Louis Daguerre, eh?
He's an artist too. I would be honored to meet him." Jean reached out and shook Charles' hand, "Fifty francs now; the one-hundred remaining francs this Friday then. And please, write down your home address and the directions to get there. I do not want to lose my way."

Friday afternoon, July/4'th; 5:22 PM; Professor Valcour's Residence.

The clockwork-driven chronokinetoscope had been set up and the privilege of viewing the unique disk ringed with daguerreotype frames went to the 57-year-old French inventor and photographer Louis Daguerre. Upon seeing the
animated illusion his eyes bulged wide open in his puffy face, astonished to see the pioneering photographic moving-images repetitiously flickering before his eyes at around twenty-frames-per-second. All twenty daguerreotype frames were repeatedly cycled into view until the coil-spring tension gave out in the device.
For a second or two he was left speechless. Turning slowly to face
both the young professor, and then the visiting mime, Monsieur Daguerre stammered out, "This is utterly marvelous! It's as if you have confined
Monsieur Deburau's hand motions for all eternity onto that disk!"
Professor Valcour, forcing a grin, looking somewhat apologetic, awkwardly confessed, "It took a total of ten hours - five for actual exposure times and five for arrangement and rest intervals to photograph those twenty different poses Monsieur Deburau so graciously endured."
Louis Daguerre, faintly hinting at disappointment, subtly nodded in empathy.
"Yes, of course you are correct: fifteen minute exposure times for each frame comes as no surprise. It is a fairly common exposure time for my invention - in this day and age. But there is the possibility that in the future, improved chemical mixtures and processes may reduce exposure times to a fraction-of-a-second. I would love to live long enough to see that day."
Charles Valcour, cranking the coil-spring on his moving-image apparatus, restoring it to tension, paused briefly to ponder his esteemed guest's prediction. At last his face registered an optimistic smile.
"I hold out hope that you may be correct, Monsieur Daguerre." he cheerfully declared, completing the cranking task as he did, "It is now your turn to view the moving images of yourself, Monsieur Deburau!"
The talented mime, sans his makeup, stepped up to the device and began to observe his photographed hand poses converted into the illusion of motion. The moving daguerreotype images appeared to show him repeatedly waving to anyone having the privilege of viewing that daguerreotype disk. Jean-Gaspard observed the device for a few seconds, then stepped back; just as the coil-spring in the chronokinetoscope suddenly dropped in tension and the disk ceased turning. Unlike the openly enthusiastic response from the inventor of the daguerreotype, the pantomimist looked rather sullen.
"Is anything wrong, Monsieur Deburau?" Charles asked, expressing sincere concern. A sad smile flared up on
the mime's expressive face.
"It's as if I were viewing myself
waving goodbye forever to my beloved audience." he sighed,
"Even though I am only forty-eight-years-old, I have a - sense - that I have only a short time left on this earth." Jean-Gaspard Deburau became silently introspective. Charles Valcour and Louis Daguerre glanced at each other uneasily. The silence was broken by Professor Valcour's wife as she called out from the kitchen entrance,
"Supper will be ready in half-an-hour,
Jacqueline will be setting the dishes and silverware soon, if you would kindly wash up."
Charles uttered his grateful acknowledgement, and then Louis Daguerre gave Charlotte a respectful bow, adding, "Merci, Madame Valcour. Do you wish
to view the animated daguerreotype
frames for yourself?" he invitingly gestured. She cracked a polite smile and shook her head, "Merci, Monsieur Daguerre, but no, I have already viewed it - and so have my children - and Jacqueline as well."
She turned back to the kitchen before another word was spoken by anyone.
Louis Daguerre also turned, looking over the now motionless apparatus once more.
"So I understand that you have sold
this device and the animated disk to the royal family? His Majesty Louis-Philippe has acquired it for a grandnephew of his, is that correct?"
he asked, trying to keep the conversation upbeat.
"Yes, that's quite correct."
The attempt to keep the conversation pleasant and flowing suddenly collapsed. The famed pantomimist standing nearby remained downcast. It was hard not to notice. The man's somber expression had an unexpected affect on Monsieur Daguerre.
Forcing a breath, looking slightly anguished, he exclaimed, "I am not
a religious man, gentlemen, but I now wonder if the Almighty Judge has something far superior to this animated moving-image version of my daguerreotype - - - something the angels might use against us, keeping an animated record of all our indiscretions, faults and wrongs."
Both Charles and the mime shot up eyebrows in surprise. But before they could answer, a knock came to the front-door.
"Who could that be?" Charles wondered, 'I'm not expecting anyone else over this early Friday evening."
The knocking continued, as Professor Valcour gently waved off
his wife and their maid, Jacqueline;
both of whom wandered out of the kitchen. Reaching the threshold of the front-door first, prudently keeping it closed momentarily, Charles loudly called out,
"Yes! Who is at the door please?"
A muffled but familiar voice was heard, "It is I, your younger brother! And I have Sylvie your sister-in-law accompanying me!"
Charles gasped and stammered out,
"Hen - Hen - Henri? Sylvie? What are you doing here in Paris? I have important visitors I'm entertaining now! I wasn't informed that you would visit? Who is looking after your children?"
One final tap was heard against the door, "Are you going to open to us, or not, brother?" Henri-Philippe firmly
pleaded.
Speedily regaining his composure, Professor Valcour, hastily unbolted
the front-door and opened it to admit his beaming brother and his wife Sylvie.
After the salutations and greetings had been carried out between all seven adults present, Henri took Charles aside and speedily explained that their parents and Uncle Gaston's family were looking after Pierre, Paul, Jeanette and Suzanne back in Bayeux. Sylvie
wandered up to her sister-in-law, Charlotte and offered to help her with
the preparations for supper. Charles' wife, hiding her displeasure at the unexpected visit at such an inappropriate time and occasion, managed to graciously declined the offer.
It was Professor Valcour's two invited guests who saved the evening: Louis Daguerre and Jean-Gaspard Deburau both decided to make a graceful and speedy exit, courteously declining to partake of the supper prepared for them to allow Charles and his wife to entertain the visiting couple instead. No additional plates needed to be set at the table.
Before departing, Louis Daguerre
invited both Henri and Sylvie to come over to his studio that weekend to have daguerreotype portraits made of the two at a generous discount. Delighted, the younger Valcour couple took up the offer.
Henri and Sylvie also accepted an invitation to see Monsieur Debarau perform at the theatre du Funambles.

