She sketched a taut smile and replied, in a patient tone; “Yes, my little old man, I think so.”
My little old man: that was what she had called him straight away, as a sign of tender protection, even though she was then eight years old and he was twelve, when the Liserays and Dormiers had become neighbors at Bourg-la-Reine. The delicate and resolute little girl had reigned over her big booby of a comrade. And she still called him my little old man, even though he had then been beginning to be a tall young man, when Monsieur Dormier and his family had been obliged to leave Bourg-la-Reine and go to Geneva six years later.
For Jean, those childhood years at Bourg-la-Reine were the enchanted years of his life. In his memory, they always seemed to him to be accompanied by music.
Since that era, however, he had known the most seductive landscapes, all sorts of places and all sorts of skies. When his father had died, during his twentieth year, he had launched himself into long-distance reportage. The profession had taken him all over the world—but every time he came back, he always found the means to see Marilène, wherever she was living. He pressed her cheerfully with questions: “Unroll your film for me.”
Once, in Geneva, he learned that the Dormiers had divorced. The fact is that Monsieur Dormier, a stern functionary, could not be easy to live with from day to day. Another time, he had met Marilène in Lyon, where she was studying law. Later still he had found her in Paris, in a place of honor, attached to the staff of a Minister.
It was in Brazil that he had caught wind, with his reliable journalistic instincts, of the schism in Lausanne. He was mounting an aerial raid in mysterious Amazonia, having covered the Exhibition in Montevideo, the carnival in Buenos Aires and the Bolivian revolution. Within a wing-beat, he returned to Paris, ran to embrace his mother, still faithful to old Bourg-la-Reine, and then headed for Switzerland. At Geneva, he picked up Marilène, spending the holiday with her father, and took her to spend the day in Lausanne.
At the moment, he was enjoying a temporary respite, far from events, in that uniform calm, amid the fresh odor of the beaten water and the gilded mist, on the blue lake whose surrounding mountains, painted in a light color-wash on the horizon, seemed to isolate it from the world.
“I have to make a confession, Marilène. I’ve had enough of this Wandering Jew existence. I want to settle down. One doesn’t always have to be searching the ends of the Earth for subjects of study; there are heaps close at hand, and enormous ones. I’ve run around enough—ten years. I have the right to dig the ground a little in one place. I have a name now. I have a public. People will listen to me. Don’t you agree?”
“But, my little old man, if...”
“Yes, it’s a stupid existence. Also, Mama has no one but me. Every time I go away I wonder of I’ll find her again when I come back. This time, haven’t I left it more than a year without seeing her? Then again, there’s you...”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You miss me, you know, Marilène. It’s when one is far away from people that one loves them the most.”
“Charming...”
“But yes. Because one measures the place they held by the gap they leave behind. Often, when I was far away, and alone, I tried to see you again, with my eyes closed. It’s odd. I found your stubborn forehead, your warm gaze, your snub nose, your little beak, but it always seemed to me that you were wearing jewelry, which you never do. It’s doubtless because you sparkle naturally, because you give off gleams...”
She shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of annoyance. “What are you getting at?”
“Twice, in my last voyage, I thought I was done for—an airplane crash in Amazonia, and a fire aboard ship at sea. Well, the only thing I regretted was you…Marilène, it’s necessary for us not to be separate any longer. Would you like us to make a life together? Would you like me for a husband?”
“What an idea!” she cried. “You don’t think so, do you?”
The tone of dry violence disconcerted him more than the words themselves. Rapidly, in any case, she apologized. She had a poor, wry smile. “I beg your pardon, my little old man…but you took me so much by surprise. It’s true. You have a funny way of declaring yourself.”
Already, in his indulgent heart, he was collecting himself. Yes, he knew. He knew that he had the manners of a big clumsy dog, who knocks over those he loves in testifying his tenderness and joy. He was exactly like a St. Bernard: the friendly and honest gaze, the muzzle always moist and quivering, the surly manners.
