Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  “No civilians.”

  The one who had threatened to punch the young guard’s teeth out turned and stood on tiptoe, his hand on a comrade’s shoulder. He yelled, “You see now? The poilus don’t count for nothing now, and the wives of poilus for nothing of nothing at all.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “That poilus are nothing anymore . . .”

  “He’s chewing us out?”

  The man cupped his hands like a megaphone. “They’ve forbidden your wives and your kids to wait with you on the platform. It’s to intimidate you, don’t let them do it!”

  A mute murmur in reply. A voice cried, “Who?”

  “The same ones who are sending you to get ground up like a bunch of sausages!”

  “So we should go to jail?”

  “Break down the barrier, break it down, break it down!”

  What’s more, it had started to rain, a gray rain, slanting and cold. In less than a minute, it was running down Cripure’s face. The little felt hat was soaked.

  He kept pushing forward, but he was so squashed that he couldn’t even lift his pince-nez to dry the lenses. He could barely see. The shouts all around him made the noise of a squall. He put his hand on a shoulder. The man turned his head—he was completely disfigured.

  The whole bottom half of his face, ripped off and put back together, was nothing more than a glob of red, grainy flesh. Like a sponge. The man’s feverish eyes fixed on Cripure with anger, then softened. He said, with surprise, “Monsieur Merlin! You don’t recognize me? Not surprising. I wasn’t like this the last time you saw me.” He added, “Matrod.”

  “No!” Cripure murmured. “No! It’s not possible. You?”

  The son of one of his tenants. Sure, they had told him the boy had been wounded, but . . . he leaned down. Easier that way to hear what Matrod was saying in all the chaos.

  “It was a brick that did this . . . exploded . . . by a shell . . . and they sent me back and this is going to be the—” His words were drowned by the racket. Inside the station, there must be a brawl going on, the quality of the sounds had changed “—fifth time.”

  Cripure’s hand squeezed Matrod’s shoulder. He spoke some word of pity, something like “poor boy,” but the other whirled around.

  “What did you say?” This time, he yelled loud enough to be heard. “Are you kidding me? Men like you . . .you let us get killed.” Picking up Cripure by the collar of his goatskin, as if ready to throw him to the ground, he looked him straight in the eye. “Fuck your pity, you understand?”

  And, battering a way through the crowd with his shoulders, Matrod vanished, shouting, “We’re not men anymore! We have no rights! They’re all pigs! They’re in it together! All of them, They’re all piiiiigs!”

  For a long time, among the other voices, Cripure could hear him, “. . .all traitors . . .”

  The phrase caught red-handed came to him. Then, once again, he was being dragged, pulled from every side at once. A murmur ran through the crowd. From mouth to mouth people said the order had come to clear the square. But they wouldn’t carry it out as usual would they? Open fire?

  “They wouldn’t have the guts . . .”

  Cripure had made it to the barricade. He was touching the chest of a guard in a helmet, his jugular popping, totally still, his hands crossed over his rifle, his bayonet under his arm. “What are you doing here, eh?”

  “Me? Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes. You. What are you doing here?”

  “I, I’m with . . .”

  As a matter of fact, where was Monsieur Marchandeau? He saw him a few yards back, trying to get through to Cripure.

  “I’m here with a friend.”

  “No civilians can pass.”

  “But . . .”

  “Get back!”

  The rifle butt smacked. A hand pressed to Cripure’s vacillating chest.

  “But really now . . .”

  “Get back! Come on now. There’s no reason for you to be here.”

  The principal finally caught up.

  “Push through, my friend, push through,” said Cripure.

  Monsieur Marchandeau went up to the guard. “Let me through!”

  “Back off!”

  “You won’t let me through?”

  The guard shrugged. Was it his fault that . . .what could he do? Did they think it was fun for him to do this damned cop’s job?

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “You could let me through.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Come now, my friend, I’m Monsieur Marchandeau.”

  “You could be the pope for all I care.”

  “But you’re not listening! I’m Monsieur Marchandeau, principal of the lycée. I have to catch a train to Paris tonight.”

  “There is no train for civilians tonight.”

