‘Well what about me? And Martial? Don’t we count?’
‘You … when you see those Chinese lanterns, you stand there like a child with your mouth hanging open. And Martial is too young to look after a young woman.’
‘Oh, I’m too young,’ protested Martial, delighted. To hide his lack of composure, he picked up the newspaper that his uncle had just put down. ‘Anything new in the paper?’
‘The Caillaux trial is starting on Monday.’
Martial leafed absent-mindedly through the Petit Parisien, and read out loud: ‘Monsieur Maurice Barrès was elected President of the League of Patriots’; ‘In Sarajevo, after the assassination, attacks on the Serbs …’
He folded up the paper, carefully smoothing it out. He shuddered slightly, his shoulders twitching as if he felt a chill run through him. He even thought: ‘What could be wrong with me? I’m shivering. I must have stopped wearing my flannel underwear too early this year.’ He made it a rule to keep wearing it until the 15th August, because you can never be certain at the beginning of summer. Certain … this little word suddenly resonated in his mind. What had made him shiver was not the early signs of a cold, but something within, something that had nothing to do with anything physical … Anxiety. No, that was too strong a word. Sadness … Yes, that was it; suddenly he felt sad. He had been beaming all day long and now suddenly … Mere mortals knew nothing of what was thundering through every Embassy in Europe, and yet he sensed a kind of agitation in these high places, something feverish, the shock of opposing electric currents that struck him every now and then, just as you sometimes see sheep safely sheltered in their folds anxiously raise their heads when they sense a storm raging in the distance. The assassination of that Austrian prince … The crowds the day before yesterday, demonstrating in front of the Statue de Strasbourg at the Place de la Concorde … Words, rumours, talk, words … one word … But a word that doesn’t belong to our century, thank goodness.
‘It smells of gunpowder,’ he said out loud, showing the newspaper to Uncle Adolphe and trying to sound as if he were joking. ‘It smells of war …’
‘Well, if there is a war, we’ll fight,’ said Adolphe, twirling his moustache and puffing out his chest. ‘We’ll eat rats, like during the siege.’ Then he turned towards the women and asked impatiently: ‘Well, are you coming? We’re going to miss the fireworks.’
‘Tonight, I’ll ask her, I’ll definitely ask her,’ Martial said to himself, and, oddly enough, this time he knew he actually would do it, he wouldn’t shy away. The feeling of sadness remained in his heart, but not only sadness, a sort of extreme awareness of his entire being, as if he were alone in a room and could hear footsteps outside.
Thérèse found him standing in the small entrance hall. He was staring at the door, his neck straining forward, his nose red and his forehead covered in sweat. She started laughing:
‘You frightened me. What are you doing standing here? Come along, let’s go, Papa is going downstairs. Close the door. Don’t step on my skirt. You’re so clumsy! You’ll tear the hem.’
All four of them went out on to the street; it was already alive with the sound of celebrations. Violinists were tuning their instruments at the intersections. In front of the small cafés, the squares were marked off for the dancing, a rectangle of pavement lit by paper lanterns and the moon. They could see the swaying shadows of the trees on the ground. The night had something gentle about it, something soothing and sensual that intoxicated the young men and women. Young girls wearing boaters and white blouses raced by, raising their skirts up to their calves. Soldiers danced with chambermaids. On the Avenue de la République, there was a fair, stalls, the smell of hot oil, gingerbread, gunpowder, circus animals, noise, shouting, gunshots and fireworks.
Martial took Thérèse’s arm.
‘Here, right now, immediately,’ he thought.
He shouted into her ear and later on, she would recall his hoarse, anguished voice, merging with the roaring of the captive lions, the sound of the Marseillaise and the hum of the carousels.
‘Thérèse, I love you. Will you marry me?’
She couldn’t hear what he was saying. She gestured to him to say no more, then smiled and pointed to all the people around them. He looked at her with terror in his eyes, gasping with anguish. She felt sorry for him and gently squeezed his hand.