“You’re right,” he said, “I’m too abrupt. But you see, it’s also the fault of this unique morning, in which we’re so far away from everything, and simultaneously so close to one another. And then again, perhaps you’re not feeling well. You seem to me so weary, all of a sudden. Not true? There’s nothing wrong? In any case, don’t give me an answer today. No, no. Don’t discourage me. I’m not saying anything irrevocable. Take your time. Reflect...”
Chapter V
(Wednesday)
When he went into his office in the Hôtel de Ville at ten o’clock, the mayor, Monsieur Marigot, started in astonishment. Collapsed piles of telegrams, letters and printed documents covered his table. And immediately, the telephone took possession of him, gripping him by the ear and refusing to let go.
That was because, since the day before, when the ministers had suddenly met, the alert had been quietly sounded. None of the nations under arms wanted to be the first to mobilize, but none of them wanted to fall behind, so every effort was being made to ensure an advance by means of clandestine preparations, partial convocations and an entire covert concentration.
War...
Marigot was not afraid of it even though, this time, it was putting the entire country in peril. Like everyone else, he was convinced that he, personally, would escape death. The war, in fact, represented itself to him as a new opportunity for enrichment—but he put that anticipation aside, out of a kind of superstitious prudishness. No, amid all these heaps of paper, all these telephone calls, he was primarily alarmed by the initiatives and responsibilities immediately demanded—for he did not have the soul of a leader. He knew full well that he had been elected because of his fortune, and had accepted out of vanity.
But so what? Was not Jeanne Surène, the secretary of the Mairie, going to help and support him? That prospect appeased him delightfully. She was so decisive, had so much judgment and authority. In her company, he breathed an atmosphere of wellbeing and security, felt more fully alive than elsewhere.
The very sound of his secretary’s voice charmed him. At that moment, as soon as the telephone gave him a moment’s respite, he could hear her, because the door between their offices stood ajar, and he listened blissfully.
She was, however, using her official voice, the voice she reserved for the public, which was by no means tender. Her rigor was notorious. She knew the regulations perfectly, but she knew nothing else. At that very moment, she was scolding his administrators again. She asked one whether he could read. She sent another away because he had used blank paper instead of headed notepaper. She forbade a third to smoke.
According to legend, two travelers passing through, who had come in search of information, had been surprised by her strict and curt manner. As they drew away, one had said to the other ironically, and rather loudly: “It’s astonishing what a pleasant manner that young woman has.” To which she had replied, in her most cutting tone: “I’m not required to be pleasant.”
Marigot secretly approved. After all, she was right; she wasn’t required to be pleasant. The mayor saw no inconvenience in her leading the town by the collar, provided that she led it straight. In sum, she was the incarnation of an old French tradition, which requires a functionary to display a surly arrogance toward an obedient and resigned public. Administration has remained feudal; the counter has replaced the drawbridge.
Finally, Marigot was flattered to hear Jeanne Surène change her voice as soon as she addressed him alone. Certainly, she mainta
ined, even in private, a dark moodiness, something of the wasp, always quick to believe that she was being attacked and to unsheath her sting, but they took as much pleasure as one another from their encounters.
Come on, no false modesty. Why should he not please Jeanne Surène, a single woman in the bloom of youth, well turned-out, who was reputed to be intelligent, who knew that he was rich and that the best families in Briolle dreamed of annexing him?
Fundamentally, they ought to have married one another, but she was too proud to declare her feelings and he refused to marry a woman who had no money. Yes, he knew it, and blushed over it; he was held back by his avarice—for he was a miser, a classic miser.
It was said that his parents, rich farmers, had sowed wheat over the tomb of grandfather Marigot and carefully harvested that single square meter of crop. On bad years they had said: “Grandfather’s yielded poorly.” He was a miser, he immediately knew the price of the meanest object placed before his eyes: a cigarette, a piece of candy, a flower. For him, everything had a price-label attached. He employed incredible ruses to obtain a rebate, a reduced tariff or a “good price.” He suffered physically from paying, from parting with his money, as if he were having to tear away and part with a little of his own substance. For him, every purchase was a torture and every saving a sensual experience.
