“Did I do that salute nicely, my dear colleague?”
“To perfection.”
“Good. Very good.” He pulled Nabucet over to an armchair. “Do you mind if I keep my cap?” he asked. “I just catch cold so quickly.”
“Make yourself comfortable, my dear fellow.”
Babinot couldn’t live without his soldier’s cap, which he wished he could wear around town. He settled into an armchair. “What fortunate wind blows you this way?” He was decidedly delighted by this visit. He was already thinking of how he’d read Nabucet the poem he’d just finished, and he was quivering with impatience.
Nabucet crossed his legs, brusquely hiked his pants at the knee to avoid creases, and said in his honey voice, “Excuse me, I’m disturbing you in the middle of your work.”
“I was composing, my dear colleague.”
“A poem?”
“May I?” said Babinot, stretching a hand toward the table. But with a light touch, barely ruffling the cloak. Nabucet stopped him.
“One moment! Yes,” he went on, softening the stroke of harshness, “let’s read the poem in a bit, dear Babinot. Even in advance I’m sure that it’s excellent. But it’s important that I tell you right away why I’m here.”
“It’s a very short poem, you understand.”
“In a bit, dear friend, in just a moment.”
“Ah! Fine, fine,” said Babinot, very put out. “No harm done. I’m listening.” What the devil could be so important it deserved to go before he read one of his poems?
These men of letters are all the same, thought Nabucet. And he asked, “You haven’t heard the news?”
“What’s happening, then?”
“My dear Babinot, an astonishing quarrel has just sprung up, and in a moment I’ll give you the details. Rumpitur dum nimium tenditur funiculus: a cord stretched too tight finally broke. Briefly, in a word that equals a hundred, I’m going to fight a duel, my dear friend.” And he got up. But not as quickly as Babinot, who, at the word “duel,” bounced out of his chair as if projected by a cannon.
“What on earth are you talking about?” he cried, lifting his arms to the ceiling. “A duel! What on earth are you talking about?”
“The truth.”
“A duel!”
“With swords.”
“A duel! A duel! And whom are you fighting in this duel?”
Nabucet’s look expressed the regret of a man who is faced with a task he doesn’t approve of, but which he can’t leave unfinished. “It pains me to inform you,” he said in a wet voice, “that my opponent is our esteemed colleague Monsieur Merlin.”
All of a sudden, Babinot couldn’t breathe. His mouth gaping, his arms still raised, the bandage slipping more than ever, he was the picture of amazement.
“Oh! It’s too much,” he finally cried, letting his arms fall. “Too much, it’s too much.” He repeated at least ten more times that it was too much, then, when he’d mastered the double shock of this double news—a duel, that was a huge deal, but a duel with Cripure, that was humongous!—he wanted to know why they had quarreled.
“Let’s not get upset! Above all, let’s keep our heads and sit down. Have a seat, dear Nabucet, have a seat and tell me everything.”
Nabucet had let Babinot shout and scrabble around all by himself, without so much as wiggling his little finger. He’d teach them all how a man worthy of the name should behave during serious business. What’s more, it was easy. He knew well that Cripure wouldn’t fight. But hush! He wasn’t dumb enough to mention that to Babinot, or to anyone.
“Why would we get upset?” he replied, smiling. “I truly don’t see the reason.” And with the greatest ease, as if there was nothing more to do than talk about, for example, which flowers would go best in a bouquet for a pretty woman, he took his seat in the chair.
“Let’s take it ab ovo,” he said, “And know that first of all, my friend, there was a bit of a ruckus tonight at the station.” He told him what had happened, but made the mistake of pronouncing the word “riot.”
“A riot, you say?”
“No, no, just a little bit of noise.”
“But you said it was a riot.”
Babinot’s eye shone. Ah! How far he was from the idea of a duel! By what reckoning, good Lord, did a duel have more importance than a riot? His old, toothless mouth opened wide. It took his breath away. “I understand everything now!” he cried.