  “But no . . . come on now! I’ll take any train! I have to be there tomorrow morning . . .”

  “Go away, that’s enough! There’s no train for you. Move along!”

  “No.”

  “For the love of God . . .”

  “I’m going through anyway!” screamed Monsieur Marchandeau, grabbing the soldier’s rifle. He’d let go of his suitcase, and wrapping both hands around the rifle, he repeated, “I want to see my son! I want to see my son!”

  The man was losing ground. “Over here! In the name of God . . . over here! Stop him.”

  “I want to see my son!”

  “But it’s like I told you . . .”

  “I want to see my son!”

  His eyes popping out of his head, Monsieur Marchandeau was squeezing the rifle with both hands, crying, “I want to see my son! I want to see him!”

  A sergeant raced over, wrapping his arms around Monsieur Marchandeau like a belt. “What’s this all about?”

  “Let go of me! I want to see my son! Let go of me!”

  “Listen to me, Monsieur.”

  “Let me go!”

  He fought desperately, but the sergeant, still using all his strength to hold him, said, “This is useless, Monsieur. There’s no train, do you hear? I see why you’re upset, but . . . there’s nothing we can do. There’s no train—not for you, and not for anyone. What do you want us to do about it?”

  Monsieur Marchandeau stopped fighting. The sergeant let go of him. The principal disappeared into another wave of the crowd.

  •

  A volley of whistles, unending yells: they greeted the arrival of reinforcements, called in haste from inside the station. The men raced in, and the crowd parted to let them through, covering them with insults.

  “Bastards! You should be ashamed!”

  “Sellouts!”

  “This is a job for pigs, what you’re doing. Do you know what we do to pigs?”

  “We hang them!”

  They passed by, weapons in their hands, not proud of it. A soldier boosted himself up on the shoulders of two comrades and, cupping his hands like a megaphone, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Follow them! Follow them! Fall in behind them!”

  The order was picked up all around them. There was total chaos in the square. Cripure found himself carried almost all the way to the overhang, where he grabbed a pole as a sailor in a storm grabs a mast. The barrier had broken, and the crowd invaded the station.

  New banging rang out.

  No doubt, the reinforcements weren’t getting a warm welcome inside. Even so, the cries of hate were mixed with joyful shouts, exclaiming the new arrivals, then, an order, spontaneously yelled out: “Follow us! Follow us!”

  Cripure let go of the pole. The square was clearing out. He looked around for Monsieur Marchandeau: gone. So he went off, making his way to a little bridge that overlooked the other side of the station.

  In the endless rain, the lamps cast big yellow blobs of light onto the platform, while confused shadows appeared and disappeared in them, running from all sides, and the threatening racket came from their shouts, the crunching of their feet o
n the gravel, the shock of helmets thrown with hate against the train, the shattering of windows they were breaking with their feet.

  “Death to Poincaré! Death to Ribot! Peace! Peace! We’ve had enough! End the war! Long live Russia!”

  Cripure looked on.

  “WE’LL CRUSH them . . .”

  Whose voice was that? Where did it come from, that voice strangled with anger, which didn’t seem totally unknown to him, but which he couldn’t identify right away, perhaps refusing to believe that such a meeting could be possible? Cripure turned around, slowly coming back to himself. All the blood in his veins froze. Nabucet. It was Nabucet! He was the one who had promised to crush them! Dear God. Through what horrible orifice had that sentiment come? Oh, the filthy snout!

  “That’s a lie!” cried Cripure, at the height of his fury. “Villain!” And his giant hand came down on Nabucet’s “filthy snout.”

  The witnesses of the incident said later that it was more like a punch than a slap, or in any case, it wasn’t an ordinary slap, but enough to knock out a bull. It was the first time Cripure had slapped anyone, but this slap made up for his whole past, it gathered together all the blows he’d stopped himself from doling out in the rest of his sad career. Nabucet was whirled around, and his hat rolled to the ground. He held his head in both hands, protecting his ears like a bad child who’s about to get boxed.

  Cripure panted like a worn-out horse. His pince-nez had jumped off and were resting on his chest. He quickly put them back on.

