"Something more like yours," and he took the day's edition of the City paper from his pocket. "Another paper, but our own which, like yours, would help maintain the excellent climate that exists between us, and which in large part we owe to you, Mr. Commissioner."
Baudruche tried to protest but the delegate wouldn't allow it.
"Obviously, we will need money. I was just discussing this with your journalist, Mr. Canard, who understands the problem of underdeveloped nations better than anyone. He is going to write an article on the subject and is certain that the Prefect won't be deaf to our appeals. Besides, it's in the City's interest, since the paper will serve your point of view as well as our own."
Baudruche was seething. Would he never be able to do anything? Would the newspaper, the Prefecture and the Prefect always stand in his way? It would go on this way until the people came to their senses and rose up in arms, until Baudruche no longer felt he had to keep taking it and would finally—no, he mustn't think of that—until the day when the Prefect's eyes were opened. . . .
Suddenly there was a roaring in the distance, punctuated by explosions, screams and the sound of running feet. Baudruche rushed to the door and pushed aside a group of rats who were standing on the sill and laughing uproariously. He looked out. Smoke was billowing from the direction of the Factory.
He raced down the steps. Voices were screaming "Fire!" "Fire!" and groups of workers were fleeing in disorder. He ran faster. Flames were leaping from the windows of the Factory's main building. The whine of a siren announced the arrival of the first fire engines. He followed them into the Factory courtyard and toward the flaming workshop.
Near the door, Leponte was standing with a group of engineers, his arms stretched to the sky.
"What's this, Mr. Leponte? Arson?"
"No, Mr. Commissioner, just a small technical incident. But we should move away. The building could explode."
Baudruche made Leponte stay until the firemen had the fire under control. Then they went to the Director's office.
"Your 'small technical incident' looked pretty serious to me. What happened?"
"We were starting tests on the machine with the latest improvements when it .began to heat up to a degree none of us—not even I, Mr. Commissioner—could have foreseen. The lubricating oil caught fire, the flames reached the walls and you know the rest. It's a catastrophe."
"Let's not exaggerate, Mr. Leponte. The fire is out, the City has not gone up in flames. Or at least not yet."
"But it has nothing to do with the City, Mr. Commissioner. It's our productivity!"
Leponte got up and went over to the enormous graph covering one entire wall of the office. He shook his head sadly. Then he returned to his desk, dropped into his chair and buried his head in his hands.
"It's Waterloo!"
"Well then, Mr. Leponte, I think there's nothing left for you but to resign and hand over your job to someone more competent."
Leponte sat bolt upright.
"Resign? Never, Mr. Commissioner. I'll put the situation to rights. The productivity curve will rise again. Reassure the Prefect, I beg you. Tell him that it was just a small technical incident totally beyond my control. It was all the fault of the lubricating oil."
While Baudruche was heading back to his office to write his daily report, the last refugee was going to the ramparts for his evening chat with the man below.
The soldier raised his head.
"What's new in the City?"
"What drama! They killed a rat."
"So they're finally getting around to it."
"No, it's a 'she' who did it. A girl."
"She had guts."
"Right. I'm beginning to wonder if the women don't have more guts than the men in here."
"But what's the drama?"
"They're afraid the rats may find out about it."
"Maybe that'll make the rats think twice."
"Yes, but they don't want them to get angry."
"That's a lot of crap!"
"What are you doing, soldier?"
"I'm looking for lice, and I'm going to kill them, not make friends with them."
"Where did you get them?"
"Here, last night. It wasn't their fault, but they were a crummy lot."
"Who were?"
"The soldiers who passed by here last night. It was raining buckets, see, and they were soaked and muddy. I ate with them and one of them asked me:
" 'D'you think they'll hold out?'
" 'Who?'
" 'Those guys,' he said, pointing to the City.
" 'I don't think so,' I told him.
"They all started to laugh. I said: "
"'I'm not kidding. It's very serious.'
"Somebody blew a whistle, they went off to get their guns, then started marching again, still bitching about the mud. At the same time, they started to sing, if you could call it singing."
"What did they sing? The 'Marseillaise'?"
"No. 'Madelon.' "
"It's the same thing. What happened then?"
"They marched straight ahead, but I think they got sucked up in the mud."
"They didn't leave you anything?"
"No they could see I had everything I needed."
"You don't really need anything?"
"Now that you mention it, yes. I'd like some paper."
"Paper? What for?"
"Guess."
"Here, catch."
"What's this? There's printing on it."
"It's the prospectus for their machine."
"Come, come, let's get on with it, Miss Bourrot. Are you dreaming or what? Continue.
"Having completed the manufacture of both the new part and the old one which was prematurely scrapped, it was decided to subject these parts to tests. Due to an excess of speed, the machine became superheated which caused it to catch fire.
"As a result of this incident which, according to Mr. Leponte, was 'entirely unforseen in that it failed to conform to production norms,' the Director has decided to scrap the recently manufactured new part and return to the original part which means that the earlier model can still be presented to our clientele as an improved model with only the slightest change in the prospectus.
