Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  The general? “What general?” Cripure had to ask, and then he quickly amended it with an “ah! ah!” that wasn’t much of a compromise.

  “Yes,” said Babinot, “he’ll be there later. It’s Nabucet who’s just told me.” And two little pats from his hands made the lapels of Babinot’s jacket tremble—plouf, plouf.

  “The general,” Babinot continued, still walking, “has very delicate lungs. The slightest breeze and—paf! And that’s what happened. But now he’s back on his feet.” And once again Babinot’s hands flapped like the back paws of a dog, and the lapels of his jacket trembled.

  “Are you out for a stroll, my dear colleague?” Babinot asked.

  “That’s to say,” Cripure replied, “that I just came from taking my little nephew to the train, you know eh . . .who’s going back to the front.”

  “Ah! Perfect! Very good! I didn’t know you had a nephew. But that’s perfect, just perfect. Full of purpose, I hope?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re all like that.”

  Cripure remembered Amédée, just now, in the kitchen.

  “At the Chemin des Dames, the work of two artillery units,” Babinot recited, “easily pushed back a few feeble Germans. In sum, we’re on the favorable side of the war. Let’s not unbuckle our cuirasses. I’m laughing, you know, when I hear that they’re demanding the allies make their goals for the war known. The goals of war! That the allies make known their goals for the war!” He shouted, raising his arms to the sky. “As if the goal of war was anything but peace! Let’s not be sentimental. There are people too, who know very well what they’re doing, trying to discourage us, who want to clip our wings, that whole group of bad Frenchmen who have Kienthal and Zimmerwald in their heads. But Clemenceau will insure us against that. The army is healthy, no matter what people say. It’s not, it seems, a little noise around the trains for furloughed men that’ll bring the morale of the army into question. They should stop supplying those idiots with alcohol. And as for the ringleaders—shoot ’em.”

  Cripure wasn’t hearing well. He had a strange ability to turn a deaf ear to those things that deserved a slap in the face in reply. What better moment to repeat to himself that nothing was true, that everything was permitted, that life made no sense and neither did death. It wasn’t lost on him.

  Two off-duty soldiers were walking in front of them.

  “Would you look at that,” cried Babinot, “how limber! What nerve! And you only see men like that—martial!”

  The two men turned and Babinot, leaving Cripure behind him, walked vigorously over to meet them, trying to imitate the hunter’s steps of Monsieur Poincaré, and he took a bundle of his poems out of his pocket.

  “Hang on,” he said. “Yes—take it!”

  “What is it?”

  They were suspicious.

  “You’ll see later . . . You can read it on the train,” said Babinot.

  One of the men took the poems.

  “It’s probably nonsense,” said the other. “Let’s have a look,” he moved to read over his comrade’s shoulder.

  “That’s it,” said the first one. “Some verses . . . the motherland . . .”

  “Again?”

  Babinot prickled. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

  “That’s enough! I’ve had it with them,” said the man who had taken the poems. “You see your little poems, old man?” He gave a mean laugh. “Take a good look!”

  And under Babinot’s chin, he ripped the poems and threw the pieces to the wind.

  They turned on their heels.

  Cripure watched the scene open-mouthed. As for Babinot, astonishment froze him in place. “Excuse me!” he cried, running after them.

  “The idiot. The hell with peace!”

  “One moment! What you just did is very bad. Unworthy of the uniform that—”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  They hurried their steps. But Babinot could walk fast. He kept at it. Irritated, the poilus did an about-face and stopped. “Are you going to push it? You’ve got nobody, I bet?”

  “My son is there,” Babinot shouted, “and I’m proud of it,” he said triumphantly.

  “Bastard!”

  “If your son is up there, he’s like us: he’s had it.”

  “Are you traitors to France? What regiment . . .”

  “Oh a tattletale? The son of a bitch . . .”

  An unbuckled belt whistled through the air like a whip. “Put that in verse!” Babinot heard. And he thought someone had ripped off his face. He whirled around twice, blinded and crying in pain. The two men hustled off.