‘Is that a yes?’ he cried. ‘Oh, Thérèse …’
He could think of nothing else to say. He put his hand under her elbow and supported her with respect and infinite care, as if he were carrying a priceless vase through a great crowd. She was touched by his gesture. ‘He wants me to understand that he will always protect me, always love me.’ He wasn’t handsome, he wasn’t eloquent, but he was a decent man and she felt affection for him. She had always known that she would end up marrying him. Yes, even when she was still a very young girl, when he let her ride piggyback … Once, when she was nine, he had carried her all the way to the top of the Colonne de Juillet at the Place de la Bastille. She had felt safe in his arms, and occasionally opened one eye to look down at the square, very far below … Yes, that day she had thought: ‘When I grow up, I will marry Martial.’
They had left the broad avenue now. They walked down the calmer, darker streets. They crossed the Seine. The adults walked behind them.
‘He’s asked her,’ they said. ‘He’s talking intently, gesturing with his arms. She’s listening without saying anything. That’s it, he’s done it. It was meant to be. He’s a decent young man.’
‘Will you dance at their wedding, Mama?’ Adolphe asked his mother-in-law, straightening a leg to make her a small bow.
Madame Pain dried her eyes. She was remembering her own daughter. But it was just a sad, fleeting thought. She was too old to think about the dead for long. In old age, the dead are so close that you forget about them. You can only imagine things that are far away. She imagined Thérèse’s wedding, the honeymoon, the wonderful meal … the child that would be born.
She nodded her head and, her voice quivering with emotion, her eyes still full of tears, she automatically began to hum:
Joyful tambourines, lead the dance!…
They had arrived at the Pont de la Tournelle. They watched the fireworks above the Seine, saw Notre Dame, the water and the skies all illuminated. Then the water was black, the sky had turned red, threatening, on fire.
Martial stood beside his fiancée. They were engaged. ‘I’m starting a new chapter,’ he thought, flustered. ‘I’m beginning a new life. What was I before? A man on his own. Unhappy. From now on, whatever happens, we’ll be together. Nothing will come between us.’ He had succeeded; all was well.
3
A boy of seventeen wearing trousers that were too short and too tight, for he had grown so quickly, no hat, his hair thrown back off his face, gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to hold back the sobs rising in his throat: Bernard Jacquelain walked down the street behind a regiment on the march. It was the 31st July 1914, in Paris.
Every now and again, Barnard glanced around, curious, attentive and terrified, like a little boy who has been taken to the theatre for the first time. It was an amazing spectacle, on the eve of war, for only men who had gone soft in the head, old fools like Adolphe Brun, or the …(he quickly spat out a swear word that had all the pleasure of novelty, for he had only recently learned it at school), those … like Martial Brun claimed there wouldn’t be a war, that at the last moment the governments would pull back, refusing to be responsible for a European massacre … They really didn’t understand there was something sublime about all this, thought Bernard. To think that a single word, one act could cause war to break out, and war was heroic, similar to all the upheaval wreaked by Napoleon – imagine knowing this and pulling back! You had to have ice in your veins. For a moment, he imagined he was the Tsar, the President of the Republic, a great military leader.
‘Forward!’ he murmured, stretching out his arm, his eyes full of tears. ‘For the hon
our of our flag!’
‘Yes, there will be a war,’ he told himself again. ‘And I, I, Bernard Jacquelain, will have lived through heroic times like Austerlitz and Waterloo. I will tell my children: “Ah! If only you could have seen Paris in 1914!” I’ll tell them all about the shouting, the flowers, the cheering, the tears!’
