He must have thought that Cripure was already dead, since as soon as he saw him he took off his hat and sketched the sign of the cross, perhaps looking for the cross and the boxwood branch in holy water. Cripure’s groans had become so feeble that Père Yves hadn’t heard him.
Maïa stopped the coachman’s gesture.
“Are you deaf? Listen a little,” she said.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Something that needs a ride.”
“Ah?” said Père Yves.
What had happened in that house? It looked like they’d had a fight. There were things all over the floor; a chair knocked over, a slipper, papers, an apron, and even gold Louis!
“Why, what’s all this?” he said.
“Don’t worry about that. He’s got to get to the hospital and that’s all there is to it.”
“In my cab?”
“How else do you think?”
Père Yves measured Cripure with his eye. That big body would never fit in the cab. Sitting, yes. But stretched out?”
“That’s not going to work,” he said.
“What?” said Maïa. “It’s got to happen no matter how he does it.”
Basquin intervened: “Don’t fret—we’ve got to put a chair between the benches and pillows underneath him. We’ll walk alongside. We’ve only got to go a little ways.”
So it was done. Between the benches of the cab, Basquin, helped by Maïa, put two chairs facing each other with cushions and pillows piled on them. They put some under the awning too, so that Cripure’s head would rest easy, and when it was ready, Basquin called for strong men. Several presented themselves. He chose four.
Maïa stepped away to make space. The men came carrying Cripure, so heavy their knees were bending. Maïa read in their eyes a fear of dropping him and perhaps that misfortune would have befallen them if others hadn’t rushed to help the first ones as they approached the carriage and got ready to slide Cripure inside.
With six, lifting him took their full strength. Basquin got up on the running board and directed the maneuver. They brought it off, not without bumps. Cripure was still groaning.
The men panted, drying their hands by squeezing one in the other, and passing their fingers under their collars. Some task, wasn’t it! Maïa closed her door.
“Where’re we going?” said Père Yves.
“To the military hospital at the lycée.”
They started on their way.
Père Yves, his whip wrapped around his neck, walked in front, leading Pompon by his bridle. He looked out for bumps, and to avoid them, he took the cab on a thousand little detours. From time to time, he turned around to make sure that everything was in order, looking once again in front of him, gesturing widely with his hands as soon as he saw a car coming the other way.
Maïa was walking next to the cab, her head bare, with big strides, keeping watch over the blanket which was slipping and putting it back in place. On the other side, Basquin walked, tormented by his desire for a cigarette. But even so, he didn’t dare light one up just then. And he walked with his head down.
Behind them, a little flock followed.
IT WASN’T quite eight o’clock. An instant of freshness in the sky, barely delivered from nocturnal shadows, a minute of hesitation when the scale seemed to have no reason to tip one way instead of the other. It seemed that this new day that advanced, still wrapped in the last threads of dreams, would not and could not be anything but the fruit of human will. If the day dawned, it was because they consented. But, once again, perhaps they could desire the opposite. Each person appeared free to stick his or her finger in the mechanism, and looking at the faces of the people about in the streets, one would have thought each person was thinking only about this problem.
Throughout the night, the town had perhaps gently decided to give humans the gift of a general holiday. Or maybe they were the ones who, in the midst of their dreams of Cloppers, had thought of it, and who remembered it still, all the while smoking their first cigarette and hastening toward the office or the store, others toward the barracks—and from the barracks to death. It was like a secret they would all have in common, had any of them believed it, which seemed to carry them in that brief, cardinal instant, and gave even the most beaten-down of them something in their steps that resembled joy.
Shutters banged against walls, in front of stores the heavy iron gates rose, grinding at the end of poles. A car rolled by, a wheelbarrow—a bicycle’s bell rang out in an empty street as if it were under a dome. All those sounds weren’t very convincing yet—just appearances, a way to prolong suspense before the great happiness that was promised and due.
To the sky full of wisps of clouds the day before, and so recently full of night, the meadows and the earth gave back their brotherly reflection, of flowers, of waters, of silence. There was still in the west something like fat red carnations or roses, which the wind dragged toward the crevasses of snow.