Marigot pricked up his ears, however; there was no sound in the next room; Jeanne Surène was alone. He moved to join her, tasting in advance the delicate pleasure of seeing her, hearing her, of being proud of her.
Suddenly, however, alarm immobilized him. Might not war suspend payments, prevent creditors from claiming their due? He had lent rather large sums, as much out of political calculation as natural cupidity; he helped the electors at high interest. Some were behind. Were those arrears going to escape him? That wasn’t possible. He had only one anguish: “My money!”
He felt dizzy. Then he exhorted himself to pull himself together. He would act to recover the sums while the town was still ignorant of all those orders from Paris that were assailing him, all those preparations for mobilization. As soon as they heard about them, his debtors would glimpse the imminent possibility of not paying.
For a second, he swayed. Would not Jeanne, in the circumstances, give him good advice? But no, no. Time was pressing.
And, leaving the mail, the telephone and the secretary herself, he ran outside.
Cutting across the square, he headed straight for Truchard’s shop. It was the merchant of talking and seeing machines who had borrowed he largest sums and owed him the most arrears of interest.
Marigot had had his reasons for not pressing him. For one thing, Truchard’s shop, where people came to obtain news at the end of the day, was an excellent arena of electoral propaganda. Then again, the mayor had faith in the constructor’s skill; one day, he would discover some fortunate improvement that would make him a fortune and enable him to recompense his creditors handsomely. Finally, he could not help feeling a sort of pitying admiration for the man, who, going from one physician to another, spent so much money in vain for his wife. He was, moreover, no more fortunate as a father than as a husband. His son was reputed to be an idler, an abnormal, and a deviant. But it was no longer a matter of going soft over Truchard’s misfortunes. War and the moratorium were approaching...
The constructor worked alone, in the back of the shop, in an odor of gutta-percha. His hair and eyes were discolored, his features fixed and washed out by misfortune. His gray skin distilled droplets of oily sweat. With the back of his blackened hand he often moved back a stray wisp of hair the barred his forehead. The mayor’s features, bronzed and dry, fine and cunning, contrasted curiously with those of the man annealed by grief.
“You can guess why I’m here, can’t you, Truchard? You’re terribly behind, my friend. You aren’t able to pay me?”
Truchard shook his head, and pushed back the wisp of hair with the back of his hand. He cited his wife’s condition, yet again. A specialist, recently summoned from Paris, had charged him very dearly. Penetrated by the respect that titles inspire, especially in people who do not know what they mean, he repeated: “A professor, you understand, Monsieur Marigot—a professor...”
“Yes, yes—but I have me expenses too, Truchard. “And he reminded him that his trade as a stockbroker obliged him to pay out large advances.
“Oh, Truchard, I hate being forced to seem exacting, ferocious, in spite of your misfortune, but, I repeat, I have expenses. Make your arrangements...”
He was maddened by the thought that his money might escape him, thanks to the war. His dark gaze, charged with an anxious fury, swept the entire shop. “It’s necessary to bend every bow. You have stock here. You can liquidate it.”
“They’re machines on deposit,” said Truchard, humbly.
“Increase your production then!” Margit almost shouted. “Make more sets. You work well, but too slowly. You’re too finicky. And then, damn it, your son Emile could help you, if only as a salesman. He could extend your market. Where is he? What is he doing, right now?”
Truchard’s face fell further. A drop of sweat condensed at the point of his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
“Monsieur Marigot, if you hadn’t come to the shop this morning I would have come to see you in your office. I’m worried about Emile. Since yesterday, I’ve been afraid...”
“What? What? What’s happened?”
“Well, this is it: yesterday evening, at about nine o’clock, Emile and I were alone in the shop. I’d tuned into Radio France when François Thibault read his appeal in favor of peace. You didn’t hear it?”
“No.”