  “Help!” cried Babinot. “Help! I’ve got an eye dangling!”

  Cripure made such a violent effort that he was actually running, his pince-nez held between his thumb and forefinger. “Here I am! I’m coming, dear Babinot—”

  On the sidewalk, Babinot was prancing, holding his head in his hands. It looked like he was dancing drunk, but he was groaning too much for a dancer. “Owwwww I’m blinded!”

  “I’m here, my friend! Here I am,” said Cripure.

  But without listening to Cripure, without even seeming to hear him, Babinot cried even louder, “My eye is gouged out!”

  In his panic, Cripure circled around Babinot with his trembling hands outstretched. Which part should he get a hold of?

  “Owwww ahlalala—I must have—I must have had an eye—Gahhhh—gouged out—”

  “May I?” said Cripure, “Let me see.”

  Babinot stopped dancing and even stopped groaning. The left eye was terrible to look at—he would have to go with him. “If we went into a café?” Cripure suggested. “There we could bathe the eye . . .”

  “No, no, no, no! No scandal!”

  “To a doctor then. It’s only prudent.”

  “A pharmacist.”

  “So be it. Can you see here?”

  “Barely.”

  “Allow me . . . I’ll take your arm like this.”

  “My hat?”

  “Ah, of course . . . give me one second, don’t move . . .”

  The hat had rolled a long distance, and Cripure couldn’t find it right away. Babinot grew impatient.

  Finally, he found the bowler hat and brushed it with his elbow, returned and placed it on Babinot’s head with infinite care. “There you are. There’s the hat, old friend. Let’s go now. Let’s go to a pharmacist. Does it hurt?”

  “It hurts,” Babinot nobly replied. He was proud of suffering.

  Cripure took is arm and they started off. “How is it now?”

  “It’s starting to stew.”

  They made a rather notable couple. Someone might have thought they were a pair of drinking buddies, a little tipsy, but a maudlin drunk, without singing. They didn’t say anything else. Cripure’s tall silhouette was a head taller than Babinot, who, with his jacket, his bowler hat, and his handkerchief wadded up over his eye, looked a bit like the Clopper, but a Clopper that was finally the prisoner of his enemy—a sniveling and reluctant Clopper being marched to his dungeon.

  They went into a pharmacist’s shop, Babinot still dabbing his eye with the handkerchief and leaning on Cripure. The pharmacist rushed over, and got the wounded man a seat—his eye certainly wasn’t dangling. Luckily, the belt buckle had struck the arch of the eyebrow and Monsieur Babinot would escape with a magnificent black eye.

  “Take good care of yourself, Monsieur,” said the pharmacist. “One centimeter lower and you’d have been one-eyed for the rest of your days . . .”

  “I’ll make them pay,” groaned Babinot.

  The pharmacist washed it, dressed it, and wrapped a large bandage around his head. Then, he advised him to go home and go to bed. He should be careful—he’d surely have a bit of fever.

  “But . . .what about the party?” said Babinot.

  “What party?”

  “What do you mean! Didn’t you know that we’re decorating Madame Faurel today? It’s not this wound, I think, that will keep me away . . .�
�

  And with all his bravado, proud as if his bandage were a medal, already forgetting his pain, which, to tell the truth, wasn’t very bad anymore, he got up, paid, and went out.

  Once he reached the sidewalk: “My dear colleague,” he said, turning to Cripure, “I won’t forget what you’ve done for me. Thank you, thank you! See you soon!” And coming closer to him, “This was quite a mysterious affair, but hush! We’ll clear it all up,” he murmured in his ear.

  With that, he turned on his heel. God forbid he arrive at the party with a Cripure on his arm!

  WHAT A lovely bow Nabucet made as he greeted the general! It was impossible to imagine a more delicate, more gracious, more devoted one, even if, instead of a rather weary general, it had been a ravishing young actress getting out of the carriage. The way he held out his hand to help him to the ground looked like Nabucet was offering his arm. My dear General, here, my dear General there . . . how moving! How delightful! Take your places! Stand back!