"Obviously, we must waste no time in recycling the young engineer responsible for the most recent modification. His overlong tenure at the Factory is sufficient explanation of his inability to adapt to new techniques.
"The weather report indicates no change.
"The sentry heard the sound of many footsteps at the base of the walls, some singing. They saw nothing.
"That is all, Miss Bourrot. When you finish it, you can go. Oh, tell Miss Niquel I want her to come up. I have something I want to dictate to her. She can do it faster than you."
Little Miss Niquel went to work with dispatch, just as she had on the floor below. And she was very knowledgeable about the City.
She made so bold as to say that there was a lot of talk about the Commissioner's great generosity to someone named Elisa Poulet.
Good God, how stupid of him! Of course everybody thought Elisa was his mistress! Had he been so preoccupied with the City's affairs that it had never occurred to him? He looked straight at Miss Niquel:
"So?"
She didn't know what to say and looked at him unhappily. Hadn't he gotten the point? It was the normal thing. . . . He opened his drawer, counted out a few bills, hesitated a moment, then took out the whole lot.
"Here, you go out and buy yourself some clothes too."
She flung her arms around his neck.
"Thank you, my Commissioner. You're much more generous than Leponte!"
Nothing could have caused him greater pleasure.
Elisa was careful not to go downstairs for dinner until she knew her neighbor was there. Then she took a table in an opposite corner of the room. He had told her at lunch that he had no money of his own. What did she want with a man without money?
As soon as he had finished his meal, the m
an left. It was ten o'clock. He seldom came home before midnight. She stood up. There was no one in the lobby. She took the key to number 23 and crept up the stairs like a thief. The hall was deserted. She went up to room 23, her heart thumping in her breast. With any luck, there must be something in that room worth money to the Commissioner; she needed it so badly.
The door opened without a sound. She walked in. There was a little light from the lamp on the bedside table. Someone was asleep in the bed. It was Posey! Elisa closed the door carefully and ran down the stairs. Still no one in the lobby. She hung the key to 23 on its hook and took her own.
Back in her room, she fell on her bed, buried her head in the pillow and punched it with her fists. All men were pigs, all of them, all of them! That's all they ever thought about.
10
"I S N'T I T C H I L L Y this morning, Labrique?"
"Not surprising. The warm days are over. There's not a soul on the ramparts. They've gone, just like the ants—thanks to me."
"I know, I know. You act as if it were some great exploit. It didn't cost you much, you know."
"It cost me a great deal. You'd be amazed how expensive jam is. I wish the Prefect would hurry up and pay me back. And while we're on that subject, I just had a letter from the Prefecture. They telephoned yesterday and asked how I was getting on with the Rathouse project. I told them I. hadn't thought it through yet. So they wrote giving me an extension. A very nice letter. They must really need me! They said that the building would redound to my glory, that it would always bear my name. . . . Do I give a shit? Fortunately, I have no children, but in another twenty years, there may still be a few decent people around who'll look at the damn thing and say: 'So that bastard Labrique built it for them.' No thanks. I'd rather resign."
Baudruche thought for a moment.
"It's quite possible they'll ask you to do that very thing, then offer the job to somebody else. The results will be the same."
"Maybe so. But at least they won't be able to attach my name to it."
Baudruche felt as if he'd been kicked in the groin. Labrique's name wouldn't be attached to anything connected with the City's enemies, but what about his name? Not to a building but to something far worse: the most cowardly policies the City had ever practiced—policies of abdication and surrender. If later on, when nothing remained of the City, another Montesquieu came along to write of its granduer and decadence, who would figure in it? Baudruche. And what would they say about him? That he'd been a son-of-a-bitch. Oh, they'd use nobler, more refined words; in elegant language, a son-of-a-bitch is a traitor.
"I see no solution," he said firmly, his back to the parapet.
"To the Rathouse? No, I don't either," Labrique replied.
"No, I mean for me."
"Are you by any chance beginning to reflect, Baudruche? It's none too soon, you know."
Baudruche turned his back and was silent. He looked at the soldier sitting motionless as always, his eyes on the horizon. Not everybody had the luck to be a soldier. Those men did their job without asking questions, just so long as nobody asked them to step out of their role. They didn't have to keep asking themselves if they shouldn't have done this instead of that. . . .
He was soon back at his office, hat brim turned down and ready for battle. Miss Bourrot had better watch it; he was in no mood for her.
"Mr. Commissioner . . ."
"What do you want?"
Miss Bourrot had something for him: a note from the Prefect. Baudruche opened the envelope. It was as he feared: a retreat on all fronts. The rats were to have their newspaper . . . a remarkable idea. . . . An ideal outlet for the City's propaganda. The Prefect's own ideas disseminated among their ex-enemies through their own efforts! Baudruche was to drop by the chief delegate's, or have him come to his office to make the final arrangements—always keeping in mind the City’s interests, of course, but with no haggling over details.
Another dirty job. Why didn't the Prefect do it himself? No, he would let the rats walk all over him. They were that clever, the scum! Baudruche would try to keep the damage to a minimum; it was all he could do. He was about to pick up his coat and leave. Then he decided it would be better to face the rat after lunch. Eating helped him to think.