•
This joyful chaos where all seemed to take flight, where nothing held its weight, where everything breathed in lightness for one more moment, suddenly came into sharp order: the mayor appeared. The wheel of the world found its rut, it could turn.
The mayor had barely walked a few paces in the street, with his bouncing step and fat stomach, which seemed ready to push everything out of the way; he had barely handed out two or three notices—and he was on his way to see Babinot, who was still sleeping—when other familiar characters came out, like jesters who were only waiting for the signal: Glâtre, bundled up, his eyes still swollen from sleep, un-washed, unshaved, dirty, late, with piles of IOUs still in his pockets. He was in a bad mood, as he always was the day after a “night with the ladies.” Watch out!
From afar, Moka followed him, sometimes walking sometimes running, seeming to hop along, puffing, “hou! hou!,” which the other one didn’t hear or pretended not to hear. Every twenty feet, Moka would pull up his garter, and go on feeling better.
Poor Moka! He looked like an exhumed corpse. What torments he had been through since he’d left Cripure! He was only on his feet by a miracle, and he looked more comical than ever in the astonishing costume he’d thrown on in haste over his tuxedo jacket, decidedly ruined and only fit for selling to the thrift shop. Going back to his place and asleep on his feet, he’d changed clothes as if he were dreaming, and the result was out of this world. On this winter day, he wore a boater hat that bounced on his pointy head, his long legs were lost in some kind of golf culottes, and over his thin shoulders he’d thrown an old jacket which was torn everywhere: such was his great fatigue and deep uneasiness. No tie. Barely a collar. It was that in getting dressed he’d been thinking about other things: running over to the church, kneeling before the altar, praying with his whole heart, with his whole mind, with his fists squeezed tight, for his dear professor. He’d gone there. But there, a new fact had come up: God had spoken to him, he was sure it was Him, and reminded Moka of that bizarre scene where Cripure had made such unjust and bloody threats against Faurel. With a leap, Moka had run out of the church, knocking over a chair on his way, totally out of breath, panting with the fear of being too late. How could he have forgotten?
Of course, in the moment Cripure had spoken of bringing Faurel down as the chief traitor, Moka hadn’t believed he would do it, and he’d even said so. And yet—it was night, it was trouble, he’d doubtless been wrong . . . Yes, it was quite possible he would do it! How could he have left Cripure all this free time to surprise Faurel in his sleep? He’d made straight for the deputy’s house, learning that Faurel had gone out just a moment ago, in his car, with Corbin.
Reassured, Moka had gone on his way toward the lycée, still running, still tugging his garter back up. And now Glâtre had appeared on the horizon and Moka was shouting “hou! hou!” but in vain.
The unhappy little hunchback was also outside. With her dog. Moka crossed her path, giving her a sign—why? She didn’t respond, passed by him singing:
Il n’a jamais jamais connu de loi . . .”
and disappeared down the street.
The gentlemen of the faculty climbed toward the lycée with their precious folders stuffed with declensions under their elbows and a little bit of their breakfasts lingering in their beards. The little old man wasn’t carrying his sword, but he was smiling all the same. The clockwork went without a hitch. No one was missing, not even the company of German prisoners going to work and stomping the pavement heavily, or the group of soldiers who had drilled their formations right by Cripure’s house. Everything was happening as it had the day before, and as it would happen the following day. In the square, in front of the lycée, the schoolboys had started a game of soccer, and the ball flew right, left, straight up in the air with big kicks and cries, while beside them a company of recruits turned out, turned about, and pivoted under the vociferous orders of a little sergeant. Right-left! Half turn: right! Company, halt! The morning air filled with all these cries, of the slap of boots in the mud, the whack of the ball falling into puddles, yells from one side or the other about whether it was a corner kick, and on the other if these sons of whores would ever learn how to march in a way that didn’t make them look like a bunch of scarecrows.