  “Make way, please!”

  To whom was he addressing that order? To two or three students who happened to stop there, by accident. They immediately let them through. The general came forward with a couple of officers, Nabucet leading the way.

  Nabucet’s eyes were shooting fire, seeming to threaten with the forces of hell the imprudent, the impertinent who didn’t obey quickly enough; then, returning to the general’s face, they became soft, caressing, full of soft smiles, searching that aged face for signs of his illness. But God be thanked, they weren’t too deep. The general had good color, alert eyes, and his whole person emanated a sense of contentment and even happiness that delighted Nabucet to the core of his soul. Ah! Please God! Let the general remain well . . .

  “This way, my dear General—”

  A general!

  Really, it was all too rare that one got to say “my dear General!” He came forward, twisting and turning like a dancing master, sometimes walking backwards, sometimes by his side, sometimes bowing deeply before the trio of military men, always smiling and flowery. Ah! My dear General, could you please give me a boot to lick, just one! And if by great luck you happen to have an old one you don’t need anymore, my dear General, honor me with it as a gift, so that I might lick it at home . . .

  “Wonderful to see you,” said the general.

  “The honor is all ours,” Nabucet replied in his most delicate voice.

  He made another bow, pointing the way with his hand, delirious to the bottom of his heart with the pleasure of having beaten everyone, to have been there first—the first!—even before the principal, who was running over. Ah! He had them!

  “My dear General . . .”

  “Dear General, gentlemen, please forgive me,” babbled the principal, who was also making a great effort to smile, and to excuse his lateness. The poor man wasn’t himself.

  “Not at all,” said the general. He took the principal’s hand and shook it with soldierly vigor. “Good news of your son?”

  Monsieur Marchandeau’s voice choked.

  “Thank you, General.”

  “I’ve heard reports recently that he’s an excellent officer.”

  “General . . .”

  The other gentlemen of the faculty arrived—Moka with his em-battled red forelock, Glâtre, portly and watchful, Surgeon General Bacchiochi, the bursar, among others . . . they saluted as one, and the little troupe marched together, the officers’ sabers hitting the stone of the staircase.

  Nabucet led the procession.

  Then, suddenly, Werner the cook appeared. Too late to avoid him!

  “Awkward kid!” murmured Nabucet.

  Werner was frozen in salute against the wall. The general stopped.

  A pause.

  “Here’s a hearty fellow,” he said. He looked him over from head to foot. Werner didn’t budge.

  “It’s the cook from the hospital . . . one of the cooks, my dear General,” the Bursar explained. “We borrowed his services for our little gathering.”

  “An Alsatian,” said Nabucet.

  “Hold on, hold on!” said the general, scratching his chin, “But, my boy, why aren’t you enlisted? You came from the internment camp?”

  “Yes, General, sir.”

  “Do you have family in France?”

  “No, General, sir.”

  “And . . .were you part of any French societies?”

  “None, General, sir.”

  “And were your parents French before 1870?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there any way to prove it?”

  “My dear General,” said Bacchiochi, “he’s been asked several times already. He even met specially with the prefecture and his file was examined.”

  “I can well believe it, but I don’t see the reason in all this that keeps this boy from joining the foreign legion. What do you think about that?” he said to Werner.

  Werner hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “I have two brothers enlisted in Germany, General.”

  “Ah! Ah! And they’re in combat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On which front?”

  “I have no idea, General.”

  “Fine, fine. Your scruples are honorable. But after all, your brothers are Alsatian like you. Why are they fighting against us? Yes, I know, the question is a delicate one, but in my opinion, since your brothers are fighting, young man, I don’t see why you couldn’t do the same. Isn’t that so?” the general asked, turning to the others for assistance.

  They all agreed, some with their voices, and others only with nods.

  “Excuse me, General,” said Werner, “I still have my mother and father to think of.”

  “Oh! At your age, you see, you’re certainly old enough to bypass their opinions.” He decided to continue up the stairs. Werner saluted and went downstairs.