"Elisa is stopping by after lunch," Martha said.
"Has she anything important to report?"
"I don't think so."
"Then what does she want?"
Martha would have liked to know too. She was beginning to think that her husband had been showing undue interest in Elisa. Besides, this story of the man who needed watching was pretty suspect. Weren't there professionally trained people for that? Why did Robert have to take a woman away from her own home? And why this one? He'd known her twelve years, and for twelve years he'd treated her as if she were a fool. Now suddenly . . . It must be a case of September love.
The Commissioner left soon after Elisa arrived—but not before Martha could see how uncomfortable Elisa seemed in her husband's presence.
As soon as the two women were alone, Martha started to talk about her husband: how nervous and upset he seemed. . . . Then, surprisingly, she asked Elisa what she thought of the Commissioner.
"Martha, you know that I never see him except on your account, because he's your husband."
Martha couldn't think of what to say. Elisa advised Martha to stop worrying about her husband.
"But it's normal that I should worry about Robert, Elisa. Don't you ever worry about Emil?"
Elisa shrugged and her mouth turned down.
Martha persisted. "Are things not going well between you and Emil, Elisa?"
Elisa examined her fingers.
"It's nothing, really. We just don't get along anymore."
"What about Sophie? What will become of her? Do you still see her?"
Elisa looked at her lacquered nails.
"I don't really have the time, with all I'm doing for the Commissioner." She laughed dryly. "She probably spends all her time arguing with her father."
Martha hesitated for a moment then made a suggestion: Why didn't Elisa let her look after Sophie while she was involved in this investigation? Martha could make her feel at home; she had all the time in the world. And the Commissioner adored children, even if he wouldn't admit it.
Elisa reexamined her fingernails. Well, why not? If it didn't put them out too much. So far as she was concerned, she had nothing against it.
There was nothing more to say. Martha saw Elisa to the door, trying to appear as friendly as before.
Elisa thought as she walked, but reflection made her suffer. Something had irritated her during the visit.
Why did Martha have all the things she lacked? Elisa was certainly no stupider; she was prettier and probably ten years younger. Martha must be forty at least. But if Martha wanted her daughter, let her have her. What did it matter where she was. . . .
Posey was smiling as she walked back from the ramparts with her empty basket. The man in 23 was right: it had been great fun and the soldier was comical. He reminded her of the ones who sometimes passed through her village when she was small. Whenever a troup stopped in her parents' village, her father or mother sent her off with a basket of food and wine. They were impressed with soldiers in those days. The soldiers often accompanied her and her basket home so that they could thank her parents. Sometimes they even carried her on their shoulders. That made her very proud.
She was sad when the soldiers left. Especially one tall one with curly black hair. When would a new lot come? Her parents didn't know. "The soldiers will come back if you're a good girl. . . ."
Well, she hadn't been that for a long time. And only one of them had returned. The man in 23 told her about him one morning when she was barely awake and crawling out of his bed to go to work. She'd been eager to see the soldier. And her lover was pleased that she still remembered soldiers. So, he sent her to the ramparts with two sets of orders and a full basket.
She sat down in a turret, he
r basket next to her, legs dangling over the side. She made crumbs of the bread and threw them in the air, calling out, "Here, birdies, here birdies. . . ."
It didn't take them long. A big flock came winging over from one of the nearer villages and swooped down to pick up the crumbs as they fell into the moat.
The soldier got up and walked to below where she was sitting. He said:
"What are you doing up there?"
"I'm feeding bread to the birds. It's so the rats won't get it. "
"Funny. My grandmother used to say 'It's so the Prussians won't get it.' "
"It's the same thing. Only, there are more rats."
"Who told you that?"
"The man who sent me here."
"To feed the birds?"
"And soldiers. Here; catch!"
Posey took a long rope from her basket, tied it to the handle and slowly lowered it into the soldier's outstretched hands.
"What's left is for you."
"It's high time. I was beginning to get hungry. All I have to eat is what I pick up from the people who pass by here at night."
"I guess that isn't much. Well, do you have any messages for the man who sent me?"
"Tell him, thanks. Though he's only doing what he's supposed to. It's up to civilians to feed soldiers."
Posey leaned out as far as she dared and motioned the soldier to come closer. She cupped her hands over her mouth and asked with some embarrassment:
"Listen: you haven't seen a tall dark soldier with curly hair—very good looking? I'd like to know where he is."
"He's gone for good. I'm the only soldier left."
Posey cried as she walked down the rampart stairs, but the main street was long and she was laughing by the time she reached the Hotel.
Baudruche was not laughing. He was at the ex-Social Progress, trying to win an argument with the delegate—who was now "Mr. President."
"I was elected yesterday by popular vote, Mr. Commissioner—with ninety-six point eight percent of the votes cast. Naturally, I'd like to have been elected unanimously, but we have an opposition too, as do all real republics. Those votes belonged to the small party of extremists I told you about earlier, the same ones who publish that infamous newspaper you had the misfortune to find on the sidewalk. There are black sheep in every group, Mr. Commissioner. . . ."
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