Baudruche heard enough to know that, once again, the inhabitants had let him down. What in God's name was it going to take to open their eyes!
Miss Bourrot had not arrived yet; it was still too early. Baudruche went through the mail and saw that there was a long letter from the Prefect. You had to say that for him: he was a worker! Why didn't he ever take some time off?
Baudruche opened the letter: the same tone, the same bilge. More than ever, the Commissioner was showered with praise and covered with flowers, but as always with a few thorns hidden among the roses. The Prefect was sorry that Baudruche had not exercised better control over his men since, unfortunately, it appeared that they were in part responsible for the evening's incidents—starting with provocations, then brutality and ending in murder. Little wonder if the rats had resorted to a few excesses. The Prefect counted on Baudruche to make amends when he made his daily visit to the President, in the interests of both their people. However, he counseled against disciplinary action for fear it might throw too much light on their role.
On the other hand, he asked Baudruche's help in the urgent task of quelling the population's animosity toward their neighbors, which threatened to undo all his efforts toward mutual understanding. He had already instructed the newspaper to that effect.
The first order of business was to compensate last night's victims, especially those shopkeepers who had been looted. The Prefect suggested they be granted a tax reduction of 11 percent for the year. Later, an approximate evaluation of the damage should be made in case their neighbors' government saw fit to assume some of the responsibility at some future date. These measures would of necessity force an immediate tax increase on the machine.
Baudruche went to Leponte's office.
"I have come to requisition all the workers in the Factory. They are needed to clean the streets. It's imperative."
"They won't do it, Mr. Commissioner. You are forgetting union rules."
"I'll take care of that."
"But what will we do? This is our busiest season."
"Close the Factory."
Impossible! The Commissioner had obviously gone mad. Leponte tried to argue, but to no avail. Baudruche simply looked at his watch and said, "We are in a hurry, Mr. Leponte, we are in a hurry."
Sick at heart, Leponte set off the siren; all the workers spilled out of the shops and into the courtyard. Baudruche opened the window and, leaning out, explained at length what he had said briefly to Leponte. The men were silent and motionless, except for shaking their heads in refusal. Finally, one man stepped forward and looked up at Baudruche. He was the union representative at the Factory. He was very sorry but it couldn't be done. They hadn't spent all these years fighting for their rights—one of which was to work only at their specialty—to give them up now, just like that, because a little dirty water had fallen out of the sky. . . .
"I'm coming down," Baudruche said.
For fifteen minutes, he pleaded and argued. He understood the union representative's position, but this was an emergency. The City was paralyzed. The Sanitation Department was overwhelmed. Every able-bodied man was needed to help. The man shook his head: he still wasn't convinced. It set a dangerous precedent; who would guarantee that the requisition would end when the work was done?
"I will," Baudruche said.
He reminded the man that the Baudruches' carpentry shop had always played fair with the unions. Why, his grandfather had helped set up the first union shop and had always discussed everything with the shop stewards. They had thrashed things out, face to face, man to man, as Robert Baudruche was doing now.
"All right," the shop steward said at last, and shook hands with Baudruche.
The workers filed out of the Factory as Leponte watched mesmerized from the window. Everything was awry: the Commissioner was beyond his depth and it foreshadowed the most serious consequences. Mechanics, fitters, specialists and even foremen were reduced to degrading work I Demoralized, Leponte returned to his desk, trying not to look at the productivity chart which seemed to point an accusing finger at him.
Baudruche was waiting on a bench in the square in front of the Prefecture. He wanted to be on hand to direct the first efforts, here, in the very heart of the City. He dug the tip of his cane into the mud. It had begun to harden. They must work quickly or the job would become increasingly difficult.
His eyes roamed around the square. The Prefecture and the neighboring buildings were all the same dirty gray. It would take giants to clean them. Better to wait for rain—that is, if it ever rained again. A newsboy walked past and Baudruche called out to him. The evening edition was just out. He bought one and opened it.
The front page was what he expected: a shameful collection of adulterated, mutilated news. Nothing had happened the previous night but a few minor incidents of no importance. Furious, he turned to the next page. There was a long article by Canard about the occupation of the buildings. It appeared that he had solved the problem—or so the heading read. Baudruche sighed. Canard had studied the problem closely, particularly in the area around the Factory where it existed in its most critical form. The rats were being patient; the concessions by the inhabitants had been infinitesimal—a few private individuals had given up a few wretched accommodations in the City's poorest section. One could hardly be surprised if, victimized by the police, the rats lost patience and had taken the little they needed to survive from the inhabitants' greedy hands. "They must find room," Canard stated; "they cannot wait for concessions which inevitaby will come too late."
It was all perfectly clear to Canard: the City's inhabitants should give up certain sections in the southern part of the City which the rats would take over. Those ejected would relocate where they could—in the northern area.
The first workers arrived with their shovels and wheelbarrows. The pavement began to emerge. Baudruche could leave now. He returned to his office, but Miss Bourrot barely allowed him time to take off his coat.
"Mr. Commissioner, Inspector Bicard is waiting to see you. He has something very important to tell you."
