Sebastien Roch (Dedalus European Classics)

by Octave Mirbeau

  ‘No, don’t speak …’

  She obeyed and she too leaned against Sébastien. He felt like a little child she was rocking to sleep. Afraid to speak for fear of waking him, she sang lullabies in her head, like a child playing with a doll, delighted that Sébastien should ask for her protection.

  ‘There now, go to sleepybyes …’

  Gradually, soothed by her own songs, she grew drowsy, closed her eyes and fell asleep, the calm sleep of a child.

  Sébastien did not sleep. Despite his distress he felt great physical well-being, resting like that on Marguerite’s shoulder, near that peaceful heart which he could hear beating. The tears he continued to shed were almost pleasurable. For a long while, he sat quietly, huddled against her. In the silence full of tiny sounds and the gentle glow of the moon, the ugly images in his mind evaporated one by one, but other thoughts came to him, sad thoughts, though not entirely devoid of hope. He sensed something vague and possible, a slow regaining of his own sanity, a slow return of the senses to peace, a place for his injured heart to rest in calm and purity, with no dark, constraining horizons. He suddenly experienced again old feelings of enthusiasm and generosity, lovely shapes, affections, sounds, scents, noble desires, ascensions into light, and love, a boundless love for those who suffer. All this came from something within himself, his generous, good self. It rose, trembled and took flight, just as in blossoming fields and on sunny moorlands, flocks of singing birds rise and fly off. Lost in the wave of his future redemption, he did not notice the minutes and the hours passing.

  As time passed, slowly, gradually, his whole life appeared to him in a succession of images, from the untroubled days when he went to school in the town to that painful night when he was there weeping on Marguerite’s shoulder. He had never before seen so clearly how empty, useless and guilty his life had been, how it was constantly threatened by the vice of inaction, which left him defenceless, powerless, prey to every mental depravity, to every emotional perversity. He was disgusted by it and thought:

  ‘I’m twenty years old and I have done nothing with my life yet. Everyone works, completes his daily task, however humble. I have never worked, never completed any task. I have dragged myself like an invalid from one street to the next, from one room to the next, weighed down, damned. I have been a coward, a coward to myself, to other people, to this poor child here, to my life devastated by my own inaction and madness. I must make up my mind not to waste my manhood in the same way as I’ve wasted my adolescence. I mustn’t …’

  He imagined vague, grandiose missions, mingled with incredible artistic achievements, which were even vaguer. It all seemed simple and inevitable.

  ‘I want to love the poor and no longer exclude them from my life, as Kerdaniel and the others excluded me. I want to love them and make them happy. I’ll go into their homes, sit at their bare tables and teach them and comfort them and talk to them as brothers in pain. I’ll …’ He wanted everything to be grand, sublime, redemptive, vague, making no attempt to define or develop those fleeting dreams which refreshed his soul just as Marguerite’s sleeping breath cooled his forehead.

  The moon dimmed; a pink glow appeared in the east: dawn was approaching. Marguerite was still asleep. Worried, Sébastien woke her.

  ‘Marguerite, we must go back. It’s morning.’

  On the road at the end of the avenue voices could be heard, and the heavy step of workers on their way to the fields.

  ‘Marguerite, listen. It’s morning.’

  From the depths of the limpid darkness, the cool, damp breeze containing the first drops of dew carried with it a faint hum, the light, diffuse rustling of people and things stretching, bestirring themselves, waking up. The high branches of the aspens began to take on a barely perceptible rosy tinge.

  ‘Marguerite. It’s getting light …’

  At first, she seemed stunned by the sky, the trees, the ghostly pallor, by him and his voice. Then, shivering with cold, she uttered a small cry like a bird greeting the dawn and threw herself into Sébastien’s arms.

  ‘Light? Already? What does it matter, let’s stay here a while longer.’

  ‘We can’t. It’ll be broad daylight soon. Look, the moon’s fading, and the woodcutters are on their way to the forest. Marguerite …’

  She embraced him passionately and said again:

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘People will see you, Marguerite, don’t you understand?’

