“Extraordinary,” said the general. Nabucet winked, warning him that Babinot wouldn’t be contradicted. And the general went on, “Poor Babinot, it seems you got quite a blow!”
“That’s for sure.”
“And the two men?” asked Moka.
“Gone, alas. I think they managed to jump on the train. I’m letting you know about this business, General. Let’s run them down! Don’t say anything to anyone. Silence! Not a word to anyone! The fly! The fly! So as not to threaten your actions, General, let’s all say it was a fly. And those young fools will be—whipped,” he finished, cracking his knuckles.
Nabucet personally thought this was pure theatrics, this way of coming to a party with a bandage on your eye and dispensing all these fantastical tales. “They’ll be locked up, my friend, without a doubt. Patience! Patience! Sufficit diei militia sua.”
He bent down to the general and whispered in his ear, “What an odd story! I think he’s a little off.”
Steps in the corridor. Was it finally Monsignor? Was it the Faurels? Should he rush over? Nabucet listened: no, it was nothing. Cripure’s steps.
He came in, as if bracing himself for an immediate rain of blows. Luckily he hadn’t put down his cane, which he was holding out as if to a servant, along with his little hat. But there were no servants in sight, and he came forward, with the air of someone who isn’t sure he’s on the right floor.
“Isn’t this—excuse me . . .”
“Good afternoon,” said Nabucet, from across the room, turning his head.
“Who is that?” asked the general.
“Our philosopher, General.”
“What a funny fellow!”
“He’s a bit of an . . . odd one,” murmured Nabucet in the general’s ear.
“Someone already told me something like that . . .”
“He says he knows Sanskrit, and it’s quite possible, but he knows scarcely any Greek.”
“That’s the most important thing,” said the general.
“I don’t say that to disparage him,” Nabucet continued, “but it seems to me that Sanskrit is rather remote from all this.”
“Especially in wartime,” the general said.
No one came over to Cripure. He took off the goatskin himself, putting it on a chair with the little hat and the cane, and sat down as far as possible from the group.
He could tell they were talking about him. So what? What do I care?
He could have joined in with the chorus. What could they say that I’m not already well aware of? That he wasn’t what you would call a model of elegance and worldly manners? True. That his awkwardness was proverbial? Certainly. He was clumsy, he knew, and as for his wit, it was always a step behind the others, just like Rousseau’s. Like Rousseau too, he lived with an illiterate Thérèse; like him, he was a misanthrope, with a mania for persecution. And lastly, there was the abandoned bastard child. The big difference, besides genius, was that he was submissive. “Submissive!”
He lowered his head like a defendant in a criminal court. Nabucet would have made such a good prosecutor for the Republic!
•
Maybe they were talking about his legendary feet once again?
One day, well before the war, a circus with a giant had arrived in town. Well, the giant’s shoes had been nothing in comparison with Cripure’s, as everyone could see. The manager of the circus had exhibited the giant’s shoes in the window of the largest shoe store in town—precisely the one Cripure frequented.
When they brought in the shoes, the boot-maker turned up his nose. To the incredulous circus director, he said, “I’ve got even bigger ones than that!” And running to his workshop, he returned with Cripure’s shoes, which Maïa had just that moment dropped off for repairs. The circus director had to admit he was beaten. He expressed interest in meeting this “phenomenon.” Did he want to hire him? He had joked for a minute with the boot-maker, who had strongly advised him to hire Maïa as well, since they were a pair.
But when the circus manager had learned that the owner of those astonishing boots was a professor, and of philosophy! He’d simply shrugged and changed the subject.
For three whole days, the giant’s shoes had stayed in the window, a monstrous display, which had no doubt succeeded in bringing more than one drifter to the circus. But it had also revealed, to those who weren’t yet aware of his existence, that somewhere, in some part of town, there was a man who was very intelligent, a savant, whose feet were even bigger than the giant’s.