Bicard came in, overcome with emotion.
"Mr. Commissioner, I have news for you this time. And what news! The stranger . . . the lone man . . . the last refugee . . . I know what he's up to."
"What have you found out?"
"I was supervising the mud detail by the Public Gardens when I happened to look through the fence and saw our man blowing into a small tube. He was surrounded by a crowd of children who were listening to him, although I couldn't hear anything."
"What the hell do I care?"
"But you told me, the other day
"The other day was the other day; today is today, and you have better things to do than look through the Public Gardens fence. Get back on the job and don't waste your time on any more crap like this or you'll go to a nice job at the Factory."
"But won't we do anything about this man?"
"What do you want us to do?"
"I don't really know. To begin with, do we allow blowing in a tube?"
Bicard left, deflated. "Miss Bourrot, tell Mr. Newman, the Editor-in-Chief, to come over here right away and then look up Canard's address in the telephone book."
"It's Twenty-two Chestnut Street."
"That's in the north, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner."
Mr. Newman arrived looking contrite, the paper folded in his hand.
"Mr. Commissioner, it's my mistake and I take full responsibility. I never thought Canard would be so irresponsible. But what can I do? I haven't the time to read each and every article before the paper goes to press."
Baudruche was surprised at Newman's attitude: he seemed honestly upset. Was it possible he still had a trace of conscience and common sense? That he realized how treasonous Canard's idea was? Evacuate the southern section to their hereditary enemy, indeed!
"Mr. Newman, you will start by firing Canard, I hope."
"I shall see that it's done right away."
" . . . and see to it also that an article is printed in the same place on the same page, stating that the opinions in the preceding article represented only those of the author and in no way those of the publisher."
"It's already done, Mr. Commissioner. Here it is; I've brought you a copy."
Newman gave Baudruche a scrap of paper. It concerned a regrettable paragraph on page 7. Baudruche picked up the newspaper again, scanned page 7 and found the key to the mystery. It was discreetly hidden under the heading: "Just passing along what I heard . . ." a grab bag of City gossip. It read:
"People are saying that the reason for sending Emil Poulet to our neighbors is not so strange when you consider that he is the husband of the beautiful Elisa—in whom one of the City's top men has been showing considerable interest. Husbands can be an embarrassment . . . and there are protectors with long arms . . ."
So that was it. Now it was clear. If he hadn't written this slanderous paragraph, Canard would have escaped his richly deserved punishment. Baudruche looked up:
"Good. I'm counting on you, Mr. Newman. I'm terribly sorry about this but you must admit it's necessary."
"I agree with you, Mr. Commissioner. Besides, it's an absolute rule: the newspaper must never attack members of the government. Still, it's sad to have to give up such an intelligent colleague. Did you read his article on page two this morning? Inspired solution, don't you think? So simple, yet somebody had to think of it. . . ."
"Where do you live, Mr. Newman?"
"On Prince's Road, Mr. Commissioner."
"That's in the north, isn't it?"
Miss Bourrot rushed into the office.
"Mr. Commissioner, they want you in Prefect Square right away. There's been a new incident with the rats."
Baudruche found himself among a crowd of idle workmen in the middle of the square. Their wheelbarrows were full, but they weren't dumping them.
"What's going on here?"
"What's going on is that they don't like it down there in the sewer. Getting all this muck . . . they plain don't like it."
"It's none of your business what they like. Get back to work."
The workmen shook their heads.
"No, we can't. They're prolos just like us. We don't do nothing against our class."
Baudruche tried to explain the importance of the previous day's events. Timid but stubborn, they answered that there was no proof that the rats had been guilty of the incident. It was useless to go on: Baudruche was talking into the wind. Yet the mud had to be cleared away and there was no time to lose. It couldn't be piled anywhere in the City, nor could it be thrown out beyond the walls because nobody dared go out. There was only one solution if they were going to be so stupid. They would have to throw mud from the top of the ramparts into the moat. Baudruche explained it to the men. Many were reluctant to take on such heavy work, but in the end, class solidarity carried the day.
Baudruche's men arrived from every direction to tell him that the same situation was developing everywhere. He told them about his new plan and ordered them to commandeer all the government trucks in the City. They must be loaded, then driven to the base of the walls where a pulley would lift the mud to the top of the walls and dump it into the moat. It was very simple. It was also sad: this sinister, nauseating muck was going to fill the moat where flowers and wild grasses still grew.
"Why not go out anyway?" Elisa asked herself as she looked at the street scene through the restaurant windows. The danger was well past and the City seemed to have come back to life. It might be fun to see the streets after what they'd been through. She asked her lover to go with her, but he refused.
So she went by herself. It was amusing, seeing all those men working around her. And weren't they efficient! Well, not always. A workman dropped the contents of his shovel on the sidewalk and spattered Elisa's shoes.
"Can't you be more careful?"
Everybody knows there's nothing more difficult than getting spots off suede.
My, but Prefect Avenue was sad! Everywhere, shattered glass, stores in a mess, broken furniture, empty shop windows. Really, if the rats did all that, it wasn't very nice. Why didn't the Commissioner put a stop to it? After all, that's what he was there for. She would have told him so except that it would make him so irritable. And she needed him . . . .
