“Dear Madame, I’ll spare you more speeches. The art of rhetoric belongs to Monsignor and Monsieur Nabucet, who is far too modest,” he said, as Nabucet bowed deeply. “My dear professor, you’ve left me with nothing to add to your gracious praises of Madame Faurel. So that only leaves . . .”
Speaking the traditional formula, he pinned the red ribbon to Madame Faurel’s bodice.
“And now we find ourselves in an embarrassing situation Madame.”
“How so, my dear General?”
“I’m afraid I must remind you that the ceremonial kiss is required. It is true that in this case, the duty is all on one side—yours, Madame. Remember only that war is as war does and allow me . . .”
“Oh, General! From one soldier to another, you know,” cried Madame Faurel, throwing herself into the officer’s arms.
The room went wild.
Once again, Babinot stood up and bashed his hands together. “Mag-ni-fi-cent! How magnificent!”
They heard two kisses smack on Madame Faurel’s cheeks, then, rising over the tumult and making everyone quiet, the general’s voice, that beautiful voice everyone admired on the fourteenth of July when he commanded “Swords out!” at the review on the parade ground, engaging and filling the whole room:
“You heard her! Spoken like a true Frenchwoman!”
The applause increased in series of tumults. The general’s elegance was acclaimed. He’d known how to turn the compliment like a madrigal. Madrigal and general—two rhymes in a poem by Babinot.
“And with his grace? Did you see him with his grace?”
“Oh those two. They’re always teasing each other.”
“Father general and the cheery old bish’.”
“We’re not complaining! We’re not complaining! If the bishop and the general are joking with each other, that means the sacred union is alive and well and France is strong.”
•
A brouhaha. Joy and ease. They were all standing, crowding around the heroine, pressing in—trying to see who would be the first to congratulate her. She was laughing, shaking hands, embracing Madame Poche, her dear old friend, who went so far as to shed a tear. Babinot battled with voice and bandage. Cripure, at the back of the room, lowered his head and waited.
Everything flooded his ears and fluttered in front of his eyes. It was as if he could only see the world through a periscope. And it seemed like a reflection in the lens when he saw Faurel take Nabucet’s arm, and it was as if through the depths of the water he heard: “You were perfect, old friend . . .”
The groups were linking and unlinking in fairy-like quadrilles. It was the general now who took grasped Nabucet’s arm and said, “I’ve just put the last touches, my friend, on a little one-act which will go down very well with your Society for Dramatic Arts. It’s an interlude. It takes place in Spain, neutral territory. War! War! It’s beating down on our ears.”
Madame Marchandeau had vanished, but not her husband, and Cripure realized all of a sudden that they were sitting next to each other.
“Hey!” he said. But it wasn’t the moment to talk to him about the bikes . . .and what’s more . . .
“How is your son?”
Beneath the white shirtfront, Monsieur Marchandeau’s chest filled. “Well, I hope.” At the same time, he passed a finger under the opening of his collar. “It’s suffocating in here, don’t you think?”
In short, the party had reached its peak.
The guests were coming and going, passing by the buffet to have a glass of champagne or a cup of hot chocolate, and going back to gossip by the fireside. Monsignor had hightailed it out of there, and the prefect too. The general would follow shortly.
Cripure let himself slump into the chair. He succumbed to his fascination with these unreal images. Where was truth? Why was this life rather than death? Indifference. He could hear snatches of talking, someone replying to Madame Poche, as if he had taken a vital interest in what she was saying, or as if it were of primordial importance to give the flabby old bitch that impression. Her ruined bust topped her wrecked thighs like a sac beneath the lace; little black eyes with bug-eaten lashes; her nose bone a spur like a chicken’s wishbone; horse teeth, yellow on the bottom and green on top.
