From above, there is a cry, Albert looks up. The young woman is sobbing. The capitaine consoles her but gestures irritably to Albert over her shoulder, hurry up, what are you waiting for?
Albert drops the shovel, climbs out of the hole and starts to run. His heart is heaving, this whole thing makes him sick, the poor dead soldier, the driver trading on other people’s grief, the capitaine who doesn’t care which body goes in the coffin as long as it is done quickly . . . And the real Édouard, horribly mutilated, smelling like a corpse, strapped to a hospital bed. It is devastating to think that this is what they have fought for.
Seeing him arrive, the driver heaves a sigh of relief. In the blink of an eye, he has opened the canvas flap at the back of the truck, grabbed an iron hook, hitched it to the handle of the coffin and dragged it toward him. With the driver leading the way and Albert behind, they trudge back to the grave.
Albert is gasping for breath, the driver is walking quickly, he has done this before, while Albert struggles to keep up and more than once almost trips and drops the casket. Finally, they come to the grave. The stench is horrendous.
It is a beautiful oak coffin with gilded handles and an iron cross set into the lid. A cemetery is the most natural place for a coffin, but this one looks oddly out of place, too ornate for this bleak setting. It is not the sort of coffin used in wars and looks more suited to the good burghers who die in their beds than to these nameless young men shot to pieces. Albert does not have time to complete this fine philosophical thought. Everyone is eager for this to be over.
The lid of the casket is removed and set next to it.
The driver steps into the pit where the body lies, bends down and, with his bare hands, grabs both ends of the greatcoat then looks around for someone to help. It falls to Albert. Who else? He steps forward, climbs down into the hole, and immediately feels the same wave of panic; the terror is written in his face, because the driver asks:
“You going to be all right, boy?”
Together they stoop, the rotting stench hits them full in the face, they grab the thick fabric, and with a grunt—one, two—they swing the body up onto the side of the grave. It makes a mournful squelching sound. It is not heavy, what they have to lift. The remains weigh barely as much as a child.
The driver quickly climbs out and Albert is only too happy to follow. Together they gather up the edges of the greatcoat and lift everything into the coffin. This time, the sound is a dull thud, and in an instant the driver has replaced the lid. There may still be a few stray bones in the grave, but it does not matter. In any case, both the driver and the capitaine clearly think what they have is more than enough, given what they plan to do with the body. Albert looks around for Mlle Péricourt but she has already headed back to her car. He can hardly blame her, what she has suffered is unimaginable, seeing her brother reduced to a pile of writhing maggots.
They cannot nail down the lid down here, too much noise; they can do it later, on the drive back. For the time being, the driver uses two large canvas straps to hold the lid in place so that the smell will not leak into the truck. They walk back quickly through the graveyard, Albert trailing behind, the two others in front. The capitaine has lit a cigarette and is calmly smoking. Albert feels shattered; his back has borne the brunt of it.
They load the casket into the back of the truck, the driver and the capitaine take the front, with Albert still bringing up the rear: this, clearly, is where he belongs. They lift, and with a grunt, they push it inside, the wood scrapes against the metal flooring and echoes for a moment, but it is done, they cannot hang around. Behind them, the limousine is purring.
The young woman appears for a fleeting instant.
“Thank you, monsieur,” she says.
Albert wants to say something. There is no time. Already, she has grabbed his arm, fumbled for his wrist, pressed a wad of notes into his hand, she squeezes it closed with her own; the effect of this simple gesture on Albert . . .
She is already walking back toward her car.
The driver lashes the coffin to the slats so that it does not move around, and Capitaine Pradelle signals to Albert, gesturing toward the cemetery. The hole has to be filled in quickly, because if the gendarmes find an empty grave, there will be an inquiry and that is something they don’t need.
Albert picks up a shovel and runs between the graves. Then, suddenly wary, he stops and looks back.
He is alone.
One hundred feet away, he hears the limousine drive off and then the engine of the truck starts up as it rolls down the hill.