She stopped in front of Linon Taffeta's. It was unbelievable! The door had been bashed in. But when she saw the long table covered with piles of clothes on sale she couldn't resist. She fingered, rummaged, rumpled, selected. Things were marked 25, 30, 40 percent off! She filled eleven boxes. A trip to the cleaners and everything would be like new. It was just around the corner. She had three salesgirls help her carry.
What a disappointment! Miss Carbone had been overwhelmed with work since early morning. Naturally, she wasn't going to say no to Mrs. Poulet, but it would take six months, maybe even longer. In addition, she couldn't guarantee the results. They knew nothing about this mud, nor if it could be cleaned.
Elisa went back to Taffeta's. No: sale garments were not returnable, not even in her case. She had the lot carried to the Hotel where she opened the boxes and carefully examined each garment. It was horrible! Linon Taffeta should have warned her. Having nothing else to do, she cried.
The rats had reemerged from their holes. They entered into conversations with passersby, at first shyly, then when they saw they were well received, with more openness. It was sad, what had happened the night before. Why pick on them when they hadn't said boo to a soul? Everybody agreed: it was all the fault of Baudruche's men. Not Baudruche's fault, of course. But his men were just a bunch of swine, in the pay of the reactionaries who were supposed to have long since gone but were all the more dangerous for being secret and underhanded.
The City felt a surge of happiness. They had feared that the rats would be angry. But not at all! It was such good news that everyone drank to it in the bistros, toasting the Prefect's health, the President's health, Baudruche's health, and to understanding between peoples. And the rats gave advice to the poor men forced to do the work of a chain gang, to remove all that sticky mud that didn't really bother anybody.
The rats' flea market had spread to several more streets and was jammed. Self-interest and snob appeal, both, had drawn the crowds. It was the smart thing to do—to make your purchases from the flea market. Today the inhabitants were there out of necessity. Some had to replace broken furniture, others, stolen articles, or clothes that had simply disappeared. Some had only the clothes on their backs. So they came, still mud-splattered, looking through baskets, through piles on the tables and even on the sidewalks, hoping to find something fit to wear. There was certainly no lack of choice . . . .
The rats granted massive reductions in prices, even over those marked on the merchandise: 50 to 80 percent. The label might be that of a well-known store, but at such prices, who cared? The flea market was much more interesting than the shops on Prefect Avenue, and much better stocked. No question about it, the rats knew a thing or two. On the bargain tables, things were even cheaper. Not that they were giving them away . . . how could they, those poor people? But they gave such reductions it was embarrassing. Dresses, coats, underwear, furs, shoes, often from the best houses, could be had for almost nothing.
From time to time, an inhabitant recognized a jacket or bedspread that had disappeared from his own looted apartment. But how can you tell one jacket from another jacket, or one bedspread from another bedspread? That's what the new owner said to the man who dared confront him. A few insults were exchanged, but it never went further than that. A band of rats always turned up in time to separate the adversaries. What was the point of fighting over a jacket when there were so many others so much handsomer and for practically nothing? So, the inhabitant went his way, mollified.
It was like a big village fair. With a little money and a scrap of know-how, you could make a fortune in two hours: pictures, rare books, watches and jewelry were scattered all over the sid
ewalk or offered from hand to hand at ridiculous prices. You always left richer than you came. Couldn't you really hug those rats? They weren't nearly as bad as people said. And it was whispered that the rats were very accommodating when a woman didn't have enough money for a dress. All she had to do was go with the seller to a neighboring house to try it on. . . .
Baudruche launched his attack, knowing his cause to be hopeless. The President didn't try to deny everything (after all, they were both reasonable men . . . he wasn't afraid to admit what was true). He admitted that there had been some looting and vandalism (they weren't all saints, any more than the City’s inhabitants), but they weren't the only ones guilty; the inhabitants themselves also had trouble making elements who had indulged themselves a little too freely. And for all that the rats had stolen a few things here and there, there was a much more serious factor: they had not fomented the disorder. It wasn't only his opinion: it was shared by a large segment of the population.
"Mr. Commissioner, I'm afraid you need to conduct a purge among your people."
Baudruche boldly denied the President's accusations and maintained that the only ones responsible for the disorder, the only ones involved in the looting, were the rats. The President looked at him pityingly.
"And the dead rats who were found almost everywhere in the City? I suppose they committed suicide?"
"My men were seriously bitten."
"Ours defended themselves before dying, Mr. Commissioner. We are a brave people. Believe me, I am very serious: you must purge the City, for its own sake as well as yours. Oh, for the moment, you have nothing to fear in that respect: I know your worth, but in the end, the agitators may end up believing that you support those who are doing such harm to my people. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"
Yes, the Commissioner saw all too clearly what the President was getting at: he wanted to disband Baudruche's men because they were too devoted to him and replace them with a new group picked at random. Wooden swords, straw rifles. On that point, Baudruche wasn't going to give up. He answered sharply that he knew of no disturbing element in the City, and that he was fully confident of his men.
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