“I just came back from Bourges where I saw my cousin Édouard. Right now he’s taken on some very interesting work to try and prevent the Boches from using their gas masks. He’s found a way. The principle protective element in their masks is carbon. So Édouard searched for a way to make the carbon less porous, and to make it lose its ability to neutralize the body when it inhales the gas, which was making our gases lose their power to asphyxiate. What a beautiful discovery, don’t you think? And won’t it be neat to make all those Boches kaput! Right now they’re in the process of applying Édouard’s research to make our soldiers new masks. He replaced the cloth plug with a solid one, I don’t know what kind, which presses or hangs away from the mouth at will. He also found a way—a famous one!—to neutralize the Boche gas before it reaches our trenches. To turn a wave of gas into nothing, he would have needed a thousand shells and special grenades with the neutralizing agent. The higher-ups replied to my cousin that the cost was excessive. Then, because I told him that my pee is cloudy and that I often see a bluish tint on the surface, he explained that it’s part of a phenomenon of ‘interference,’ I think, but I’m not sure if that’s the right word, and he gave me long and interesting explanations of this phenomenon which turns out to be the underlying principle for color photography . . .”
A LITTLE group of the faithful had gathered in Babinot’s wake as he returned from the buffet, where he’d drunk a cup of hot milk. Like someone in an ecstasy of delight, Babinot advanced, his head high, inspired, the bandage shining like a banner, and with his arms he made the movements of a village fiddler leading a marriage procession. A flute would have suited him better—besides, they said he played one.
“Let’s never forget this,” he said, standing still so the little troupe could gather around him, “the secret to the gaiety of our heroic soldiers is that they stick to-ge-ther, it’s that our brave boys don’t have time for solitary contemplations. Excellent for moral hygiene, it seems! Well then, let’s follow their example. Let’s know how to come together, like today, and let’s give our meetings a certain flexible discipline, very flexible . . .” And Babinot twice mimed a high jumper who catches himself on tiptoe. “The first rule,” he said, lifting a finger: “let’s not talk too much about the war. Without falsely ignoring the subject, let’s talk a little, like we would in peacetime, of our affairs, about our daily lives, of simple pleasures, of the small joys life gives to everyone no matter what their circumstances. It’s what I call the human-interest page, you see. A little human interest,” he said, making a gesture with his hand as if he were seasoning a dish, “yes, a little imagination and everything will go well. The way to show confidence and inspire it is not to seem mesmerized by endless visions of war. Oh I know it! I’m aware of the difficulty! The fateful moment will come when we’ll have to talk about it. But more than anything, don’t change your attitude! Don’t change your voice! Let’s take it upon ourselves to stay very calm and unruffled,” he went on, with gestures like a conductor. “Let’s always say what we think. Never lies! But say it softly, with calm and almost playfulness.”
He caught sight of Moka, who was waiting with his arms crossed over his stomach. “What does my young colleague want?”
“You wanted me to remind you to tell us a story, Monsieur Babinot,” said Moka. And he rubbed his hands together.
“Which story, if you please?”
“I don’t know, do I?” said Moka, rolling his eyes. “A funny story, no doubt?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Young man . . . funny stories! Ah, ah! We haven’t missed out, thank God . . . later on,” he said, with a dismissive wave, “I don’t want to tire anyone out . . .”
The faithful shouted their encouragement.
“Should I really tell one now?” Babinot a
sked
“Yes, of course!” (When was it not the moment to tell a story?)
“So be it! Since you demand one . . .”
A general “Ah!” greeted his reply.
Babinot chose a chair close to Cripure and Madame Poche. Spreading the tails of his coat with his hands, he sat and said, “My young colleague reminded me of a promise . . . so be it!”
“Hush,” murmured people around the room, “Monsieur Babinot’s going to tell us a story.” They approached with curious faces.
“What’s going on?”
“Shhh, a story . . .”
Leaning back in his chair, Babinot clasped his big hairy hands over his belly, crossed his legs so that everyone could see his thick, blue wool socks, and smiled, but with only one side of his face. The bandage had slipped a little.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to tell you a story that is, in fact, funny.”
A pause.
“It happened over there,” he began, “on the other side of the Rhine, where the Boches live.”
Moka snapped his fingers. “No way!”
“Yes, yes, with those ones. I didn’t misspeak. My son was visiting Dusseldorf . . .you know it, I think?” he said, turning to Cripure.
Cripure had made a fabulous tour of Germany once upon a time—was it before or after he split from Toinette?—and come back salivating with admiration for the organizational genius, etc., of the Germans. “A wonderful town, don’t you know?” he replied.
