proud of having yelled out the window. A stand had been made. Most of his life he’d observed decorum and custom, but now he felt an urge to bellow. He looked around, a little annoyed to be kept waiting. He had no faith in daguerreotypes of the sun and moon. In 1845, Hippolyte Fizeau and Léon Foucault had made an image of the sun. To Louis it appeared as a ball of pale wax giving off smoke. It was not the method of the men that was in question. Both were sound methodologists—Hippolyte had several other images of limited acclaim, and Foucault’s pendulum was already under development, inching nearer to proving the rotation of the earth. No, Louis was not here to remedy the image. He was here to repay a debt to Arago. As the director of the observatory and secretary of the Academie des Sciences, Arago had rallied for Louis Daguerre’s national pension of ten thousand francs. It had been Arago who believed in the importance of Daguerre’s invention when others called it lunacy, an affront to painterly art and tradition.
A clerk ushered Louis into Arago’s office. It was a bare stone chamber with a single brass telescope poised at the window. Arago sat behind a large desk stacked with dossiers bundled in twine. He rose to greet Louis. “Monsieur, how can it be all these years and only now you’ve come to fetch me the heavens? Very good to see you.”
They embraced. Arago was an elegant, precise man with a square jaw and a Roman nose. He dressed like a Burgundy vintner, despite being an ardent Republican—an heirloom cravat pin, cuff links, moleskin trousers.
“You look good, François.”
“I’m balding and I don’t sleep well, but I appreciate the lie. It’s quite touching. Please make yourself comfortable,” said Arago, sitting back down.
Louis sat in a high-backed chair.
Arago said, “Where have you been? You dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I’ve been very busy with the process—making improvements and such.”
Arago leaned forward, his hands together. “Are you eating enough? You look ill.”
“You were always known for your tact. I’m too busy to eat these days.”
“Have a cigar,” Arago said. “Health is for the idle.” He reached into a top drawer, produced two cigars, and cut off the ends with a bone-handled knife. He handed one to Louis. “I hear,” he said, “that the Americans are quite taken with your invention. There are hundreds of portrait studios in New York. Even Samuel Morse has one.”
“I hear that also,” said Louis. He lit his cigar, being careful not to ignite his cough.
Arago leaned back in his chair, lit his cigar, and blew smoke up at the ceiling. “You must be pleased.”
Louis settled in his own chair. “I owe much of it to you. I’m always indebted for your sponsorship.”
“So indebted that you don’t answer my letters for five years?”
Louis felt himself about to stammer, then relaxed his mouth. “I don’t always read my mail.”
Arago’s mouth puckered with a sarcastic smile. “Ah, the vagaries of fame.”
A smoky silence filled the room.
“Some men might be bitter, Louis. I went before the Academie for your invention, recommended a national pension. Meanwhile, I measure the speed of sound and chart the stars and planets, and your average Frenchman doesn’t know who I am. They’re not going to name a street after me when I’m dead.”
Louis looked down at his feet and spoke quietly. “I wonder if the dead are vainer than the living.”
“What’s that?” Arago gripped the arms of his chair.
Louis watched the red eye of Arago’s cigar flash, then recede. “François, I have had trouble with my eyes, and that’s why I didn’t read your letters. My vision fails me at certain times of the day. The doctors say it’s a reaction to the nitric acid I use in my process.”
Arago cocked his head to the side, a little unwilling to yield his irritation. “I’m sorry to hear about your eyes.”
“It won’t matter before
A clerk ushered Louis into Arago’s office. It was a bare stone chamber with a single brass telescope poised at the window. Arago sat behind a large desk stacked with dossiers bundled in twine. He rose to greet Louis. “Monsieur, how can it be all these years and only now you’ve come to fetch me the heavens? Very good to see you.”
They embraced. Arago was an elegant, precise man with a square jaw and a Roman nose. He dressed like a Burgundy vintner, despite being an ardent Republican—an heirloom cravat pin, cuff links, moleskin trousers.
“You look good, François.”
“I’m balding and I don’t sleep well, but I appreciate the lie. It’s quite touching. Please make yourself comfortable,” said Arago, sitting back down.
Louis sat in a high-backed chair.
Arago said, “Where have you been? You dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I’ve been very busy with the process—making improvements and such.”
Arago leaned forward, his hands together. “Are you eating enough? You look ill.”
“You were always known for your tact. I’m too busy to eat these days.”
“Have a cigar,” Arago said. “Health is for the idle.” He reached into a top drawer, produced two cigars, and cut off the ends with a bone-handled knife. He handed one to Louis. “I hear,” he said, “that the Americans are quite taken with your invention. There are hundreds of portrait studios in New York. Even Samuel Morse has one.”
“I hear that also,” said Louis. He lit his cigar, being careful not to ignite his cough.
Arago leaned back in his chair, lit his cigar, and blew smoke up at the ceiling. “You must be pleased.”
Louis settled in his own chair. “I owe much of it to you. I’m always indebted for your sponsorship.”
“So indebted that you don’t answer my letters for five years?”
Louis felt himself about to stammer, then relaxed his mouth. “I don’t always read my mail.”
Arago’s mouth puckered with a sarcastic smile. “Ah, the vagaries of fame.”
A smoky silence filled the room.
“Some men might be bitter, Louis. I went before the Academie for your invention, recommended a national pension. Meanwhile, I measure the speed of sound and chart the stars and planets, and your average Frenchman doesn’t know who I am. They’re not going to name a street after me when I’m dead.”
Louis looked down at his feet and spoke quietly. “I wonder if the dead are vainer than the living.”
“What’s that?” Arago gripped the arms of his chair.
Louis watched the red eye of Arago’s cigar flash, then recede. “François, I have had trouble with my eyes, and that’s why I didn’t read your letters. My vision fails me at certain times of the day. The doctors say it’s a reaction to the nitric acid I use in my process.”
Arago cocked his head to the side, a little unwilling to yield his irritation. “I’m sorry to hear about your eyes.”
“It won’t matter before
Similar Books