•
The most contradictory news was already flying around town. For some, the duel had actually taken place, but opinions were divided about the choice of arms. Some held out for pistols, but others had seen swords. There was one who claimed to have heard gunshots at dawn. They knew where the fight had taken place. Those who thought that Cripure and Nabucet had fought in a clearing in the woods were nothing but liars. The duel hadn’t happened in a wood, but by the sea, Cripure had wanted it that way. Only the knowledgeable would guess why he had demanded it. Goodness! He’d wanted to end his life in the very spot where Turnier had finished his own—at that cross stuck in the cliff to mark the place he’d thrown himself into the sea. And so, through the ages the two philosophers would be comrades in death as they had been in sorrow, if you removed the question of God. Since you couldn’t forget, of course, that Cripure was an atheist, a fierce enemy of men and of religion. Was, had been. The rumor, in fact, which Glâtre caught bits and pieces of as soon as he stepped out his door, proclaimed that Cripure had been fatally wounded in the duel. The theory of suicide in general had few adherents. It was easier to imagine the reasons for a duel than for a suicide, though after all, “for someone so off his rocker . . .”
The little flock had grown considerably en route. When it arrived at the square in front of the lycée, a long triangular column had formed behind the carriage where Cripure was laid out. Sympathizers, the simply curious, gawkers, hangers-on came at every moment to accost the crowd and jostle others aside, wanting to get close to the carriage to see Cripure’s agonized face. A sort of thick buzzing emanated from the crowd. Père Yves, with his ever-measured steps, led Pompon by the bridle. Maïa, red-faced and disheveled, her face running with tears, did her best to beat back those who were to eager to see someone else’s death, rediscovering all her fierceness, her genius for insults. Basquin lowered his head, like someone thinking hard. The crowd behind the carriage was so big that people feared a demonstration, and the police were hastily alerted, sending two black angels, two policemen on motorcycles, who led the cortege.
At the sight of this strange procession, the schoolboys stopped playing with their ball. A last kick lost itself in the middle of the crowd, bouncing against the carriage. Many of them froze in place upon learning that it was Cripure they were dragging like a corpse, and you could have asked those boys whose idea it was to loosen the bolts on the bikes. They ran away, seized with panic, hiding themselves in the school. Their joke had worked too well!
The little sergeant, more interested than annoyed by the invasion, commanded his men to be at ease as they parted, and still headed by the policemen, the cortege slowly came forward. The sky had turned somber. The pretty pink clouds were decidedly absent. Once again, everything covered itself over in gray, and suddenly, rising over the buzzing of the crowd and all the mixed noises of the town, the enormous voice of the cow rang out. The heavy bells, at the top of square towers, banged as if to break everything, ringing into the sullen sky. The cow must have smelled something, sniffed out somewhere the odor of death, and it saluted its prey. The cortege advanced like a parade, step by step, wrapped in the sound of bells, grave and dark as a punishment, to which was added, all of a sudden, that thin and hurried sound of the bell Noël was ringing. It was time! Time to go to class and recite. Monsieur Bourcier appeared before the gates of the lycée as he did every morning to hunt down the latecomers. But what was happening? What was this troupe, seemingly headed for the school? He went over, asking questions. “Merlin,” they replied. It was Monsieur Merlin, also called Cripure, who’d gone and shot himself. What! His philosophy professor! He stretched himself up on the tips of his toes, searching between the heads and the backs to see if it really was Merlin, so-called Cripure, whom they were driving in this strange manner. He saw just a little bit of the goatskin and there was no more room for doubt. And the whole town on the heels of a professor who’d killed himself! And in what condition! Flanked by that woman who only ever seemed like a fishmonger’s wife, thrown like a drunk into that old carriage, dilapidated and dirty, with wheels that screeched enough to make you tear out your teeth. And all this at the gates of the school, with the principal ill, very ill (the doctor, who’d come that morning, reserved his diagnosis). It was a moment of amazement for Monsieur Bourcier.