Babinot’s goatee trembled.
“Nah!” he cried, jumping out of his chair. “Nah! My learned colleague, I take no part in your enthusiasm for that species over there. God forbid!” He proudly lifted his chin.
“But,” Cripure babbled, “I didn’t mean—” “Nah! I’m telling you nah! We’ve got cities here that are a thousand, a hundred thousand times better than their stupid Dusseldorf!”
“As you say,” said Cripure. “Yes, it’s true, we do have cities that are a hundred thousand times better—”
Babinot was reassured. “Perfect, that’s just perfect. A man like you, my dear colleague, making such a mistake as that!”
The faithful who had feared an outburst relaxed again.
“But, the story, Monsieur Babinot?” Moka asked.
“I’m getting there! Patience!”
Babinot resumed his comfortable position. “My son was staying in Dusseldorf. He was living with a family—you’ll laugh—a typical German family, you know, the family of the honorable Herr Professor Schröder, ah, ah! An impressive family of Fritzes and Gretchens,” he said, taking a little white metal box from his waistcoat pocket and fishing out a black licorice lozenge. He stuck it in his mouth and continued, “I was taking my son there, and by a singular coincidence, the day we arrived among those people was the Sedantag[12] holiday.”
“Which is?” asked Madame Poche.
“Day of Sedan, Madame.” Babinot whistled, winking his one good eye. “It’s a big holiday for those fools over there! They celebrate our defeat in 1870. Their flags, their music, their fifes . . .”
“Ayayay!” said Moka.
“Since you’re familiar with Germany,” said Babinot, turning to Cripure, “tell me, my dear colleague, have you ever been there on a day like that?”
“Goodness, no.”
“Well then, good for you! Good for you!” Babinot repeated, tapping him twice on the knee. “It’s a rough, rough ordeal for a good Frenchman. Those animals over there are filth personified. You’ll see, I said to my son, they’ll find some way to trouble us. During the meal, they’ll talk about it. My son, being generous, imagined they wouldn’t. He was wrong, gentlemen, he was wronger than wrong.”
Babinot was quiet, and in the silence Cripure said, “Germans are clumsy pansies.”
“Hear what he said!” cried Babinot, carried away with enthusiasm. “Clumsy pansies! That’s great! That reminds me of another, even funnier story I’ll tell you someday, remind me Monsieur Moka. Clumsy pansies! That’s them to a T. A great way to put it. And the proof is that despite all our efforts to avoid the topic of that wretched Sedantag during the meal, well, he brought it up! Fat Professor Schröder told us matter-of-factly, ‘In France you don’t know how to celebrate your victories!’ The clumsy pansy! But those Cossacks over there are neither refined, nor thoughtful, nor enlightened, eh! eh! I was embarrassed for him, ashamed. But listen. Can you guess what I said to him? ‘Wir hatten zuviel!’ ‘We have too many!’ Ah, ah, ah! Too many? Zuviel! What do you say to that?”
“That,” said Madame Poche, “that was neat!”
“Bull’s-eye! What a hit!” said Moka. “Say, Monsieur Babinot, he must have had quite the look on his face?”
“That’s your mistake: he took it in stride. Those fellows? Squashed as bedbugs, you know. It’s from all the beatings.”
“That authoritarian system, eh?” someone said.
“That’s just it,” Babinot replied. “And I’ve seen them up close, you know.”
Glâtre observed that there was enough there to have caused a duel, and Babinot’s eyes glowed. “It would have been the happiest day of my life.”
No one thought to smile at this first-communion phrasing, not even Cripure. But had Cripure heard him? His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere as Babinot already began another: “Listen, another time . . .”
Cripure stopped listening.
•
Sitting behind Babinot, he studied that little bird-like head, round as a ball, covered in stray hairs which had once been red, which let the white skin of his scalp show through around the bandage like a peeled fruit. After two or three moments, his gaze seemed so indiscreet and dishonest, he had the impulse to get up and leave. It was like surprising someone in his sleep, like listening at a keyhole. It wasn’t right to look at people’s scalps that way. But this scalp held an irresistible fascination for Cripure, like a piece of evidence.