During those three days, the boot-maker made more than one trip to his workshop to get Cripure’s shoes, to show them to some client who wanted to see for himself. And so the shoes were passed from hand to hand. They measured them, weighed them, sized them up with their looks and their fingers, compared them to the giant’s, with comments that mingled pity and mockery. The physiologists imagined that Cripure’s infirmity, in forcing him to look inward, had made him into a philosopher, so that you could say he drew his intelligence from his feet. Others, pretending to be experts, scratched their chins and wondered what illness could cause such a sad deformity. Someone used the word “acromegaly”—they needed a pharmacist to explain it to them. A medical dictionary was consulted, and the pharmacist came to over the boot-maker’s, radiating science. This mysterious malady came from a gland with apophasis, which caused it to function poorly. All the extremities: the feet, the hands, the tongue, and the other thing too, the pharmacist added with a malicious smile, can start to grow unpredictably. It wasn’t a hereditary disease. You could become symptomatic at any age. He’d seen twenty-five-year-olds suddenly get it.
They were fascinated. Did Cripure already have this sickness when he married Toinette? Since then? Did he come down with it during? And they chuckled. Cripure knew all that.
•
Babinot maneuvered, slipped over to Cripure and touched his arm. Cripure jumped. “Hey!” he said. “And by the way, how’s that eye?”
“Shh! The eye’s not too bad. It’s still stings a little, but anyway, we’ve got to do our part. I wanted to tell you . . . but this isn’t a good place to talk. Come to the buffet for a moment, my friend.”
Why not?
The buffet table was deserted, since Werner had decided to give up. They could send someone else in his place, or those women could serve themselves if that suited them. As for him, no. Not a chance. Bastards like that . . .
Babinot pointed to a couple of chairs.
“It’s about that little incident earlier,” he said, sitting down, “I wanted to ask you, my dear colleague . . . not to speak about it in front of my wife, you see. She’s such a worrier! I had to tell her that a little fly got stuck in my eye . . .”
“Ah! Bah!” Cripure was astonished.
“So as not to frighten her, my friend. So I wanted to ask you—”
“Come now, it’s understood!”
“Thanks. But there’s something else. I had good reason to think there was more to this affair. Oh, a mystery that’s easy to solve! I’ve figured it out. But you won’t say anything to anyone, will you?”
“Since you ask me not to.”
“Until the day you’re asked to be a witness.”
“Me?”
If he was counting on him for that . . .what did he want? To put his aggressors through a military trial? “What you’re asking of me is very serious.”
Babinot threw up his hands. “By God, of course it’s serious! Certainly!”
“But don’t count on me to testify.”
“What! You astonish me, my dear Monsieur Merlin, you really shock me! You don’t want me to think you’re indifferent to the fact that German spies are walking among us and assaulting patriots!”
This was a glimmer of light. “That’s what this is about!” cried Cripure, who was struggling hard to repress laughter. The expression he used to stifle it was such that Babinot no longer doubted the extreme impression the news had caused.
“It was two spies, I�
��m telling you. I now have undeniable proof. They’ve been marked out in the area. The general is aware of it. You know, my friend, what a great man the general is. He seems like he’s come to pass an hour in company at this little party, and during that time, do you think he’s not working? Don’t be fooled! Runners have already gone out, my friend, those foolhardy boys will be identified everywhere. It only took one word!”
“Magnificent!”
“If you talk to him about it, make sure to point out, you know, that they were two officers.”
Officers? Where had Babinot gotten that idea? Probably the same place he got the fly. “Officers?” said Cripure.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”
“Bah?”
“I’m sure of it, my friend. Anyway, they always disguise themselves as officers. Everyone knows that.”
“Ah! Bah!”
“But you know they had those little stripes like they wear now. You surely noticed them, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“There . . . on their sleeves?”
“But they had backpacks!”
Babinot looked serious.
“Hmm. Are you quite sure?”