NOVEMBER 1919
10
Sprawled in a big leather armchair, Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle casually slung one leg over the armrest as he held a large glass of vintage cognac at arm’s length, studying it in the light. He listened to the conversations of those around him with studied detachment, to show that he was a man who “knew the ropes.” He was fond of such slightly uncouth expressions. Were it up to him, he would go further still and be downright vulgar; he would take great pleasure in casually spouting obscenities in front of civilized people who could not afford to feel outraged.
For that, he would need five million francs.
With five million he could laze with complete impunity.
Pradelle visited the Jockey Club three times a week. Not that he particularly liked the place—in fact, given his expectations, he found the standard rather disappointing—but it was a symbol of his upward social mobility that never failed to thrill. The mirrors, the drapes, the carpets, the gildings, the calculated obsequiousness of the staff, even the exorbitant annual dues gave him an immense satisfaction, which was enhanced by the countless opportunities it offered for making contacts. His membership had been approved four months earlier, though only just—the great and the good of the Jockey Club found him suspect. But if they were to blackball all the nouveaux riches—given the calamitous fall in membership over recent years—the club would become an elegant waiting room. Besides, Pradelle had a number of influential sponsors, chief among them his father-in-law, who was impossible to refuse; also his friend Ferdinand, the grandson of Général Morieux, a dissolute young ne’er-do-well, but one with powerful connections. To discard a single link might mean forfeiting the whole chain, which was unthinkable, and besides the shortage of men sometimes made such compromises necessary . . . At least Aulnay-Pradelle had a name. The mind of a brigand, perhaps, but some measure of noble lineage. And so, in the end, he had been admitted. In fact, M. de La Rochefoucauld, the serving president, felt he rather blended in, this lanky young man who strutted around the rooms in a peremptory fashion. With an arrogance that confirmed the maxim that a conqueror is an ugly thing. Vulgar he might be, but he was a hero. And heroes are like pretty women; polite society always requires a few. And, at a time when it was difficult to come by a man of his age who was not missing an arm or a leg or indeed both, Pradelle was passably decorative.
So far, Aulnay-Pradelle had nothing but good things to say about the Great War. As soon as he was demobilized, he had got into buying and selling military surplus. Hundreds of French and American vehicles, engines, trailers, thousands of tons of wood, canvas, tarpaulin, tools, scrap iron, and spare parts the state no longer needed and was impatient to offload. Pradelle would buy up whole lots that he resold to railway and transport companies and agricultural businesses. Dividends were all the greater since the materials were stored in areas controlled by security guards open to bribes and all kinds of baksheesh so that, once inside, it was easy to haul away three truckloads instead of one and five tons instead of two.
The patronage of Général Morieux and his personal status as a national hero had opened many doors for Aulnay-Pradelle, and his role in the Union Nationale des Combattants—who had proved their usefulness by successfully breaking the most recent strikes—had brought him many more supporters. Thanks to whom he had already gained access to extensive markets of liquidated stocks where, for tens of thousands of borrowed francs
, he could buy whole lots that, when sold, realized hundreds of thousands worth of profits.
“Hello, old chum!”
Léon Jardin-Beaulieu. A man of considerable merit, but one who was born short—four inches shorter than the average man, which was both not much and too much, but a catastrophe for him, since he craved respect.
“Hello, Henri,” he said, walking with a swagger because he believed it made him look taller.
To Jardin-Beaulieu, being allowed to address Aulnay-Pradelle by his first name is an exquisite pleasure for which he would have sold both father and mother, as, indeed, he has. He affects the same tone as others so as to seem like them, thought Henri as he proffered a limp, almost careless hand and asked in an anxious whisper:
“So?”
“Nothing,” Jardin-Beaulieu said, “not a word yet . . .”
Pradelle raised a peevish eyebrow; he had a talent for communicating wordlessly with his lackeys.
“I know,” Jardin-Beaulieu apologized, “I know . . .”
Pradelle was impatient.