less than half an hour later...

Henri and his wife found themselves distracted at the supper table by Charles' inquisitive children.
Seven-year-old Edouard, sitting next to them asked surprisingly mature questions of the two. Gabrielle, at five-years of age was rather shy around visitors, yet she too showed
a curious interest in what the visiting couple had to say. It was three year-old Marcel who seemed to have the shortest attention span, and seemed the least interested in the visitors at the table. He wandered off from time to time.
Looking suspicious, Charles remained mostly mum for the time being, preferring to have his wife and children carrying the conversation with Henri & Sylvie. Henri sensed his brother was waiting for the opportune time to broach the subject of why the two were visiting unannounced?
"You want to know why we are visiting, brother?" he finally asked,
giving Charles a probing stare. Henri's older brother looked unruffled, dabbing his mouth with an napkin,
almost as if he hadn't heard the question.
"Yes, I think that would be in order,"
Charles calmly explained, "and the reason you and Sylvie are here in Paris is?"
Henri started to laugh softly, "Sylvie and I would love to see the sights of Paris. It's our first visit! And the food and the wine in this city are renowned across Europe, are they not? Who wouldn't want to visit?" he playfully professed, being mostly sincere.
Charles, resting his jaw on his upraised forearm, scowling in mild
annoyance, asked, "What is the - primary reason you are here unannounced, brother?" growing impatient with Henri's diversionary verbal tactics.
Sylvie's husband gave her a fleeting
nervous glance before he pivoted
to face his older brother, forcing himself to speak frankly.
"Our father is now sixty-two and severely afflicted with rheumatism.
Mother's health and well-being are not much better than his. My family is growing. Uncle Gaston's family is growing. But the income from the shop in Bayeux is no longer sufficient to support both his
family and mine. Uncle Gaston and I have come to the decision that our families in Bayeux should part. He's decided to stay there, keep the family business going in those parts, and take care of mother and father; while Sylvie and I have made up our minds to move to Paris
to expand the family business, setting up a factory or shop somewhere around here; something perhaps even larger than what we have in Bayeux."
Charles' eyes darted around the table uncomfortably, "I see." he finally
sighed out loud, "I have no problem helping you with your planned move. You and Sylvie will find Paris to your liking I'm sure. But what else do you require of me and my family? Money to help you establish the family business here? Contacts? Information? What?"
Henri thought about it for a few seconds, anxiously blurting out,
"I don't want to put unnecessary burdens on you or your family, brother,
but any help from you would be appreciated."
Charles hesitated, unwilling to make
a specific commitment. Charlotte leaned over and whispered in her husband's ear, "I can write to my father in Chartres. He
is a banker you know. He can help your brother set up the business he wants to establish here." she firmly pleaded, yet in hushed tones. Charles features softened, letting his guard down and permitting a smile.
At last he gave a gesture of approval. "Write that letter if you wish, my dear." he meekly muttered, tenderly yielding to her wishes.
Lifting his head he raised his voice in inquisitiveness, asking, "My brother Henri! Out of curiosity, what would the name of the business be that you intend to establish here in Paris? Would you use your name? or would you use father's name, like we do in Bayeux?"
Henri uttered a little, nervous laugh.
"Neither." he proudly remarked, "I will name it Fabrique Valcour; Charpenterie e Travaux des Metaux. Does that sound good to you?"
Charles glanced at his wife, both silently nodding in approval.
"I'm impressed." said Charles, "but in this day-and-age one also has to advertise! Otherwise? It will take many years, if not decades, to establish a good widespread business reputation to gain large numbers of clients and customers!" he affirmed, "And you need a good business slogan!"
Henri stammered out, "Wha - what do you have in mind for a slogan, brother?"
Charles struggled momentarily to conjure up a slogan, finally exclaiming with a broad smile, "Fort e Leger!"
Henri's face didn't immediately register comprehension, but at last
insight came to him; his face broadening in delight.
"Yes! I agree, brother! That's a good slogan!" he gushed.
Pausing to take a sip of red wine, Henri took time as well to ponder the other suggestion his brother Charles made. An idea came to him.
"My dear brother? I have a plan in mind to advertise. Remember the Montgolfier brothers?"