“Naturally, one could see and hear him as if he were in the room. At one time, he begged the men and women of the entire world to band together against war. Emile, who hadn’t said anything until then, uttered a sort of furious roar. He waved his fist at the screen. He spat out threats. It was as if he’d gone mad. Then, without waiting for the end, without saying good bye to us, he leapt into the last bus to Paris. I’m afraid, Monsieur Marigot. You know how excited Emile gets…and then, he’s subject to the influence of his friends, his reading...”
What? The life of François Thibault was under threat? François Thibault, the pride of the town, the greatest glory in the world? Marigot shared Truchard’s anxiety. For an instant, it made him forget his avarice.
“You were right to speak, Truchard. I’ll give it some thought.” And he slowly made his way back to the Hôtel de Ville.
Chapter VI
(Wednesday)
Pierre Arnage went back to his Ministry in the Place Vendôme on foot after having eaten lunch at his Club in the Champs-Élysées. Under the beautiful sky, the vellum of blue silk that had been hanging for three days, in a derisory manner, over a Europe that was tearing itself apart, he missed Briolle, his pleasant and compact park, its tender verdure, the resurrection of spring, the upsurge of sap that extends even to the hearts of men. But he could not leave Paris. The ministers abruptly recalled to the Élysée the day before had met again that morning had had adjourned until the afternoon: a true permanence.
Interminable and vain palaver, in which so many chatterboxes salivated like snails—and yet, destiny was becoming more aggravated with every passing hour. Pacts, ententes, protocols, alliances, federations, all those nets thrown over the war to hold it captive, had come apart successively. Were not the bonds holding them together too new, too frail? What was certain is that at the sight of the unchained beast, all the apparent masters of the world remained hypnotized, as if struck with stupor.
The diplomatic notes that had been read again that morning in the Council reminded him ironically, by virtue of their anxious prudence, their compassionate uncertainty and their nebulous circumlocutions, of the letter he had written to Marilène the previous evening. There was the same embarrassment, the same indecision, the same ambiguity, the same fear before the threat of the future. For he had wanted to send her a sig
n of affection right away, to avoid her feeling abandoned out there—in the midst of an ordeal for which he was, in sum, responsible—in the company of a rigorous father. But while exhorting her to patience, courage and hope, he had been obliged incessantly to dissimulate and to constrain himself, for he could not tell her that he would take back his liberty, would divorce in order to marry her; he did not even know that himself.
So, he was taking his cares for a walk, through the crowds. He was astonished that, in these glorious avenues, it looked almost exactly the same as usual, that there was scarcely any evidence of anxiety or fever. Sometimes, however, a newspaper crier ploughed through it, head down, paper in hand, shouting the title in a catastrophic voice, without even taking the time to reel off his spiel.
The accursed newspapers...
Evidently, the evening paper would make the same clamors heard as the morning editions. They would fulminate against the authorization given to François Thibault the previous day to speak at the Radio France station. They would rail indignantly against the exhortation to peace that he had issued to the world.
The affair had been hotly debated at the Council. It had taken up half the session. With Fontange, the Minister of the Interior, retrenching pitifully behind him, Arnage had been forced to stand up to all his colleagues, anxious about the unleashing of the press. Yes, François Thibault had approached him to intercede on his behalf with Fontange. He had done so. Were they not compatriots, and neighbors? But a man of that status had no need of trickery. He could perfectly well have addressed himself directly to the Minister of the Interior, who would certainly not have refused the authorization. To which Fontange, with the approval of the entire Council, had replied that, at any rate, having learned the lesson of the previous day’s scandal, he would not be granting it a second time.
To tell the truth, there was, in the Council, an unhealthy fear of the opposition press. It was not a matter of revolutionary opposition, which was closely monitored, but of conformist opposition: that which supported itself on the most ancient traditions, the ones with the richest patina of custom, the most glittering; that which defended leaders who were doubtless excessive and cruel, but were served by talent and fêted by the salons. Such concern was defensible. When one governs, what point is there in preoccupying oneself with the majority, that calm sea? It is necessary to keep an eye on the reefs, which never cease to foam and thunder.
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