  ‘What do I care? Kiss me.’

  Sébastien got up, gathered up the white silk shawl, which was trailing on the ground, and wrapped it round Marguerite, who was still shivering.

  ‘Please, we must go back,’ he begged. ‘You’re frozen, your hair’s damp.’

  Sadly, she replied:

  ‘No, it’s going home that chills my blood.’ She got up too and grabbed Sébastien’s arm.

  ‘Now, promise me one thing. Promise me we will come here every night. Promise me.’

  Sébastien did not want to hurt her, nor anger her, for he was familiar with her stubborn moods, her sudden shifts from joy to rage, submission to rebellion, laughter to tears.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Really, every evening? Kiss me again.’

  He clasped her to his chest in a sudden surge of impotent pity.

  The pink light was spreading and deepening, filling the entire horizon. The stars flickered like little lamps about to go out.

  ‘Very well then, let’s go back,’ said Marguerite.

  A man passed by on the road, whistling. They had to wait till his footsteps died away. Then they set off down the little side lanes surrounding the town. Alert and lively, Marguerite chattered merrily.

  ‘Do you know what I think? I’d like people to see us together. Then we wouldn’t need to hide any more and I could come and live with you or you could come and live with me. It would be wonderful, being able to kiss all the time.

  Suddenly stopping, laughing and mischievous, she said:

  ‘You really hurt me, you know.’

  Sébastien was puzzled and looked at her uncomprehending, but she pulled him towards her and kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘You dear, dear man. I do love you so.’

  He left her at the entrance to the little alleyway which led to the post office. He stayed there as if in a dream, following her shadow until it was swallowed up in deeper shadow, a fleeting speck of pale fabric in the dark, until he could no longer hear her light step on the cobbles.

  He went back home, his heart filled with remorse. He did not want to go to sleep, so he opened his window and watched the day appearing, bursting into bright light. He was unhappy and shaken by the violent emotions of the night, his head empty.

  Towards eight o’clock, Monsieur Roch came into his room. He was very pale and was holding a newspaper. He did not notice that his son’s bed had not been slept in and flopped into a chair with a sigh.

  ‘War’s been declared. It’s all over. Read this.’

  He handed the paper to Sébastien, muttering:

  ‘Two thousand four hundred francs. I paid two thousand four hundred francs. I can’t bear it. And all for nothing.’

  Whilst Sébastien, who was also somewhat pale now and trembling, glanced rapidly through the paper, Monsieur Roch gave him a sideways glance full of harsh reproach, as if he were calculating all the money his son had cost him…and all for nothing.

  In the evening, Sébastien wrote in his diary:

  ‘For part of the day I wandered through the town. People are excited. Everyone’s out on their doorstep talking about the news. Most are unaware who the enemy is. I keep hearing things like:

  “So is it the Russians or the English who hate us?”

  On the whole, people are worried and sad, but resigned. Nevertheless, there’s a band of young lads roaming the streets, wrapped in flags and singing. They were dispersed, but gathered again in the taverns and were yelling at the top of their voices until night-time. Why are they singing? The
y know nothing. They know less than that little conscript who had drawn the wrong number, but was singing his heart out when he should have been crying. I have noticed that patriotism is the crudest and most irrational of the feelings that move the masses: it always ends up in drunkenness. As for me, I didn’t dare go round to Madame Lecautel’s. I’m worried that Marguerite will give herself away, and that would be a useless and troublesome complication. Should we tell? From the moment my father came into my room, Marguerite became only the most distant of concerns for me, virtually forgotten, insignificant. War makes me feel something though: revulsion and fear. I cannot accept the idea of a man running straight towards the muzzle of a cannon or offering his chest to bayonets, without even knowing why. And he will never know. Such courage – of which I am totally incapable – strikes me as absurd, inferior and vulgar, and I suppose that in normal life, a man possessing such courage would be locked in the deepest dungeon. I’ve often thought about war; I’ve often tried to imagine it. I close my eyes and attempt to call up images of slaughter. My impressions never vary: I am revolted and I feel afraid, not just for myself, but for everyone, for whom I tremble. Despite my upbringing I cannot accept military heroism as a virtue, it just seems like a more dangerous and disturbing form of banditry and murder. I can understand that people of the same country should fight and kill one another to gain freedom or rights, the right to live, eat, think; I can’t understand fighting people you know nothing about, with whom you share no common interests, and whom you cannot hate because you don’t know them. I’ve read that there are superior laws in life and that war is one of them, and that it is necessary in order to maintain a balance between nations and to spread civilisation; but no reasonable man could support that idea. Epidemics and marriage seem to me perfectly sufficient means of controlling the human population. War only destroys the youngest, strongest elements of the population; it destroys hope and humanity.