And he was off. Nabucet didn’t hold back an impatient gesture. Already, in a voice that contained the gravest and most beautifully nasal notes he’d ever produced, he continued, ending on the highest sharps, “They’re my two scoundrels! Goodness, those are my scoundrels. If there was a bit of a ruckus tonight at the station, what you called a riot, my friend, it must be because of those two rascals!”
And rubbing his finger under the bandaged eye, he said again that it was all clear to him now, and that it must be the two German spies who, in the devious way of Dame Germania, had attacked the army’s morale.
“Oh! The Boches are clever little bastards.”
“I agree, my friend, I agree.”
“They know how to make trouble . . .”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“But we’re just as clever as they are—that goes without saying. The proof is abundant.”
A story? Nabucet had escaped the poem only to fall into a story? The gods were harsh. He tried to nip it in the bud. “To get back to it,” he began.
But Babinot interrupted. “Yes, yes! In a bit, my friend. In a bit. Let’s finish the riot first.”
Nothing to be done! Since he wants the riot, I’ll give him the riot. It’s still the shortest way out.
“Riot! That’s still a strong word,” he said. “A very strong word, certainly, for a few shouts, a little barricade, a few songs . . .”
“Ah! Ah! Some songs?”
“Garbled.”
“No matter, my friend! They’ll use anything to destroy us, even garbled songs. For idealistic fellows like ours, songs, even garbled ones, sometimes have a great effect,” said Babinot, very sententious, and once again, he waggled his finger.
Nabucet had nothing to say against that. And Babinot continued, “the good side of the story is that with each blow, we tear away their mask. Bam! Patata! And their crafty constructions are in ruins. They’re patient, but we’re sly. The rooster, my friend, the little Gallic rooster. Much cleverer than their fat mascot, that black eagle!” He burst out laughing.
How long would this go on? Nabucet wondered. He’d like to know, since maybe he should be thinking about asking someone else to be his second, even though it was right up this one’s alley! “Everything worked out, and in the end, our little soldiers went on their way.”
“Goodness!” Babinot exclaimed. “I was sure from the start. A riot, you understand, my friend, think about it! It’s impossible. A revolution? French soldiers mutinying? Fairy tales, my friend, the stuff of legend. If all that hadn’t been fomented by those two rascals, I’m telling you, if it weren’t for the grumbling of a couple hotheads. But nah, nah, all that is nothing. Fairy tales! Don’t make me laugh.”
And he laughed, not quite as loudly as he had earlier, but softly, like a man who’s thinking of the very good hand he’s about to play.
This little laugh went on for a while, then finally slowed and stopped. Babinot resumed his serious look, gravely harsh, and remembering the reason Nabucet had come to see him he went on, “Excuse this digression, my dear colleague, but in these circumstances, what touches France touches us all. Now that we’ve been reassured on the subject of the little disturbance, come, my friend, tell me—what happened between you and Merlin? A duel! Who would have ever thought I’d hear someone speak of a duel in this room!”
“And if I were to ask you to be my witness? If you’re willing! If you’re willing!” Nabucet hastened to add, as if he thought for a second that Babinot would say no.
“For the love of God!” cried Babinot, “For the lov
e of God, I’m willing!” He got up and solemnly laid a hand on Nabucet’s shoulder.
“My dear friend,” he gravely said, “I couldn’t bear not being your witness. We’ll look back on this moment. Listen to me.” And, his hand still resting on Nabucet’s shoulder, he turned his one eye to the ceiling. “You are a man for whom I have the highest esteem. I have no need to ask you the reason for the fight, no! Between a man like Merlin and a man like you, my mind is already made up, you can have no doubt about it.” He lifted his hand and raised it. “I’ve known you for a long time, my friend. I’ve seen you at work. I know, by God, how much you’ve always given to the right side. And what’s more, dear friend, what’s more”—he tapped Nabucet’s shoulder three times to underscore the importance of what he was about to say—“it isn’t merely your witness I’d like to be but your second.”
And his hand didn’t move.
