“But it strikes me,” the major continued, “that if it were a question of fighting for ideals in which you did believe, you’d agree to it. When the Russian revolutionaries took power in October, didn’t you cheer them on?”
“Yes.”
“And when the Tsar’s family were killed, did you appeal for fraternization?”
“It was the price that had to be paid to quash a reaction.”
“Ah, I see! The price that had to be paid . . . ”
Lantier stood up and turned toward the window, with his hands behind his back.
“Let’s drop the subject. We could spend a long time talking about it, I’m sure of that,” he said, then spun round around and stared at the prisoner as he added, “I just wanted things to be clear. We don’t have the same values, we don’t believe in the same ideas. But we’re both fighting men.”
“If you like. So?”
“So, in my opinion, what you did, the act for which I must judge you, was a mistake from the point of view of your particular fight.”
Morlac’s astonishment was clear to see.
“A mistake and a weakness, if I may say. There’s nothing coherent about your action in relation to the fight you’re fighting and which, should I need to remind you, is not the same as mine.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“You don’t understand. Well, let’s look back at the facts.”
Lantier sat down and opened the file on the desk.
“‘On July 14, 1919,’” he read, “‘at 08:30 hours, while the procession was gathering on Danton Avenue, one Jacques Morlac approached the VIP stand where representatives of constitutional bodies had already taken their seats to either side of Mr. Émile Legagneur, the regional prefect. The above named Morlac is a veteran from a farming family and is held in very high regard locally. In consideration of his injuries and the Légion d’honneur he was awarded in combat, the police officer on duty next to the stand saw no need to ask him to step aside.’”
Morlac shrugged, staring blankly into space.
“‘The above named Morlac walked right up to the prefect and stopped less than three paces from the VIP stand. The guests of honor then fell completely silent. The above named Morlac addressed the authorities in a loud voice and stated his identity.’”
Lantier looked up to check the prisoner was listening.
“‘Then, without using notes, he gave the following speech, which he had clearly premeditated and learned by heart: For his exemplary conduct on the Eastern Front, showing no hesitation in attacking a Bulgarian soldier although the latter was driven only by pacifist intentions, the soldier Wilhelm here present before you has earned his country’s highest recognition.’”
Morlac let slip a sad smile.
“‘The above named Morlac then took the medal and added: Soldier Wilhelm, in the name of the President of France, I do hereby grant you access to the order of ignominy which rewards blind violence, submission to leaders and the basest of instincts, and I appoint you as a Knight of the Légion d’honneur. He hung the decoration around the dog’s neck, performed a military salute and did an about-turn so that he was in line with the parade. The first of the troops were drawing level with the stand at this point. The above named Morlac marched at the head of the procession, just behind his absurdly decorated dog.’”
As if he’d heard his name, Wilhelm yapped twice feebly from the far end of the square.
“‘The crowd that had gathered on the esplanade suddenly became aware of this provocative act and exploded with laughter and jeering. The words “Down with war” were heard. There were bursts of applause. The events happened very quickly and the policeman on duty did not hear the above named Morlac’s speech; it was therefore not possible to bring a timely end to the public disgrace he had decided to inflict on the authorities. Squadron Sergeant-Major Gabarre was posted at some distance from the stand and witnessed the above mentioned Morlac and the dog with its red sash processing grotesquely at the head of the troops, and Gabarre proceeded to arrest him. This action, although legitimate, triggered demonstrations of hostility within the crowd. Stones were thrown at the Squadron Sergeant-Major and he sustained a light injury to the temple. The prefect ordered for the crowd to be dispersed, and had to ask the troops to intervene in the ceremonial uniforms they were wearing for the parade. The ceremony came to an end before this year’s solemn homage owed to the nation had been pronounced.’”
Lantier sat up and pushed aside the file.
“Do you want me to sign it?” Morlac asked with the same lax smile.
“Do you know what an action like that could cost you?”
“What does it matter. Have me shot, if you want.”
“We’re no longer at war and the law won’t be so expeditious. But deportation is the most likely sanction.”
“Well then, send me to the penal colony. I’m ready for it.”
“You’re ready for it and you seem to want it, I’ve seen that. I’ve known that from the start. You refuse every solution I’ve suggested to mitigate your actions and secure clemency. Let’s talk about that, then, shall we? Why do you want to be condemned? Do you really think that will serve your cause?”
“Anything that fills the people with disgust for war is good for the cause I defend, like you say. If so-called heroes refused the abject honors handed out by the men who organized the butchery, we’d stop celebrating what’s claimed to be a victory. The only victory worth having is the one we need to win against the war and against the capitalists who wanted it.”