  Nabucet gathered himself together. He stopped protecting his ears, revealing a squishy face—with one cheek white and the other crimson. What a blow! But Nabucet never lost his composure for long. Even in a situation like this one, he remained master of himself, calm, a man of the world, and he forced a smile.

  Ah! This time he had him! An idea popped into his head and blew him away. What a great opportunity to push Cripure to . . . I’ll challenge him to a duel! What did he have to lose?

  “You won’t be surprised, I imagine,” he said, “you won’t be astonished, Monsieur, to receive a letter from me tomorrow morning . . .”

  “What? A letter?”

  “Such are the customary proceedings.”

  “Proceedings?” What new kind of conformism had Cripure stumbled into?

  “I must write you a letter to inform you of my choice of seconds.”

  “Oh, oh!” Cripure shot back. “Oh! Monsieur! Enough pussyfooting around. Let’s settle this here and now.”

  Nabucet gave him a pitying smile.

  “That’s not how it’s done.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s against the conventions.”

  “Ah! Enough. Let’s settle this question on the field, I’m telling you. Why wait? Why all this pretense? Ah!”

  Cripure heard himself give a couple of little gulps, “Ugh, ugh.”

  “A letter!” he murmured, returning Nabucet’s look of pity.

  Ah! If only he had his pistol in his pocket just then! And Nabucet had one too! They could go off together without a wait. The first lonely spot they came upon, and he’d settle the tab for that . . . louse. The last time he’d practiced on the beach, it hadn’t gone too badly.

  Nabucet was still smiling, a cowardly, wicked smile that showed his false teeth.

  “I should have considered,” said Nabucet, “I should have known that in the matter of a duel, as in everything, following the rules would displease you.”

  “What?” thundered Cripure.

  “Everyone knows you are—”

  “Ah, by God, shut up. And I’ll say it again, let’s settle it on the turf. Let’s be quick—name a time.”

  “What?”

  “And a place!”

  “Come on now, don’t lose your head. Get a hold of yourself.”

  “Time and place, and I’ll be there. You can count on me.”

  “Oh! But aren’t you moving a little quickly on this? Are you so impatient to—”

  “Kill you?”

  “I was going to say: to die,” corrected Nabucet coldly, his cloudy eye catching the light.

  Cripure stared. He was frozen in place. “To die,” he said so softly that Nabucet could barely hear him. “At your hands! Ah! That would be too awful,” he cried, “something like that will never happen.”

  With a savage blink, Nabucet replied. “Perhaps . . .”

  They looked at each other without moving, like two fighters sizing each other up. Then, with profound astonishment, they realized everything could still change. Maybe they didn’t hate each other quite as much as they thought? It lasted maybe a second. And as soon as they spoke, the hate came back, much increased.

  It was Nabucet who spoke first: “Name your seconds, and let’s fight tomorrow at dawn. Your seconds can arrange it with my friend Babinot, who certainly will not refuse to aid my cause.” With that, he saluted.

  “My seconds?” babbled Cripure, confused.

  Nabucet turned. “Well then? Two of your friends.”

  “Two of my friends?”

  “He has no friends! He has no friends!” yelled Nabucet, walking away.

  And Cripure, his arms hanging limply on the goatskin, his bag of groceries and his cane at his feet, watched open-mouthed as Nabucet left.

  How he scampered!

  •

  Cripure was overcome.

  Whom could he go to, whom to ask for help, for even a simple piece of advice? Nabucet was right—he had no one. No friend. The thought ripped him open. But still: who could he go to, talk to?

  There must be a whole host of things he didn’t know about, rules to follow, a dueling code to learn. Would he be reduced, like some ordinary adventurer who doesn’t expect a duel in a strange city, to put his life in the hands of the nearest helmeted soldier or the Military Society, to beg two officers to assist him? Those men seemed to know what to do in affairs of honor. The rules of dueling wouldn’t be unfamiliar to them. But officers! He made a huge effort to correct his thought that all officers must have been Toinette’s lovers. Oh, she’s dead . . .

  In the station, the poilus seemed to have quieted. The engine was mysteriously reattached, and the men were boarding the train, which had not a single window left, and barely any seats. When the train started, a volley of whistles rang out. The men crouched in the car doors shouted, “We’ll be back!”

