I, Jean d’Estelle, policeman in the town of Perignac, have the honour of recounting the facts pertaining to the crimes of the one now simply known as Auteuil - that is to say, Pierre Dubry-Auteuil - ending with his disappearance, heretofore unsolved. On the 16th of June, 1894, around noon, a band of unidentified men, led by Auteuil, suddenly rushed into town on a horse-driven cart, and looted Auteuil’s own workshop. The noise alerted the whole village, and I ran to intervene. The individual, Pierre Dubry-Auteuil, 32, of medium size, athletic frame, brown eyes, worked as an engineer in Paris, and Egypt, before going back to his native place of Perignac, and devoting himself to the creation of a flying apparatus. For this purpose he rented a barn adjacent to his home, where he created a workshop of great size. In that workshop he was helped by carpenter Louis Aguerre, known in the village as « Fauvel ». With much agitation, the band loaded the « Aero », Auteuil’s untested flying apparatus, onto the cart. They then drove off at full speed. I arrived as they left, right when a flock of birds of many colours, sea birds, birds of preys, tropical birds, suddenly burst out of the opened door, their cages opened amidst the confusion. I watched them go, and behind their flock saw the cart take a turn and disappear. I relied on the witnesses to learn about what had happened. Two reasons prevented me from pursuing them. First: all witnesses confirmed Auteuil’s presence and Fauvel’s help. There was thus no actual theft, though the circumstances of the whole affair seemed strange indeed. Second: it was at that moment that a troop of armed policemen arrived at the scene, to knock on Auteuil’s door, with a warrant, and loaded rifles. I followed the troop inside Auteuil’s home, where we were greeted by Auteuil’s wife Isabelle, née Marat. I must say here that other reports about her complicity mistake appearance for truth. Though she gave everyone an impression of coldness towards the law, she did not know about Auteuil’s previous actions. This can be simply established from her restrained nervosity, manifested through her wide eyes, raised voice, and sudden movements. I must add that this ignorance has later been proven, as we learned more about Auteuil’s first crime. Earlier on the same day, Auteuil had gone to his banker in the neighbouring city of Breguet, at around 8:30, demanding : 1. An extension of a loan already undertaken after the failure of four of his first flying machines. 2. An entirely new, smaller loan, dedicated to the « last piece of the Aero ». The banker, Nicolas de Pierrac, refused both. He describes Auteuil’s first reaction as perfectly calm and reasonable, understanding even. Auteuil apparently left for Perignac. Instead, it appears that Auteuil never left Breguet, but instead gathered, through means yet unknown, a ragtag team of misers, young agitators, intellectuals and drunks. On the basis of a promise that we could surmise was money and the thrill of violence, this band of about 12 men, led by Auteuil, barged in the bank and robbed it of about half its funds. The other half seems to have been left on account of urgency, and should not be held against Auteuil. All of this happened before 11:00. It was noon when Auteuil barged into his own workshop and drove away with the Aero. What was not noticed at the time of the scene, and later learned through the questioning of Fauvel, was that the the cart they came with already contained something. What Fauvel called « the Jewel » in his testimony, what Auteuil had named « the last part of the Aero » in his plea to de Pierrac, had in fact already been ordered and made in Breguet, at Pernaud’s violinmaker shop, according to Auteuil’s plans (Pernaud was paid with the stolen money, that he then had to give back, and still awaits actual payment). The actual details of this « Jewel » and how it worked within the Aero, I cannot understand. Fauvel only managed to describe it as « mechanical heart » of wood, levers, and string, that would manage the fine movement of the wings on air. How could a machine made from wood and paper ever dream to lift a man up to the sky ? This question was shared by all, and answered, not only in Auteuil’s four failures, but in scores of similar failed attempts throughout the centuries. Yet it was clear at this point that Auteuil had at last assembled his Aero, and that he would try it out somewhere. I was thus stuck with a troop that had seen nothing of the cart, and planned no more than a house arrest. The inertia in which they found themselves only worsened when the matter of logistics came. Where had they gone, how could we look for them ? Calls had to be made. A large chase, blockades perhaps … I decided to go look for him myself. It is true, I must say, that I did not disclose my intention, nor did I give out the location that I believed would be the site of the « attempt ». Instead, I only mentioned a place to Isabelle, who shuddered. Despite multiple marks of compassion from my part, she remained silent. Her eyes almost challenged me to find Auteuil before he could take off. I managed to leave while the troop’s captain was busy shouting. The location that I had guessed is here known as the « Wind’s Valley », even though it is technically a plateau, backed by hills, and narrowing towards a cliff, that falls in the sea. It was 12:45 when I borrowed a horse and galloped to catch up with Auteuil’s cart. Why I did not, after a lifetime of professionalism and reasonable action, share the location with a troop of colleagues and superiors, I do now know. That is the question at the heart of this report. What happened to Auteuil is now well-known, and cannot be resolved. I know that this unorthodox report also aims to ascertain my own complicity in his crimes. For now I can only say that the folly of this attempt after four failures that had been the talk of the town, the proud demeanour of his wife, and the general audacity, courage and brash joy with which I had seen him lead this pack of misfits, had given birth in me to some kind of trouble. I am not sure that I can find a better word. I am not an artist, or