New events were happening at each moment, not by accident, but brought on by a daily fate, by the simple necessity of work and habit. A car arrived, pretending to take no notice of the crowd, making it open a passage. The horn rang out furiously, raising protests full of anger. Of course the car had to stop. Then they saw Faurel get out, followed immediately by Corbin. They wanted to part the crowd to approach the carriage. Faurel, very agitated, asked right and left: “Is it true? Is it my friend Merlin who’s killed himself?” But the explanations he received were contradictory. He was still trying to press forward, to stand on tiptoe to see better. Corbin didn’t say a word. And the carriage still went forward. Moka arrived at a run. He was already in tears. He didn’t even pay attention to Henriette, who was also there, with the poor dog who’d been placed in her care the day before. “My dear professor! My dear professor!” cried Moka, throwing himself into the crowd, his arms held before him. And as if by a miracle, the crowd opened for him. They saw him beside Maïa before long, standing on the step, dominating the spectacle with his tall and thin silhouette, and turning to the inside of the cab, his white face running with tears. “Ah! My dear professor! And I’m the one who didn’t believe you!”
The crowd was still growing larger. They saw Francis Montfort arrive, his hair blowing in the wind, then Kaminsky, Simone, and Léo, getting out of the car that would have taken them to the station. Simone, in traveling clothes, was still holding her precious “book” under her arm. Kaminsky, with a curious smile on his face, turned toward the cab where Cripure was lying. Was it true he had killed himself, that he’d “given up the world,” like Villaplane had the day before? But they weren’t yet saying he was dead. And the carriage continued its slow progress toward the lycée, the low, thin jingle of harness bells sometimes rising over the murmur of the crowd. At that moment, the square was dark with people, and still more were coming. But suddenly—not men, but dogs were running over. The four little beasts Maïa had forgotten in the garden had found a way to escape, and the crowd saw them hurrying, tails between their legs, Mireille at the front, followed by Petit-Crû and Turlupin. Fat Judas followed as best he could, rolling and tripping in the gutter and courageously going on his way. “His little dogs! Here come his little dogs!” The cry spread through the crowd, which the little dogs entered with fury. People got out of the way as best they could, fearing their bites, taken with a v
ague superstitious terror. Did the arrival of the little dogs mean that everything was finished? There was a moment of panic and pushing, then they saw pretty Mireille jumping and groaning around the carriage, soon followed by the others. Moka got down, grabbed Mireille by the collar, put her up next to Cripure. She stretched out next to her master and groaned softly. There were only a hundred feet left to cross before they reached the lycée when the carriage sharply halted. Moka made signs to Bacchiochi, who was coming closer. “Let him through! Let the doctor through!” cried Moka. The crowd opened, and on the other side of the carriage, from the other step, rose the fat silhouette of Bacchiochi. He bent down and stayed there for a moment. Then he straightened up, taking off his cap. The deepest silence followed. One by one, hats were removed from heads. Women crossed themselves. At the order of the little sergeant, the soldiers saluted. Maïa’s sobs rang out in the silence, mixed with the whimpers of the little dogs. Moka cried too, and prayed. Faurel, who’d succeeded in getting closer, thought of his conversation with Lucien the day before and glanced around for him. But it had already been more than an hour since the ship weighed anchor.
TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WHILE I was working on the translation, I was extremely grateful for the chance to visit Saint-Brieuc to meet scholars and artists who maintain Louis Guilloux’s legacy in his hometown. Thank you Roland Fichet, Annie Lucas, Yannick Pelletier, and Yann Le Guiet for sharing your research and your impressions of the text and its setting with me. I’m also grateful to Arnaud Flici for his expert help with Louis Guilloux’s archives at the Saint-Brieuc municipal library.
Thank you to my friends and fellow translators who offered suggestions on all or part of this translation along the way, especially Paol Keineg, David Wingrave, Elisa Gonzalez, Liz Wood, Chantal Clarke, Toby Lloyd, Susan Bernofsky, and her workshop at the Bread Loaf Translators’ Conference. And finally, thank you to Alice Kaplan, whose generosity, mentorship, and excellent edits have been an enormous help throughout this project.
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