  One of them seized an officer’s hand as he went by. To the officer’s great surprise, he didn’t relax his grip.

  “Hey! What are you doing? Let go of me! Come on!”

  The train picked up speed. The officer started to run.

  “Let me go!”

  “You don’t want to come along?”

  “You’re crazy. Come on. Let me go!”

  “Come with us, eh?” The man smiled.

  The men were sticking their heads out all the doors. Some laughed, others cried out.

  “Hold on tight!”

  “Whatever you do, don’t let go!”

  “Hang on, in the name of God!”

  “Oh the pig! He’ll roll under the wheels.”

  “Get your foot on the running board, you big idiot!”

  “Think about it! Then he’ll have to come with us to the end of the line!”

  The train picked up speed. On the platform, a station employee was whistling his head off. Deafened by shouts, the engineer heard nothing and the train kept going. The officer was running for his life now, his eyes popping out of his head, crazed with fear.

  “The hell with it. Even if he lets go, he’ll roll under the weight.”

  “Kill him!”

  “But no . . . haul him on board.”

  The man finally let go of his prey, and a huge yell went up. Bouncing against the train, the officer spun around two or three times, rolled across the platform, and lay still.

  The poilus leaned down to see better. One of them spat: “Shitbag!”

  From the back of the station, men came running.

  Cr
ipure fled. They were animals, all of them! He hurried to leave the bridge, to go back into the town. No more shouts in the air. Nothing. The riot was over.[16] They’d been crushed. And as for him? A duel!

  He stopped short at the edge of the sidewalk.

  But whom could he ask? Where would he get advice?

  A duel in the middle of a war. It was, of course, more than ridiculous. All things considered, it was quite revolting. He alone, among thousands, millions of men in battle, had found a way to embroil himself in this situation and to make it come to the dueling ground—he was resolved to do it!—such a strange event that it would undoubtedly become legendary. As time went on, they would talk about him as that madman who . . . and scorn, laughter, revulsion would cover his name for eternity. At least . . . at least he’d be dead. Or the other one, he quickly corrected himself. Unless the conditions of the duel might be so moderate that one, if not two, of the opponents could escape death. He thought about duels that were famous for the strictness of their conditions . . . Pushkin’s . . . But whom could he ask?

  Moka?

  Not a bad idea. Upon reflection, it was even an excellent one. Moka was a pure soul. You could trust in Moka. Yes, Moka. He’d go see him right away, instead of stupidly standing there, frozen on the sidewalk. Could his other business wait? Did one ignore a duel? Since he had to fight, he would fight tomorrow morning, at dawn. Tomorrow morning, yes, everything would be settled. Finished.

  And in any case, he thought, as he walked along, he wasn’t as friendless as he had thought. After thinking about it for a few minutes, he could still find someone he could count on. How would he explain things to him, the . . . slap? Did seconds generally ask, before agreeing, for explanations of motives, for the start of the quarrel? That slap—how could he justify it? Certainly, it wasn’t a premeditated blow—it was something that had come over him.

  While he walked along the gray walls lining the street, so similar to the walls of a prison (which it was), he was disappointed once again that the cab was nowhere to be seen. He would have to walk. He forced himself to think of the questions he might be asked and to come up with answers. Why did you slap Nabucet? What could he say? Because Toinette is dead? Because once upon a time, I didn’t dare fight the blond officer? Because, through Nabucet, I slapped a whole species of men I hate? Because, because. Would he dare tell them everything he was thinking, and argue that Nabucet had arranged the attempt on his life, the business of the bikes? All these reasons were good and bad, but none were relevant. The truth was made up of bits of all of them and also of many other pieces that remained murky to him, which he was afraid to examine. One thing was clear: he was the aggressor. He had trouble convincing himself of this. To be the aggressor was something new for him and, despite the evidence, he would have happily erased that fact. He would have to hope that the seconds didn’t ask for such a long story. They weren’t judges! He wasn’t going to the courthouse, to hell with it! He was going to fight! The judgment of God . . .