In reality, it was not like that at all. The streets were quiet, the iron shutters on the shops lowered. You could see carriages loaded up with baggage going by. But Bernard knew there had been patriotic demonstrations that very morning in various parts of the capital and, as for the rest, he embellished, his thoughts wandered into invisible apartments, he explored the depths of the hearts and souls of the Parisian population:
‘There’s a woman who is looking at the soldiers and crying. Poor thing … She’s thinking about her husband, her son. And that other woman who watches them march by, such sadness in her eyes. She looks like Mama … What will Mama say when she finds out that I want to join up, “enlist before being conscripted” as they call it? For I’ve made up my mind, I’m not waiting until it’s my turn! Besides, everyone agrees it will all be over in three months. Then what will I do? Stay at school, slog away like a fool, get punished with extra homework like a little kid when there is this, this glory, this bloodshed, this war? No, no, no! No, thank you! I want to go, and right away, go far away, and do everything! God, what beautiful weather it is, how hot the sun is! How striking that soldier’s uniform with its red trousers! And the horses! Can anything ever be more beautiful than a fine-looking, lively animal that prances, nuzzles his reins and has lather in his nostrils? I want to be a cavalryman, a dragoon, because of their helmets. Oh, the young ladies are blowing kisses to the soldiers! How proud those men must be. Women love soldiers. I want to be loved, but not by just one woman, by many women; I want them to fight each other for my favours, while I simply stand among them, watching, in my handsome uniform … When they see the way I look at them, they’ll know I am their lord and master. But all of that is really childish. I’m no longer interested in women. No! Not even that little chambermaid who gives me the eye when we pass on the stairs. I want to live for the smell of gunpowder, war and glory! There’s an old man who must have fought in ’70; how moved he must be! Don’t worry, Monsieur, I’m here, me, little Bernard Jacquelain, and I’ll bet you anything that I will bring back Victory under our flag! Oh, I want to sing, to shout, to leap! They can say whatever they want but I’m joining up, I’m joining up, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll be eighteen next week. How old do you have to be to join up? It will be a nightmare if I can’t make it happen. Oh, that music! They’re playing over there. The trumpets are blaring, and the drums … My God, it’s beautiful! To advance to the sound of that music and then, charge! Swords drawn! Bayonets fixed!’
His emotion and exhaustion – he had walked through half of Paris – left him out of breath. He had to stop for a moment to lean against a wall. The battle music sent shivers down his spine, filled his eyes with tears. He suddenly felt as though he were being flayed alive, every muscle, every nerve was exposed as the sounds of the trumpets swept over him; and every single note was being played on his body, on his own flesh. Every beat of the drum battered his bones. ‘And that’s how it feels,’ he thought. ‘At least, that’s how it will feel when I’m a soldier. I’ll be part of the regiment like … like a drop of blood is part of the red river that flows through my heart.’
He pulled himself up to his full height with pride: he stood to attention, listening to the fanfare that faded away in the distance. The air still quivered like the string on a violin. To Bernard’s ears, everything was singing: the river, the ancient cobblestones, the mass of people. The crowd was tightly packed now; everyone rushed towards the newspaper stands. The men talked endlessly, gesturing broadly, waving their walking sticks about. You could hear them saying: ‘The Tsar … the Kaiser …’ Their faces were pale, drawn, serious. Bernard looked at them scornfully:
‘Old men! They’re all talk. I’m going to act; I’m going to join up,’ he thought.
His elbows tight against his sides, chin raised, jogging along and imagining himself charging behind the raised flag, Bernard crossed the street, went into a bakery, bought two pastries, ate them standing up with a fierce look on his face, then took the metro home; he wanted to announce his decision to his family that very evening. ‘Mama will cry, but Papa will back me up. He’s patriotic. Mama is too, but women are weak. The most important thing is to talk like a man. This is what I’ll say: “Papa, I love and respect you. I have always obeyed you. But now, someone stronger than you is in command: our country, Papa, it is the call of France!” ’
He was charging up the stairs when the concierge stopped him: his parents were at their neighbours, the Bruns, and were waiting for him.
‘So much the better,’ Bernard thought, quivering with pleasure. ‘I’ll tell them in front of the Bruns … That will impress them all …’
He felt particularly pleased to be impressing Thérèse. She had hardly paid any attention to him for some time now; she was engaged …‘Engaged,’ he murmured, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Everyone thinks it’s natural for a girl of my age to get married, to lead the life of a wife … But if I were to say I want to get engaged, they’d cry their eyes out. But actually, he’s going to leave, her fiancé! Their marriage will be postponed indefinitely. Anyway, what do I care! Really … really … Women …!’