  I’m going to war to fight. I don’t know why I’m going. I’ll just be told: “Kill and be killed, the rest is our concern.” Well, I’m not going to kill anyone. I may get myself killed. I’ll go off to battle with my rifle on my shoulder and it’ll never know bullets or powder. I will not kill …

  My father saddens me. There’s something comical about the poor man which makes me unutterably depressed. He’s not downcast as he was this morning when he brought me the newspaper. I think he’s almost forgotten the two thousand four hundred francs I’ve cost him. At least, he hasn’t spoken to me about it again or reproached me with it. He is extraordinarily tense. He can’t keep still, but he’s become imperious and eloquent again, even with me. He has realised that the war will mean new responsibilities for him, a higher level of authority and add a touch of the military to his civic functions, and this has given him back his self-respect. He’s already talking about calling in the national guard and inspecting the firemen. He’s decided that the town council should be in permanent session. Joy overflows from his words, his gestures, his eyes, he’s busying himself with requisitions, instructions, official matters, meetings with superior officers of the security police, all things he loves and which he thinks give him great status. At the same time, he reassures people, seems to say to them: “What are you worrying about? I’m here.” He actually had read out in the streets by the town crier a kind of order of the day, a very impressive affair reminiscent of Napoleon’s proclamations.

  At dinner, he said:

  “We may have already crossed the Rhine by now. We’re going to run a tight campaign, so we are. First, there’s Prussia. But what are they? They’re just a nation like any other. Nothing to worry about.”

  Monsieur Champier, the notary came over, very enthusiastic. He poured himself a whole glass of gin and said with a shrug:

  “Bismarck! Pah! We’ll shoot him.”

  There’s one thing I feel guilty about now Madame Lecautel and Marguerite came round at two o’clock and rang at the door. I saw them and told Madame Cébron to tell them no one was in. They went away, Marguerite looking very pale, staring obstinately up at the windows of my room, Madame Lecautel looking very sad in her black shawl, shoulders hunched. I love them, I love them both, but I don’t think I have the courage to see them again.’

  Two days later, Sébastien received the order to report to Mortagne, where the battalion was forming of which he was to be part. Monsieur Roch decided to come with him.

  ‘I’ll get to see the sub-prefect,’ he said. ‘I’ll confer with him and with your commander. Don’t worry. I’m sure that, at this very moment, our army is already victorious all along the front. Anyway, every man’s got to do his duty. I do mine, old man that I am. After all, France is France.’

  He then asked him:

  ‘Have you everything you need? Have you said goodbye to everyone? To Madame Lecautel?’

  Sébastien blushed. He realised that avoiding them in such a serious situation was absurd and unpleasant, but, his heart breaking from his own cowardice, he replied:

  ‘Yes, Father, I have.’

  Sébastien spent a month at Mortagne in training for the forthcoming campaign. Although the active, purely physical existence and the continuous exhaustion engendered by long marches and incessant practice manoeuvres did nothing to alter his frame of mind, they nevertheless slowed his thought processes and calmed him down. He had no time left to think. His father came to visit every Sunday and spent the day with him. Monsieur Roch’s mood of exultation was long past. The French forces’ abrupt defeat and successive disasters had affected him badly, and he was beginning to be seriously concerned for Sébastien’s safety. He no longer spoke of ‘getting organised’, but planned instead to abandon the office of mayor, which had become burdensome, along with responsibilities of all kinds.