“I think so.”
“Ah, you think so. So there’s a doubt. That’s it, that’s it. I also wondered . . . but no, they weren’t carrying backpacks. They were two hearty fellows with blond hair and blue eyes, and pretty heavy steps. I can see them walking in front of me. No, my friend, now I’m sure, they weren’t wearing backpacks. They were definitely officers.”
“So be it,” Cripure said.
“Remember it well.”
“They might have been officers.”
That devilish Cripure! He never said anything directly. He’d seen in a blur or not at all. Hadn’t his pince-nez fallen?
“Didn’t you lose your lenses? Excuse the question—but it’s highly important.”
He would go along with it—it was simpler. What did he care that they weren’t officers? “You’re right, Babinot, I remember everything now.”
“So they were definitely officers?”
“Why yes.”
“That’s what I was telling you! I’m sure of it. But I wanted to check my memory against yours, you know. Yes, yes, yes, they were spies disguised as officers. They were waiting for me at the turn. But he who has the last laugh laughs loudest. We’re cooking them up a little dish . . . à la française! So,” he finished, getting up, “you’re in the know and you’ll see what happens.”
“Perfect!”
“Let’s go back over to the others. They must be wondering what we’re gossiping about! And along those lines, my friend, allow me to make a friendly . . . suggestion, on a subject that has nothing to do with our business?”
“But of course, Monsieur.”
“It’s delicate, but . . . too bad. Well then,” he said, “well then, I was watching you just now . . . the devil take it! Why on earth do you always keep to yourself like that? They say—I’m not offending you am I?”
“Oh, not at all!”
“They say . . . it’s difficult to say this . . . they say you keep yourself apart, that you refuse . . . Come now! A little vigor! A little mingling! You mustn’t stay aloof, if you’ll allow me to say so, since that always creates an impression that upsets people. They won’t understand, you know, they’ll start to ask questions. Your speech last year won you a lot of support. You mustn’t get discouraged. Mingle with us, my friend, mingle! Mingle!” And he abruptly interrupted himself and announced, “Oh, goodness! We’ve missed the bishop’s arrival! And the Faurels!”
And it was true—at the center of the room, Monsignor stood and offered his ring for the gracious and humble Madame Faurel to kiss.
“It’s irregular, it’s very irregular,” grumbled Babinot, leaving Cri-pure.
He went over to the little group of solemn new arrivals where Madame Faurel was smiling.
What a beautiful person! What a slender and supple body, with those long legs and shapely bust. What perfume she dispersed! Her face was pink as a young girl’s, glistening with freshness. She looked not a day over thirty! What frantic joy in her blue, kohl-rimmed eyes! And her blond hair, her lips so red against her false teeth, and her sparkling necklace and rings! And her black satin dress! A queen.
Faurel was shaking hands.
Everywhere, people were excited. The brouhaha continued endlessly. Cripure thought he was at the theater, when the musicians tune their instruments before the curtain rises. Each one was testing his voice, his look. Alone, he stayed silent in the chair. Nabucet was holding forth, directing things, going from group to group, whispering in people’s ears. Moka and Glâtre were bickering in a corner. The women were talking about chiffon, mourning outfits, sharing recipes. Mademoiselle Rabat, the headmistress of the middle school, had found a portrait of Descartes on the wall and was gushing:
“That dear René! I love that man, and with good reason!”
The prefect was talking about Bolsheviks with the academy inspector. “Besides, they’re all fugitives from the law.”
“What do they expect—Russia isn’t ripe for revolution.”
“They’ll fill their pockets and then—poof! They’ll disappear with the crown jewels.”
“Do they even know what they want?”
•
Cripure cautiously approached the open window, and bent down. A little air!