Still running, he got to the Bruns’ house; the key was under the mat. He went inside. He saw his parents and Martial in the dining room. His mother looked at him and whispered: ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sounding frightened. ‘You’re covered in sweat.’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, but thought proudly:
‘There must be something remarkable in my eyes. I am a man, a warrior.’
He said a quick, patronising hello to this group of women and old men (Martial’s thirty years seemed close to decrepitude to him).
He looked at him curiously. Martial was seated at the table; the tablecloth had been pushed back and he was sorting out letters from a small old suitcase open in front of him. Ever since finishing the lycée, Martial no longer lived with the Bruns, but he left a trunk and some other things of his at their house because he didn’t have room for them in his small student lodgings. With extreme care, he separated the papers, tearing up some of them and putting the others in different coloured folders:
‘These are photographs of the family, Uncle Adolphe. And these are the ones I took of Thérèse at Tréport when she was four years old. My diplomas. The bill from the engraver of the brass plaque you know about …’
He fell silent and sighed, deep in thought:
‘Doctor Brun. Ear, Nose and Throat.’
‘I’m putting the money in an envelope, Uncle Adolphe; please take it to him for me and apologise that I’m late in paying it: I really haven’t had a minute to myself. And this is something of my mother’s, a watch with her initials on it that I would like Thérèse to have.’
‘You can give it to me after our wedding, darling,’ Thérèse said softly.
It was the first time she had mentioned their forthcoming marriage in public. She blushed and handed back the watch he held out to her; it was gold, old-fashioned with a long chain.
‘I suppose you’ll get married when the war is over,’ said Bernard, his voice as husky as a young cockerel, with a hint of unconscious cruelty.
‘We’re not waiting until then,’ said Martial. ‘I’m not leaving right away, at least not going over there immediately …’
He gestured to indicate some unknown far-off place.
‘My teacher, Professor Faure, has arranged to keep me with him. They’re setting up new hospital trains in the provinces. As soon as they’re ready – it will take three or four weeks – they’ll leave for … over there …,’ he said again, ‘and me with them. But that will give us time to celebrate our wedding.’
‘Three or four weeks!’ cried Ber
nard. ‘But it will be over by then!’
Martial shook his head:
‘No, it will be a long war, a very long war.’
The elderly Madame Pain had said nothing up until then. She had just sat with her hands folded on her lap, lost in thought.
‘If I were you, my children,’ she said, ‘I’d wait … That’s no kind of marriage; the husband off in some hell, his wife in Paris! After the wedding, just a week together …’
‘A week? Even a day together would be wonderful, Madame Pain!’
‘Well, you see? One day and then you’ll be separated. Perhaps for six months, who knows? You’ve said yourself that it will be a long war! No, no, my dears, let things work themselves out: when everyone’s had enough of fighting, life will get back to normal. For now, it’s as if everyone’s gone mad, but that can’t last.’
‘I’ll do whatever Thérèse wants,’ Martial said quickly. ‘If she doesn’t want to be married to a soldier … The wife of a soldier … I know that I’m offering her a difficult future, one that is very different from what I had dreamt of for her …’
‘But Martial,’ said Thérèse, ‘we’re already committed to each other.’
‘It’s not the same thing,’ Madame Pain grumbled, ‘not the same thing at all. You’re a child, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
But Thérèse just shook her head and said nothing, tight-lipped, with a look of determination that Madame Pain knew very well.
‘She’ll do just what she wants,’ she said softly. ‘And besides, it’s not as if Martial will be in any great danger: he’s a doctor …’
‘That’s true,’ said Bernard, scornfully. ‘And besides – mark my words – by the time he and his well-equipped, fancy train get to Berlin, we’ll already be there.’
He turned bright red and pushed his unruly hair off his forehead with his ink-stained hand.
‘Papa, Mama, don’t try to stop me. I’ve made my decision and there’s no turning back. I’m not waiting to be conscripted. I’m joining up.’
The Fires of Autumn Page 3