The major stood up, came around to the front of his desk and went to sit in a chair facing Morlac. Their legs were almost touching.
“Just how convinced are you by what you say?”
Confronted with the officer’s smile, Morlac was unsettled.
“I believe it, that’s the long and the short of it.”
“Well, I say that you don’t. You’ve put together your argument and you’re standing by it. But you don’t believe in it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not sufficiently naïve to think your little flash in the pan will change the world.”
“It’s a start.”
“No, it’s an end. For you, at least. You’re going to disappear off to some distant colony to break stones, and you’ll never come back.”
“What difference does it make to you?”
“To me, none. But we’re talking about you. Your ‘cause’ will lose one of its defenders. You’ll have fired your only cartridge without touching anyone, and the cause in question won’t have moved forward an inch.”
“If you condemn me, the people will revolt.”
“Do you think so? You made people laugh, granted. But of all those who applauded you, how many would take up arms to defend you? If you hadn’t done anything, the same people would have cheered the parade. The people you put so much confidence in are tired of fighting, even against the war. Soon they’ll be walking past the monuments to the dead with complete indifference.”
“The revolution will come.”
“Let’s say you’re right and that it’s a necessary thing. How do you think the establishment is toppled? By decorating a dog in front of a prefect?”
There was no contempt in Lantier’s voice. Which made the insult all the more caustic.
“I believe in individual examples,” Morlac replied, but without conviction.
His cheeks were red, with shame, with fury, there was no telling. The major left a long pause. A horse’s footfalls could be heard on the cobblestones of the square, then everything fell silent.
“Let’s have a serious talk, shall we? Now, let me tell you why you committed this act and why you want to disappear.”
“I’m listening.”
“After your convalescence you were evacuated to Paris.
You lived there for a few months without working. Your pension was enough. Throughout this period there were many occasions when you could have established contact with activists. But you didn’t. If you were so preoccupied with a revolution, it would be fair to assume you would have grasped the opportunity of being in the capital to sign yourself up.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s simple. When I was appointed to investigate your case, headquarters sent me your file. Veterans from the Eastern Front are fairly closely monitored by the police. Your friendliness with Russian soldiers didn’t go unnoticed, would you believe. On your return, the intelligence services made sure you didn’t have any undesirable contacts.”
Morlac shrugged his shoulders but made no contradiction.
“You arrived here on June 15. You took up residence with a widow who hires out rooms. You proved very discreet. You didn’t even go to see your brother-in-law who’s taken over your family farm.”
“I don’t like him and the feeling’s mutual. He’s lazy and a thief.”
“I’m not passing judgment. Just stating a fact. On the other hand, you frequently went to see your son.”
This came as a bolt out of the blue and Morlac couldn’t disguise his surprise.
“You hid so that you could watch him. One day you tried to talk to him and you frightened him. You still came back, though, but now you were even more cautious.”
“So what? That’s not a crime.”
“Who said anything about a crime? Once again, I’m not passing judgment. I’m trying to understand.”
“What is there to understand? He’s my son, I want to see him, that’s all there is to it.”
“Of course. But why not see his mother?”
“We had a . . . misunderstanding.”
“Oh, well said! Now, you see, Morlac, you’re an intelligent man but I’m afraid that here, as with many other things, you’re lying to yourself.”
Lantier stood up and opened the window wide. There were no bars across it and, outside, Dujeux stepped forward to see what was going on. The major waved him away and leaned against the windowsill, looking out over the square. The dog, still in the same place, had sat up on his haunches.
“You’re very unfair to that poor animal,” the major said thoughtfully. “You resent him for his faithfulness. You say it’s a stupid, animal quality. But we all have it in us, starting with you.”
He turned toward Morlac and added, “In fact, you value this quality so highly that you’ve never forgiven Valentine for lacking in it. You’re the most faithful man I know. And the proof is that you haven’t forsaken the love you feel for her. It was for her that you came back here, wasn’t it?”
Morlac shrugged again. He was looking at his hands.
“I think the real difference between us and animals,” the major went on, “isn’t faithfulness. The more strictly human characteristic that they completely lack is a different emotion, and one that you have as it happens.”
“What’s that?”
“Pride.”
Lantier had hit the mark and Morlac might well have been a veteran who’d faced many ordeals, but his self-assurance was crumbling.
“You opted instead to punish her and punish yourself by staging this simulated rebellion under her nose, rather than talking to her and finding out the truth.”
“It wasn’t simulated.”
“Either way, it was tailor-made for her. It was her you were doing it for.”