a philosopher. I caught up with Auteuil as he was ready to take off. The wind, as always, battered the tall grass of the Valley. It was a beautiful, cloudless day, and birds were playing over the sea. Auteuil turned to me and made me freeze, pistol in hand. He wore a simple white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His men, organised by Fauvel, had tied ropes around their waists, made to untangle right at the moment of flight. I watched them get ready, and nod. The Aero moved about in the wind, held on by the ropes, like a horse bucking before a race. Being one of the last witness of the Aero, I believe that I should describe what that extraordinary machine looked like. Contrary to what’s being said, the Aero didn’t have an engine, wasn’t built from wood, steel, ivory, or any of those journalist’s inventions. In fact, almost nothing true has been reported in the journals that turned the people’s opinion against Auteuil. The Aero aimed for lightness. 9 meters across, its whole frame was built in China paper, bamboo, and light, hollow wood. It was beige, white, brown in parts, but mostly the colour of old parchment. A great helix headed the machine, each long blade of the helix fashioned in the form of a feather. The pilot, laying down face forward, would pedal to propel the helix. Soft as a bird, and kite-like, moved about by the thinnest breeze: that was the Aero. Auteuil turned to me, and smiled. This smile, which he held for a long time, as though he had no fear of my function or weapon, disturbed me greatly. He seemed calm, and certain that I would not attempt an arrest or shoot. Thinking about it now, he had no logical reason to believe that. But there was a sense of fatality to the whole event. As if, had I shot, he would have simply accepted the danger, the wound, and tried to fly nonetheless. I thought of Isabelle there, not understanding how he could run that risk without her, and then saw again the challenge in her eyes. « Let him fly » they seemed to say. « You will never fly as he does ». Auteuil slid himself into the Aero. I ran up to him, and did not even aim to shoot. The Aero did seem to shake and float. At the end of a countdown of three, the men pulled. Wheels, unattached to the Aero itself, helped to give momentum to the apparatus. The ropes untangled as a gust of wind suddenly shot up beneath the wings. And Auteuil took flight. Out of his four past attempts, three had failed to get off the ground, and one took off 5 meters above ground before crashing, bruising him thoroughly. The villagers were all there on the first, almost none on the last. On this fifth attempt, Auteuil took flight. I saw him - and others can testify - take off like a bird above the valley. He rose more and more in the sun. In a minute, he crossed the cliff. We ran to the cliff’s edge. We saw the shadow of his wings run across the waves. He grew smaller and smaller until he approached the horizon line, and the sun overhead. Then, in an instant, he seemed to melt in the light, and disappeared. We have searched for him, ever since. The coast-guards, the managing staff of the lighthouse, and the authorities of neighbouring islands all scoured the sea. We have kept an eye, at all times, on Isabelle, Fauvel, and his workshop. They never disclosed their sadness, if there was any. I have personally walked the beaches, often, looking at the sea and sky. He never came back. We are now waiting for his body to be reported, on a reef, or a beach, though there is a good chance that, holding on to the Aero, he dove straight in and disappeared under the waves. I myself, being of reasonable mind, believe that the man is dead and that there is indeed a body to be found. At the same time, I cannot help but think of his disappearance as almost necessary, destined, and beautiful. As for Pernaud, the violinmaker, I learned that he had sold his shop and left town. I strove to find him wherever he was. I confess I dressed as a civilian, for fear of worrying him. In my mind I compared the Jewel to the secret of the pyramids. It had been this, out of Pernaud’s hand, that had given flight to mankind. And though I could understand, having seen it, that the Jewel was connected to the wings and tail, I could not, and still cannot understand its true function (in the same way, I know that the heart beats without understanding it). But after a week of endless search across the region, I had to let go, for now, and return to my duties as I could. Since that flight, which, I should insist, is the first human flight ever recorded, the trouble began to affect my professional demeanour. I grew restless, yes, imaginative, and obsessed with that mode of locomotion which, once dreamed, once seen, cannot leave the mind. Again and again, I am bound to remember the flying man in a bird, or a gust of wind spinning the the village vanes. I once saw, perched over our church, one of his escaped Egyptian vulture, and couldn’t think straight for the day. I can here declare that the allegations against me are all true. The lateness, and irregularities. The sightings of me attempting to speak to Isabelle, and being rebuked everytime. The time spent around the various crime scenes, and above all, the countless days lost in the Wind’s Valley. This is all true. Neighbours fought and cats got lost without my helping hand, it is true. I was, and remain, wholly absorbed in the idea of flight, that has conquered my heart, if I may express myself as such in a report that, as you understand, has exceeded the limits of a report. But isn’t it clear to all who dream of flight that excess, itself, and its excessive consequences, is the nature of life and the vocation of man ? I fully understand the effect that this report will have on those who will read it. I do not expect to be understood, and part of me hopes that I am not. For now I cannot sleep, I cannot live until I have found my manner of flight. For all of these reasons, mysterious even for myself, I have decided to resign from my position. I do not worry for anything that happens now. Long live Auteuil. Long live the man in the sky ! Jean d’Estelle, September 8th, Wind’s Valley