He caught sight of a nearby classroom. It was barely six feet away—a little old man with a beard put a parcel down on a chair, took off his hat, then took out a fancy sword, which he held between his hands like a crucifix. The sword belonged to his son who’d been killed two months before, and they had just sent it back to him. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to his students, “my dear young friends, today I am asking for more than just your attention—I’m asking for your whole hearts . . .” his two big hands, passionately clutching the sword, trembled so much that the blade clacked in the sheath. The students, mute with awe, fixed their eyes on the man in black who clutched to his meager chest that cold and recently bloodied blade. He moved the hilt to his lips, as if ready to kiss it. “Gentlemen, my dear young friends, behold the sword of my murdered son . . .”
Cripure fled, returning to his chair.
•
The din died down—a solemn moment! Nabucet approached the hearth like a poet at a salon. He pulled a roll of paper from his pocket:
“Monsignor, General, Monsieur Prefect, Mesdames, Messieurs . . .” he bowed to Madame Faurel, “Madame . . .”
And with his lovely viola voice, he began his speech.
•
Cripure lowered his head, hiding his dark, angry look. What a comedy! And what comedians! It never crossed their minds to rip off their disguises, to stop dispensing the fables they had taken such pains to learn. A red ribbon, for God’s sake! What they needed wasn’t ribbons or medals, but . . . and he shook his head, a movement which fortunately no one saw, since the gesture would have been taken for disapproval of what Nabucet was saying. No, no ribbons. What they really deserved were some heads, and others arms or legs. Eh? What would that Madame Faurel look like with the head of her groomsman pinned to her breast by his hair? And Nabucet, with an arm through the buttonhole of his tailcoat? And so on! For the women in love, the beautiful Isoldes, they’d make splendid necklaces of the terrified eyes of their Tristans—say you’ll never leave me darling, you’re mine alone and I know how to keep you!—As for Monsieur Babinot, oh! That one there, he deserved a whole corpse to himself. Perhaps a general’s? Not so easy to find these days. Perhaps a major then. The gift bestowed in a moving ceremony with great pomp on the parade ground, with the troops assembled for review. The corpse would be brought in on a cannon cart, a whole corpse, preferably one that had been gassed or strangled—since they were strangling themselves too!—in short, a corpse that looked exactly like what it was. In his clear, bugle voice, the general would make a solemn presentation to Babi
not, who would hoist the decomposing thing onto his shoulders—one, two, three!—while the trumpets blew. That’s what would be a glorious undertaking! That’s what you could call decorating people! It wouldn’t deceive anyone. Later, when you saw Babinot appear in the street with his decoration on his shoulders, you would know right away whom he had dealings with, and that this Monsieur had attained the highest rank in the hierarchy of honorees, that he was the supreme-superior-ace-knight-commander of Death. And those who’d only gotten a little torn ear, a small frozen foot, a tooth, to wear as brooches or hatpins, they’d have nothing to do but bow low. Small fry. And the hearts? The hearts would be—exclusively—for generals, to make pompoms for their caps, or rosettes for the lanyards on their swords, or when they were retired and suitably spoiled—trinkets.
•
A thunder of applause greeted Nabucet’s speech. Madame Faurel rose, smiling.
“Bravo! Bravo!” cried everyone around the room. And Babinot nasally dominated the tumult: “Bravo, bravo, I applaud!” And standing up, he turned his head this way and that to encourage reinforcements for his clapping, and when the applause finally died down and he had to sit again, he confided to his neighbor Madame Poche:
“That’s what I call enlightenment! Good God, that Nabucet is a beautiful specimen. What style! What charm . . .”
“Hush!”
Nabucet turned to the general: “The rest is up to you.” And bowing he handed over the precious box containing the precious object.
“So be it!” said the general, smiling with good cheer. “That’s a pleasant duty to fulfill.” And bending down to whisper in the bishop’s ear, but in a stage whisper so everyone could hear him, “What does Monsignor think?”
“I certainly wouldn’t hesitate,” the bishop joked back, “with such a lovely penitent, General!”
The general got up.
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