Nabucet had listened to this speech, his head lowered with perfect attention. As soon as Babinot was finished, he got up and, without a word, took both of his hands. The sly dog! He knew exactly what he was doing! He knew what he wanted to do to that Cripure!
“We understand one another, don’t we?” Nabucet said in a voice that was strangled with emotion.
Babinot squeezed his hand even harder. “For the sake of full disclosure, my friend,” he continued more slowly, “I found this afternoon so touching.”
It was Nabucet’s turn to close his eyes. He inclined his head a little to the side, as he was so expert at doing, and in the same voice full of emotion, he said, “I brought my modest contribution to a great thing. Something I believe in with my whole heart.” And he shook his head, opened his eyes, and sighed.
“You said the most important things in such a simple way,” Babinot insisted. “But the Romans are your mentors. You can feel it, it comes across. Your prose has the feeling of antiquity.”
“Horace, my friend. Horace is the best.”
“So—measured! It was so, so on point. I was truly moved.”
“Dear friend—”
They finally let go of each other’s hands and, not without embarrassment, sat back down in their chairs. With an already-familiar gesture, Babinot rearranged his bandage, while Nabucet hiked up his pants. He looked for his handkerchief to dry a little tear—
He wiped it slowly, hoping that Babinot would notice, but the old bore didn’t pay any mind, and Nabucet, putting his handkerchief in his pocket, found himself at the height of surprise, seeing Babinot suddenly scratch his head around the bandage, frowning with one whole side of his face, and crying “Ai, ai, ai! I wasn’t thinking! Or rather, I remembered, but . . . oh! Ai, ai!”
“What is it?”
“I have a conflict . . .”
“Ai!” said Nabucet in his turn.
“It’s just that, you understand, I don’t want to set tongues wagging and have it spread around . . . Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . this is so tricky!”
He made another face and stopped scratching, placing his hands on his knees. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s just that, really, when those two scoundrels assaulted me this afternoon . . .well . . .”
“Well?”
“What? You didn’t hear? But he was there! Cripure was the first one to come and help me. He picked up my hat, he took me to the pharmacist. Ah! My God what a confusion this is, what a pickle!” And Babinot got up, took a few steps around the room, his hands behind his back, and planted himself in front of Nabucet to ask, “Do you think that would get in the way?”
Nabucet took his head in his hands and thought deeply.
“You don’t think so?”
“Hold on, I’m thinking.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . my God, what a mess. What was he doing there anyway?”
“Wait! One moment!”
Babinot waited, continuing to pace around the room tut-tutting and exclaiming endlessly. He had stopped scratching his head and had moved on to his ear.
“No,” said Nabucet, finally uncovering his face, “it’s not a conflict.”
“You think so?” said Babinot. “They’re not going to spread it around in town that . . .”
“Not at all! Not in the least. And here’s why:”
Babinot was all ears.
“I haven’t yet told you the reason for the quarrel. But when you know it, my dear friend, all of your scruples will fly away like bits of straw, I promise you.” And he looked Babinot straight in the eye. “He was on the side of the riot, my friend.”
Babinot took a step back. And in the same way he’d so recently reacted to the announcement that there was going to be a duel, he raised his arms to the sky and cried, “What are you saying! For the riot!”
“Alas.”
“Him!”
“Come now,” Nabucet cried, “one would think you’d never met him! I can’t naysay certain qualities of his intelligence, one must be fair, but he’s always had a rebellious streak.”
He rubbed his hands while he spoke.
“Yes, yes,” said Babinot, who had started scratching himself again. “I see, I see. He attacks everything, he wants to destroy everything, he doesn’t believe in anything.”
“He is to be pitied.”
“Nonsense . . . to be pitied? This is no time for pity or leniency, my dear Nabucet. To be pitied,” said Babinot again, warming himself, “a revolutionary? Ah! Certainly not. It’s too much, that is,” he said, turning purple. “A rioter, and a professor too. One of ours! And I had forgiven him everything after his speech last year at prize day. Do you remember?”