  In the last week, he did not leave Mortagne. He could be seen wandering about the training field or else stationed on the roads watching the battalion march by.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ he kept asking, anxious and tender. ‘I’d hate anyone to say that my son lacked for anything.’

  One day, he asked:

  ‘What have you done to Madame Lecautel? She’s not at all pleased with you. Apparently you didn’t say goodbye to her. Did you realise that little Marguerite has been very ill?’

  ‘Marguerite?’ echoed Sébastien, feeling a shaft of remorse pierce his heart.

  ‘Yes, very ill indeed, feverish, coughing, raving. Her mother is at her wits’ end. You really should have said goodbye.’

  Despite his fear of war, Sébastien was now almost glad to set off. He found his father too affectionate and Marguerite too close for comfort. He felt debilitated by it all.

  His battalion set out to join a brigade that was massing at Le Mans.

  CHAPTER IV

  They had joined battle the day before just outside a little village in Loire-et-Cher. The day did not finish decisively and so the troops camped in their positions that night. On the following morning, on the desolate, sombre plain, two farms could be seen still burning, set alight by cannon fire. The reveille sounded at five o’clock. It had been a hard night: the men had been unable to sleep, half-frozen in their tents with not even straw for bedding, half-starved too, because, in the expectation of a more rapid defeat, provisions had not been sent and the order for retreat was received just as the victuals were being distributed. They packed up their tents and bags. A few fires still burned and, around them, dark, human shapes were crouched, hunched and shivering. Here and there bayonets gave off a sinister gleam and the bugle calls replying to one another were the only sounds breaking the gloomy silence of the camp.

  Sébastien had spent part of the night guarding the rifles. He was utterly exhausted, shivering with cold, and his eyelids burned as if they had been dipped in acid. The day before, for the first time, he had been involved in a brief engagement with gunners. He had kept his word and had not fired once. Apart from anything else, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be shooting at. He had seen nothing but smoke
and he had walked with his head down against the bullets whistling and raining about him, his chest tight with fear. He would have had difficulty isolating and analysing his impressions. In reality, he remembered nothing, only the smoke and his fear, a strange kind of fear, which was not like the fear of death, it was worse. Already he had stopped thinking for himself, but lived mechanically, dragged along by some blind force which had taken the place of his intelligence, sensitivity and will. Over-whelmed by fatigue and the daily privations, infected by the general mood of demoralisation, he carried on in a sort of mental darkness, a night of the intellect, completely unaware of himself, forgetting that, behind him, he had left a family, friends, a past life.

  He tried unsuccessfully to get near one of the fires, which was surrounded ten deep by men, whose thin, weary faces were lit by the sinister, dancing flicker of the flames. He was pushed roughly aside, so he decided to walk briskly, to run, so as to warm himself up, stamping his feet on the hard, echoing earth. It was a dark night. The still glowing debris of the two farms, finally burning out, bled sadly into the surrounding gloom; and on the hills far off, beyond the black plain, little luminous points of light, like glimmering stars, indicated the enemy camp. The bugles continued to sound and every note made him jump, stop for a moment and then continue walking, his skin pinched and chapped by the cold beneath his torn, threadbare woollen jerkin. From time to time he heard troops clattering past in the darkness and moving off into the distance on the plain, and his whole body shuddered horribly. He realised it would soon be his turn. A companion came to join him and ran alongside him.

  ‘I think things are going to hot up today,’ he said, gasping for breath as he ran.

  Sébastien did not reply. After a silence, the man went on:

  ‘Did you know Gautier didn’t show up for roll call?’

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Sébastien casually.

  ‘Nah, he scarpered, he did. He’s been saying for ages he was going to. This bloody war’ll go on for ever.’