How much truer it was than a face! It seemed to him that all the reason left in Babinot, all the pure tenderness, had deserted the face—which for a long while now had been incapable of expressing anything but an inhuman passion for patriotism and war—and had taken refuge in that innocent scalp, and especially lower down, in the folds of his neck, which were very red while Babinot was delivering his speech, and which, at any other moment, would have inspired only Cripure’s disgust and perhaps his amusement. But how far he was from laughing! Nothing Babinot said, nothing he was, lent itself to laughing anymore, since looking into his face had become nothing more than looking at a cardboard mask, but in his true, tender flesh that was starting to sag, to come unstuck and to hang from his jaws, to swell like the flesh of a corpse . . . Soon enough, anyway . . . but why soon? He could go on like this for a long while yet—maybe years, eternally, perhaps. Yes, it was well said, eternally. How awful! The strangest part was that Babinot believed he was his mask, that he would rather ignore the person, hidden like a riddle in the folds of his neck. Only the fake Babinot wanted to be seen. There was the Babinot who thundered against the Boches, the everyday heroic imbecile Babinot, and another, the real one, who cried silent tears for the closeness of his son to death and for his own fate. Perhaps there had to be the thundering Babinot before the other one could cry all his tears. Oh God! God! And that whitewashed face with its dead black eyes that watches me with reproach! In a corner, discreetly set apart by chance or choice—undoubtedly choice—sat Madame Babinot, immobile as a stele, all in black, already cold as if wrapped in her shroud. Before her time! Just barely, by a few shiverings of that paper face, could they tell it was still living. If there had ever been a mask there, it had fallen long ago. She no longer feared to show herself as she felt, in all honesty, like all those who die while still alive. When they killed her son, Babinot might change, but as for her—no. Awful. She was already skeletal. Awful! But what was there to say? He saw them asleep, both pressed against each other, searching for warmth with the knowledge, even in their deepest sleep, of that death—their
son’s! No. Oh no! As the saying goes, we can’t afford to pay so much for admission.[13]
“It’s a conspiracy,” someone whispered in his ear.
Cripure jumped, stifling a cry. Moka was bent over his shoulder, smiling like an accomplice. “They did it on purpose.”
“Did what on purpose?”
He put an index finger, straight as a drumstick, to his lips. “Come with me!” he said. “Shhh!”
Cripure got up carefully, trembling with fear—would he really be able to flee? But the story Babinot was telling must have been more interesting than the last one, since no one paid attention to him, and he followed Moka, who was slipping away on tiptoe, holding out his arms like an acrobat on his tightrope.
The door closed behind them without a sound.
“Not seen, not heard,” said Moka. “Pfff! Come on.”
“Where are you taking me?” Cripure asked, reaching for the hand Moka offered him. He let himself be pulled all the way down the hall. Moka ignored the question, but as he went he said softly, though there was no longer a reason to think they’d be overheard:
“They’re encouraging Babinot to tell stories because, you under-stand—his son—”
“No!” Cripure stammered, catching his breath. Moka had to pull him forward.
“Yes! They’ve known since this morning. But he doesn’t know yet.”
“No!”
“But I’m telling you, yes. It’s official. Only no one dares tell him. So they egg him on . . .”
•
They passed before the open door to the buffet. There, all by himself, his hat under his arm, the mayor was furtively, hastily, but seriously getting his fill of hot chocolate and brioches. He left the champagne for the others today. What he needed was something solid. And while he drank his hot chocolate, the mayor with his big sad-lion eyes, imagined those cold cuts that would have been so pleasant to nibble on with a little mustard, a hard-boiled egg, a little bit of lettuce. Alas! Cold cuts hadn’t been included in the menu and Monsieur mayor would have to content himself with pastries. He took revenge with a second helping. All that his heavy paw could reach he engulfed, gobbled, his pinky in the air—sucking in his stomach—so as not to stain his handsome waistcoat. He was focused only on the refreshments, and if it weren’t for his fancy ceremonial suit, he could have been taken for an errand boy some kindly client had let into the pantry.
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