  “They don’t keep a close enough eye on particular cases like that,” the general concluded. “I must follow up on this business . . .”

  I’m fucked, thought Werner.

  •

  What a magnificent group! The prefect in full dress uniform, his wife and associates, the municipal counselors, the academy inspector in white tie, Madame Poche, the president of Les Dames de France, Madame Rabat, the headmistress of the middle school, Madame Bourcier, Madame Marchandeau, Madame Point herself, the notary’s wife, and Madame Babinot also, alone in a corner, looking like a blind woman in mourning. They all rose when the general entered.

  “Our General!”

  “My dear prefect, Madame . . .”

  “General . . .”

  “Monsieur Inspector, Messieurs, Mesdames, Madame . . .”

  The fire crackled in the back of the grate.

  When the excitement had died down, the general examined the space. “Well, well! Here’s a marvelously decorated room. A very confident taste . . .very fine.”

  Nabucet blushed. “General.”

  “And very learned,” the general added.

  He sat down, the others forming a circle around him. The general made erudite comments about the decoration of the room, proving his education. He reminisced about secondary school. The prefect cited a Latin verse that no one understood. The academy inspector surveyed the scene with the smile of an evil priest. And the fire crackled.

  Besides the principal guests of honor, Madame Faurel and her husband, they were waiting on Monsignor.

  The mayor would come too, if he had a minute.

  They suddenly heard, “It’s nothing! Nothing at all! A lit-tle fly—”

  They all turned—it was Babinot who entered.

  When she saw the bandage, Madame Babinot opened her mouth and her eyes at the same time, becoming even paler in her black dress, without making a sound.

  Babinot came forward, smiling. He waved his hand up and down in the air like a conductor who wants the bass to be a little quieter, and in his nasal voice he repeated, “It’s nothing, nothing at all.”

  He was surrounded. A million question
s.

  “What! What happened to you?”

  “What accident?”

  “Monsieur Babinot is wounded!”

  What happiness! What a beautiful moment for him! How proud he was of his bandage, even though the bandage didn’t show so much as a drop of blood and he smelled of lavender!

  “A little fly, maybe a winged ant that got into my eye while I was talking to a couple of off-duty soldiers.”

  Two men on leave had asked him to recite a poem, and he hadn’t wanted to deny them the pleasure.

  “So I was reciting when, paf! This devilish little fly went into my eye and planted itself there like a thorn.”

  Ah! Ah! he thought, there’s another story I’ ll tell a little later. Chivalrous! How Monsieur Babinot didn’t want to frighten his wife, so he invented a little fly.

  They got him a chair. Did he want a something, a pick-me-up?

  “A little chartreuse?” proposed Madame Bourcier.

  “No, no . . .”

  “A little Benedictine?”

  He refused. Ah! If only she had offered him some schnapps!

  Madame Babinot went back to her corner, stiff and dressed in black like an umbrella walking on its handle. Silent.

  Babinot moved his armchair closer to the general, and in a low voice, “I didn’t want to tell the real story in front of my wife—it’s a worrisome one, you know, General, but . . .” he glanced over at “Maman” again. No problem—as deaf as she was mute. He could raise his voice. “The fly—that was made up. The truth is, I ran into two spies.”

  “Two spies!” said the general, jumping out of his chair. He didn’t believe there were spies in his district.

  “Hush! Not so loud . . . I was walking by the station and, voilà, two soldiers came up to me, two . . . officers. Bravo, I said to myself, let’s see what these gentlemen want with me? Do you know what they asked? I bet you can’t guess! The number of the regiment stationed here! But I didn’t take the bait; I’m an old wily one, I knew right away who I was dealing with. Not just their accents but also . . . a smell. The smell of Boches, I can sense it from miles away. ‘The regiment number?’ I said. ‘Come with me, and I’ll give it to you.’ And while I was talking, I gave them a look. Seeing that they were found out, they jumped on me and hit me with the butts of their pistols.”