“A normal speech.”
“He had us right in his palm.”
Nabucet spread his hands.
“We were looking from a bridge down on what was happening in the station. The chaos was almost over. Our colleague Merlin was resting, leaning on the parapet. My friend—I went over, greeted him simply, some little word about how we’d prevail despite all that trouble, and do you know, but do you know—”
His hatred in that moment made him hideous. But Babinot saw only noble indignation.
“Well, he slapped me!”
Babinot was strangled with shock, and once again his mouth hung open.
“Do you hear me?” said Nabucet, after a silence.
The other nodded his head.
“Do you have any more scruples?”
Babinot had no more scruples, but neither did he have a voice. He mumbled something.
“What was that?”
“Scruples! You’re joking, my dear Nabucet,” he finally managed. He found his voice again and said, “We had to be sure that, with him, we were dealing with a defeatist in hiding, and more dangerous because of it. Since the Dreyfus affair, my friend, haven’t we known that he hated the army? No time to lose! Name a second witness and let’s go! I’m with you, my friend, until the very end. And since it may be that you haven’t fenced in quite some time—I say, let’s go down to the cellar and take a few passes to brush off the rust. I have my foils. And don’t forget,” he said, caressing his goatee, “that I was a pretty scrappy swordsman in my day. Come on!”
AT MADAME de Villaplane’s, Kaminsky and his friends were having tea. In the dining room, a big fire was burning in the grate. Its brightness would have been enough to illuminate the room, but the maid had followed Kaminsky’s orders to the letter. Instead of the oil lamp that usually illuminated the sad pensioners’ meals, he had told her to put candles everywhere. As for the rest, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling suited his purpose perfectly. It was an old chandelier, which must once have belonged to Turnier’s father and held up its candles during grand gatherings. They had also put candles on the end tables, along the walls, on the mantelpiece. Splendid roses were scattered on the white table linen, among the cups, fruits, pastries, bottles. Around the table, the conversation was in full swing. Kaminsky had Simone at his right hand, more animated, happier than ever. Like she had just done at her father’s house, she placed her famous “book” on the table in front of he
r, and glanced at it from time to time, caressing it, touching, under the cover, the silky banknotes. She had a crazy desire to wave them under everyone’s noses, to tell them the whole story, bursting with laughter. But saying nothing was a more intense pleasure. Fat Bacchiochi was holding forth at the front of the room, scarfing pastries, and all the while surveying Marcelle, his mistress, just brought over from Kaminsky’s cottage in the prefect’s car, driven by Léo. She was smoking, her elbows on the table, two hands crossed under her chin. Next to Léo sat Francis Montfort, more disheveled, more uncombed, more bohemian than ever, not taking his eyes off Kaminsky. There was an empty seat left, as if they were still waiting for a guest. “Maybe a ghost,” Kaminsky said, laughing. And then he’d started telling stories.
“When I was little and someone scolded me, I took revenge.”
“Bravo!” said Simone.
The others laughed.
“Depending on the severity of the scolding, I stole a silver plate or a gold plate, or some piece of art—my father had a magnificent art collection—and I’d bury them in the garden.”
There was a silence.
“Strange,” said Marcelle. “And then you’d dig them up and sell them?”
“Not at all. I’d lost interest. They’re still there.”
“Was anyone ever accused in your place?” Francis asked.
“Yes. One time, they fired a maid. I also hurt my mother’s animals.”
“Cats?”
“No, go figure. My mother adored rabbits. But wait—my mother wasn’t a farmer. She tamed the rabbits. There were always a dozen little rabbits trotting around the house. She would comb them, perfume them, spend hours petting them. From time to time, I’d hang one.”
“How horrible!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t horrible. And even so, listen to this, I always loved animals—dogs and cats of course, but also grass snakes, for example. Except rabbits.”
“Kaminsky, my dear, you’re vile,” Simone cried. “I’m warning you that I won’t hear any more of your dirty stories.”
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