Morlac attempted one last objection but Lantier had cut off his access to pride because of what he’d said, so the prisoner’s words were pronounced without the tone of voice that would have given them any menace.
“Good for her if she got the message.”
“Unfortunately, you didn’t hear her reply.”
The sound of children playing reached them, coming from a neighboring yard. The hot, still air seemed to carry only high sounds, like the chapel bell which rang every quarter of an hour.
“In any event,” Lantier concluded firmly, “I won’t be an accomplice to your provocation. As I am expected to punish you, I know what punishment I shall inflict upon you. And it is one which will most hurt your pride. You’re going to go and see her, and listen to her. Listen right to the end, and gauge how wrong you were. That will be your condemnation. But beware! I won’t accept any prevarication.”
“Do I have the option to refuse?”
“No.”
One by one Lantier did up the buttons on his vest that he’d left open during the interview. He picked up his jacket, which he’d draped over the back of the chair behind the desk, and put it on. He ran his hand through his hair to tidy it, and smoothed his narrow moustache. He stood up tall, resuming the bearing typical of an officer.
“This case is closed. I won’t hear any of your objections.”
But this assertiveness masked a coyness, a shyness connected to what he had decided to say before he left. He was no longer a military investigating officer but just another ordinary man when he added:
“And now, actually, well . . . I have a favor to ask you.”
CHAPTER X
The military investigating officer had gone straight back to his hotel because he knew Valentine was waiting for him there.
She was in the large lounge, sitting self-consciously under a vast painting depicting a stagecoach. She’d positioned herself near the right-hand corner, where the artist had put a country inn, as if she found the company of farmers’ wives on their doorsteps less intimidating than the fine women peering out of the coach. She jumped to her feet when she saw the officer.
“Well?” she asked, taking his hands.
“Go and see him straightaway. He’s expecting you.”
And, as he climbed the stairs without looking back so as not to witness the young woman’s emotion and perhaps also to hide his own, he added:
“He’s a free man.”
CHAPTER XI
The car threaded its way across the countryside. It was a military sedan with big chrome headlights and glossy black mudguards. The sun was warming the hood and Lantier had lowered the windscreen to get some air.
He drove through villages to the cries of children, and raised his hat to greet men working in the fields. Storms had raged the previous day and they had to be quick to harvest the last parcels of wheat. The smell of autumn was already in the air, and in places the woods were adopting their first hints of brown.
He’d wanted to travel in civilian clothes, to start getting used to this new life that was beginning. After Orléans he was impatient to reach Paris, and be reunited with his wife and children. How would they take the present he had for them? It was easier convincing himself they’d be happy just seeing him happy. Because, truth be told, it wasn’t a very handsome present. And Morlac hadn’t made any fuss about handing it over to him . . .
Every now and then Lantier turned toward the rear seat and glanced over to check: No, it really wasn’t a very handsome present. Or rather it was to himself that he was offering it.
He reached out his arm and felt the old jowls with his hand.
“Isn’t that right, Wilhelm?” he whooped.
And the dog seemed to be smiling, too.
A TRIBUTE
It was in 2011. A French weekly had sent me to Jordan to cover the Arab Spring. Unfortunately for me, this was the only country where absolutely nothing was happening. I had the photographer Benoît Gysembergh with me, and we spent our time sipping beers and telling each other stories.
Benoît was a very talented man with a lot of imagination. His life had allowed him to witness much of the century and to watch at close quarters many eminently book-worthy events.
And yet of all the adventures he described to me during those leisurely days, I’ve remembered only one. It was a very short, simple anecdote, but
I immediately sensed that it constituted one of those rare tiny crystals of life from which the edifice of a whole book can be built.
This story was about his grandfather. He returned a hero from the Great War and was decorated with the Légion d’honneur, but after having a few drinks one day he committed what was at the time an unprecedented act, a transgression which led to his an arrest and a trial. It is this episode that is recreated at the end of this book.
I never stopped thinking about Benoît as I wrote this book. His illness was diagnosed while I was writing. Sadly, he never read the book because sickness claimed him just as I was finishing it.
I only had time to tell him I would dedicate it to him.
These pages are for him, for his memory.
He was a dear friend and a great photographer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jean-Christophe Rufin is one of the founders of Doctors Without Borders and a former Ambassador of France in Senegal. He has written numerous bestsellers, including The Abyssinian, for which he won the Goncourt Prize for a debut novel in 1997. He also won the Goncourt Prize in 2001 for Brazil Red. He is the author of The Dream Maker (Europa Editions, 2013).
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