“Is something burning?” asked Lucien.
“Ah, the boilers are in the shoes,” said the Professeur. “They burn powdered coal at a low smolder, but unfortunately there is some wasted heat. If you stand in one place for long, there is a danger of charring the rug.”
Henri had begun to chuckle and was trying to conceal his amusement.
“At first, I wasn’t sure how to shield your feet from the heat, then I thought, Of course, Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec wouldn’t mind being a bit taller. We’ll simply extend the rods of the calves so that you are suspended above the heat of the boilers, and voilà! You are six feet tall.”
“But everyone knows I have short legs. Would you have me leave Paris so I could use your walker?”
“Men trust their perceptions, not their memories. Your trousers will conceal the mechanism. You would only have to slip away a few times an evening to add fuel to the shoes. Perhaps more if there is dancing.”
Henri was giggling now, barely able to contain himself. “So I’m to shovel coal into my shoes hoping no one notices, while the smoke and steam—what of the vapor?”
“There’s little more smoke than a cigar, and the steam would be barely visible by gas lamp. It vents out the back of your trousers, under the tail of your coat.”
“Marvelous!” said Henri. “I use a similar port for my own vapors. I want to try them, immediately. Well, as soon as we’ve heard the results of your analysis of the colors.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Professeur, “the colors. Let me get my papers.”
He went into the back room, which Lucien thought might have once been the bedroom, yet there was no sign visible through the doorway that there was a bed in there, only worktables and scientific instruments.
Lucien leaned over to Henri and whispered, “Are you really going to try those legs of his?”
“Absolutely,” Henri whispered back. “But no special trousers to conceal them. I’m wearing them on the outside. Did you hear that, Lucien? Dancing. On my mechanical, steam-farting legs. I shall be the toast of Pigalle.”
“Oh balls,” Lucien said.
“What?”
“I think your miraculous new feet are on fire.”
And indeed, flames were shooting out of the tops of the Loco-ambulators’ shoes and licking the brass legs.
“I’ll get water,” said Lucien, jumping up and running to the kitchen.
“Bring back liquor,” said Henri.
Five minutes later the flames were out and the three sat, sadly looking at the charred remains of the steam stilts, which now stood just outside the door, in the dust, like the charred skeleton of a cannonball catcher, his torso carried off to parts unknown by the last shot.
“Perhaps a clockwork design,” said the Professeur wistfully.
“As long as the pendulum is enormous,” said Henri with a grin. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“So, Professeur,” said Lucien. “About the colors.”
“Yes,” said Henri, “is there some kind of drug in them?”
The Professeur shuffled his papers until they seemed suitably disorganized.
“As you know, there have been theories since Newton that every material has its own unique qualities of light refraction, but beyond the visual analysis, there is no way to quantify that uniqueness.”
“Which means?” asked Henri.
“To our eye, different red things will appear red,” said Lucien.
“Exactly,” said the Professeur.
“Is it obvious for me to point out that it does not require a scientist to point out that that is obvious?” asked Henri.