A little over four months later; early afternoon. Paris Hippodrome.

"I don't think this is such a good idea today." Charles mildly protested, anxiously scanning the skies, having seen strong gusts blow up from time-to-time around midday, blowing
dust around and scattering bits of straw laying about inside the hippodrome. "We should have done this a month ago, when the weather was still fair. But now, in November?"
He shuddered a little. It wasn't so much the obvious chill in the air, as it was the concern over the capricious
winds that troubled him.
Henri patted him on the shoulder
encouragingly, "Stop worrying, dear brother! Horses were still racing here last month, remember? And besides! It won't be long now before the Montgolfiere starts to ascend." he confidently declared, pointing to a smoldering pit with an enormous inflating paper globe above it located between an elongated looping horse-racing track.
A few minute later, with the creases and undulations in the hot-air balloon's paper-fabric vanishing as rising white smoke and heated air fully inflated the envelope, it slowly began to rise.
Three hired teenagers were holding on to restraining tethers connected to a partial fish-net covering draped over the balloon as it rose.
Stenciled in large, easily-visible letters on the side of the Montgolfiere paper envelope was Henri Valcour's company name and slogan.
"Do not let go of the tethers until
I give the order!" Henri commanded the three young men,
"The Montgolfiere must ascend high enough to clear the top of the hippodrome viewing-stands!" he affirmed, speaking loudly enough to ensure that they heard him clearly.
In obedience they let the lines slip through their hands as the balloon
reluctantly rose, coordinating their efforts to keep the orifice of the balloon's envelope directly over the smoking pit as much as possible, as it climbed. The Mongolfiere had barely ascended over twelve meters when a sudden exceptionally strong gust of wind tore into the horse-racing grounds and slammed into the balloon. Dust, leaves and straw nearby were momentarily driven into a lashing airborne spray. Smoke from the pit
was blown into a lengthy stream
that hugged the surfaces it raced over. The force of the wind-blast yanked the tethers out of the hands of the teenagers. As the liberated balloon began drifting away, its paper
envelope almost immediately began to buckle, folding inwardly, collapsing in on itself before starting to plummet as a result of the simultaneous loss of its buoyancy and the rapid cessation of the offending wind gust.
The collapsed and torn balloon envelope fell into the viewing stands,
draping itself ignominiously over the benches there. Charles and Henri looked at each other, shaking their heads; grim smiles masking their disappointment as they briskly strode across the grounds between the racing track to retrieve their dislodged top-hats which the wind gust had carried a good distance. Picking them up, ignoring the profuse apologies coming from the three young men over their failed
tasks, concerned about keeping their employment, Henri and Charles spent a few seconds shaking off bits of dried horse-dung off the black felt on their hats before they snugged them back on their heads, maintaining a surprising air of dignity.
Charles grim smile turned into a lip-curling smirk.
"Well, Brother?" he said, "I think it's preferable that we resort to using bills and pamphlets to give publicity
to your company, instead of - - -
trying to use something like that."
giving a subtle gesture that hinted at the failed balloon attempt.
Henri hesitated, reluctant to let
the advertising-balloon concept go.
"What if we used light cotton fabric instead of paper for another Montgolfiere?" he protested, "And what if we braced it inside with a lightweight frame of willow or basket-reed wickerwork?"
Charles closed his eyes and firmly and slowly shook his head.
"Those ideas have some merit, but if you want to advertise your company products and services at this time, stay clear of these concepts that involve unnecessary expense and uncertain results." he patiently explained, "Instead, let us rely on pamphlets, bills, your good reputation and word of mouth to inform the people of this city what you have to offer them. Do you agree with me, Henri?"
Charles' younger brother, frowning with a touch of regret, grudgingly nodded.

Footnote:

Having set up his carpentry and metalwork factory in a grimy brick-building which he purchased in the south-western outskirts of Paris in the autumn of 1845, Henri-Philippe Valcour soon found himself hard-pressed keeping up with orders, so many came in; the reputation of his work having spread across the length and breadth of Paris in 1846
and continued to grow in the years following.
A curtain was raised in 1846 for one man, involving business prospects; but a curtain came down on another: a man involved in the arts.
The gloomy premonition of the
esteemed pantomomist, Monsieur Jean-Gaspard Deburau came to pass that year. He died on June, 17th.

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