Some months earlier, the government had taken the decision to entrust the exhumation of the soldiers buried at the front to private companies. The plan was to rebury them in vast military necropolises; the ministerial directive stipulated “the construction of the smallest possible number of the largest possible cemeteries.” The problem was, they were everywhere, these buried soldiers. In makeshift graveyards a few miles, sometimes barely a few yards, from the front lines. In ground that now needed to be restored to farmland. For years, almost since the beginning of the war, families had been demanding the right to visit the graves of their children. The planned mass burial grounds did not preclude the possibility of returning the bodies of soldiers to those families who wished to claim them, but the government hoped that, once created, these huge cemeteries where heroes might rest “next to comrades who were killed in action” would do something to temper their anger. And avoid burdening the government with the cost of individual exhumations, to say nothing of the thorny issue of sanitation, which was bound to prove costly at a time when the coffers were empty—until Germany repaid its debts.
The vast honorable and patriotic venture of bringing together the bodies of the dead involved a whole series of gratifyingly lucrative operations. There were hundreds of thousands of coffins to be made, since most soldiers had been buried in the bare ground, wrapped only in their greatcoats; hundreds of thousands of exhumations to be done by hand (the decree specifically insisted that the greatest possible care be taken); countless trucks to transport the coffins to the nearest train stations; and as many reburials in the new military cemeteries . . .
If Pradelle could secure a small part of this business, for a few centimes apiece his Chinamen would dig up thousands of bodies, his trucks would ferry the thousands of rotting corpses, his Senegalese workers would rebury them in rows of neat new graves each with a pretty cross at a premium price—in less than three years there would be enough money to renovate the family home at la Sallevière, which at present was a crumbling ruin.
At eighty francs per corpse, and assuming an actual cost of about twenty-five, Pradelle expected to make a net profit of two and a half million.
And if, besides, the ministry should approve various mutually agreed-upon orders, even allowing for the necessary bribes, it could come to five million.
The bargain of the century. To an entrepreneur, war represents significant business opportunities, even after it is over.
Kept well informed by Jardin-Beaulieu, whose father was a deputé, Pradelle was ahead of the game. No sooner had he been demobilized than he founded Pradelle & Cie. Jardin-Beaulieu and Morieux’s grandson had each contributed fifty thousand francs together with their invaluable connections, and Pradelle had personally invested four hundred thousand. So that he would be the boss. And so that he could claim eighty percent of the profits.
The Adjudication Committee dealing with procurement contracts was meeting today; it had been in conclave since 2:00 p.m. Thanks to his contacts and the little matter of a hundred and fifty thousand francs in bribes, Pradelle had it in his pocket: three committee members, two of whom he controlled, were to evaluate the various proposals and decide—completely impartially—that Pradelle & Cie had submitted the most competitive quotes, that the sample casket they had delivered to the Graves Commission had been the one most suited to the dignity of those who had died for France and the exigencies of the treasury. In consideration of which, Pradelle would be accorded a number of contracts, a dozen if things went well. Perhaps more.
“And the ministry?”
Jardin-Beaulieu’s face creased into a broad smile; he had an answer . . .
“It’s in the bag!”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” Pradelle snapped irritably. “But when?”
His worries did not merely concern the deliberations of the Adjudication Committee. The War Graves Commission, which came under the direct responsibility of the Ministère des Pensions, was authorized, in emergencies or when necessary, to award contracts by simple agreement, without issuing an invitation to compete. If this should happen, Pradelle & Cie would have a virtual monopoly and could charge whatever they wished—as much as 130 francs per corpse . . .
Pradelle feigned the aloofness that great minds adopt when faced with fraught situations, but in fact he was in a highly nervous state. Alas, Jardin-Beaulieu did not yet have an answer to this question. His smile shriveled.
“We don’t know . . .”
He was ashen. Pradelle turned away, effectively dismissing the man. Jardin-Beaulieu beat a retreat, pretended to spot a friendly face, and scuttled pathetically to the other end of the vast room. Pradelle watched him go; the man was wearing shoe lifts. A pity—were it not for his Napoleon complex, which meant he lost all dignity, the man might have been intelligent. But it was not for his intelligence that Pradelle had brought him on board. Jardin-Beaulieu had two invaluable advantages: a father in parliament and a fiancée who, though penniless (why else would she be with such a midget!), was ravishing, a girl with dark-brown hair and a pretty mouth, whom Jardin-Beaulieu was to marry in a few months. From the moment they were introduced, Pradelle sensed that this girl was suffering in silence from this expedient alliance that demeaned her beauty. The sort of woman who would feel the need to exact her revenge, and as he watched her move around the Jardin-Beaulieus’ drawing room—Pradelle boasted an unerring instinct for women and for horses—he was willing to wager that, if he played his cards well, she would not even wait until the ceremony.
Pradelle returned to contemplating his glass of cognac and, for the umpteenth time, considered the best strategy to adopt.
To make so many coffins, he would have to subcontract work to a number of specialized companies, something strictly forbidden by his contract with the government. But if he were careful, no one would look too closely. Everyone had a vested interest in turning a blind eye. What mattered—opinion on this was unanimous—was that, within a reasonable delay, the country would be able to boast a small number of extremely large cemeteries, making it possible for everyone finally to file this war among its other unpleasant memories.
And Pradelle would have earned the right to wave his snifter of cognac and belch loudly in the Jockey Club without anyone disapproving.
So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he did not notice his father-in-law come in. It was the quality of the silence that told him he had made a social gaffe, the tremulous hush that greets a bishop entering a cathedral. By the time he realized, it was too late. To remain in this languorous position in the presence of the old man signified a lack of respect he would not be forgiven. To change his posture too quickly would be to acknowledge his subservience to the old man in front of everyone. Neither solution was palatable. To avoid provocation, Pradelle opted for the least damaging indignity. He arched his back as casually as he could, brushing an invisible speck from his shoulder. His right foot slipped to the floor and he settled hims
elf upright in his chair, mentally adding this humiliation to the list of scores he would one day settle.
M. Péricourt strolled into the Jockey Club with an easy grace. He pretended not to notice his son-in-law’s maneuver, mentally adding the incident to the list of debts to be repaid. He moved between the tables, stopping here and there to bestow the flaccid handshake of a benevolent monarch, uttering the names of those present with the dignity of a doge—Good morning, dear friend; Ah, Ballanger, Frappier, I didn’t see you there; Evening, Godard,—occasionally hazarding a trace of irony—well, well, Palamède de Chavigne, if my eyes don’t deceive me—and, as he drew level with Henri, he simply lowered his eyes with the knowing air of a sphinx and walked on toward the fireplace, extending his hands with exaggerated satisfaction.
Turning around, he could observe his son-in-law from behind. It was a deliberate strategy. It must be deeply irritating to be watched from behind. From the way the two men maneuvered, it was clear their little chess game had only just begun and there was everything to play for.
Their mutual antipathy had been instantaneous and unruffled, almost serene. The promise of slow-burning hatred. Péricourt had immediately recognized Pradelle as a scoundrel but had done nothing to discourage Madeleine’s infatuation. There were no words to describe it, but one only had to see them together to know that Pradelle was very attentive to her pleasures, and that she wanted him, wanted him desperately.
M. Péricourt loved his daughter—after his fashion, of course, which had never been overly demonstrative—and would have been happy to know she was happy had she not become foolishly besotted with Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle. Being extraordinarily wealthy, Madeleine Péricourt had been coveted by many men and, though only passably attractive, had had her share of suitors. She was no fool, quick tempered like her late mother, she was a strong-willed woman who did not easily lose her composure nor succumb to temptation. Before the war, she had been quick to spot them, the parvenus who found her plain of face but delightful of dowry. Her manner of dismissing them was as effective as it was discreet. So many proposals of marriage had made her confident—too confident. She had been twenty-five when war was declared, thirty by the time it was over, and she had suffered the devastating loss of her younger brother. In the meantime she had begun to age. This, perhaps, was the explanation. She met Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle in May; they were married in July.
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