by Marcel Ayme
The old maid, crushed by the revelation of such precocious corruption, offered up her pain to God and bravely undertook to set her nephew back on the right path. It was a wasted effort. Having tried out ten different professions and been retained in none, the wretch moved from one disgrace to the next. In Cstwertskst, the gossip was all about his dreadful behaviour: about his drunken orgies, his scuffles, the girls and wives whom he condemned to shame and dishonour, and the girls without family with whom he consorted. For five years, Mademoiselle Borboïé tried to believe that he would mend his ways one day and she continued tirelessly to lavish on him good advice and pious exhortations, along with all the money required for these to flourish. In the end, she found that her generosity achieved nothing besides sustaining her nephew’s sinful ways and she turned back to the lessons of want to make him dutiful again. One evening when he came to ask her for money, she had the courage to say no.
This is where things stood when the war broke out. For a long time, the Poldevian people had been on bad terms with the neighbouring Molletonians. New disputes arose every day between the two great states, which had as much chance of ever getting along as either had of being proved right. The situation was already very tense when a serious incident really set the cat among the pigeons. A small Molletonian boy deliberately peed over the frontier, watering Poldevian territory while smiling sardonically. This was too much for the honour of the Poldevian people whose pride was outraged, and war was declared straight away.
There was great agitation in the town of Cstwertskst. The men were called up to defend their endangered country and the ladies set to knitting pullovers. Mademoiselle Borboïé distinguished herself by knitwear as neat as it was voluminous, and it was she who had the largest candles lit in church for victory for the Poldevian troops. Bobislas, now in his twenty-eighth year, was immediately called up to join a regiment of horse guards whose garrison was stationed in the town. Resplendent in his uniform and shiny accoutrements, bearskin hat on his head and a four-foot sabre swinging against his shins, he instantly assumed an exaggerated notion of his own importance and of his powers as a glorious defender of Poldevian territory. His audacity and insolence now reigned almost unchecked. Until orders came to march into battle, war for him meant nothing but banquets, carousing and pleasure trips and, claiming that he was going to have his block knocked off for the sake of those back home, his demands on their account grew daily more exorbitant. The town no longer housed a woman or girl whom he had neither ogled nor fondled, pursuing and harassing them right up to the church steps and into their own houses, taking shamelessly from the savings of their terrified father or spouse, robbing passers-by as required under pretext of making them contribute to their country’s defence. Mademoiselle Borboïé, who until now had retained a modicum of affection for her depraved nephew, took to hating him with all the passion and the strength that only virtue can muster in the face of a creature embodying the basest vices. This hatred, which she considered one of her most pious duties, did not keep the ruffian soldier from coming to see her. A string of abominable curses announced his presence at the top of the spinster’s street. Staggering in barking and belching, his great sabre knocking and catching on all the furniture, his only greeting a blasphemy, he indicated to her that she must bring him her cash and step to it. Once or twice, as she took some time to do this, he even partly unsheathed his sabre and threatened to divide the saintly dame in two, lengthways.
At last, after six months of this life as a degenerate and a cut-throat, Bobislas the horse guard was packed into a wagon with his horse and dispatched straight to the front line. In the town of Cstwertskst there were deep sighs of relief, and so great was the good people’s joy that on the day of his departure a very moving communiqué from the general went quite unnoticed. Mademoiselle Borboïé seemed as if reborn, her new life one of sweetness and of light. Reciting her prayers, she rediscovered tones of a childish gentleness, and at night the wings of seraphim rustled through her dreams.
Six months had gone by since Bobislas’s departure and the fortunes of the Poldevian troops had been mixed, when an epidemic of infectious influenza swept through Cstwertskst. Mademoiselle Borboïé was among the first to succumb and saw death’s approach with serenity. Having made her will in favour of the most saintly works in the land and received the last sacraments with lucid devotion, she died at five in the morning with the name of God on her lips and, the news having spread through the town, all came to agree that the old spinster would be supping that evening with the angels in Paradise.
As the Gates of Heaven came into view, Mademoiselle Borboïé saw a strange spectacle, the meaning of which at first escaped her. The paths up to the Gates were crowded with columns of infantry filing noisily between two rows of civilians, who were lying down or sitting on banks and watching the soldiers with gloomy disillusionment. Untroubled, Mademoiselle Borboïé trotted up to the flank of one of the rising columns, when she heard someone call her name. Looking round, she recognised the solicitor whose wife Bobislas had defiled among the people sitting by the road. This good man, who had preceded her into the grave by some two weeks, came to pay her his compliments and, smiling with a gentle irony, wondered where she was going in such a hurry.
“I am going,” she said, “to settle my last accounts.”
“Alas!” sighed the notary. “The time for settling our dues will not come soon.”
“You may think so. I would very much like to know on what ground I might be refused … ”
“It is very simple, and you have only to open your eyes to learn why. Since the war has been raging on the Poldevian borders, it is only the soldiers who matter. They are marching into heaven in columns, four at a time, without the least assessment, without any consideration of the sins they may have committed.”
“Is it possible?” whispered the old spinster. “But that would be terrible … ”
“On the contrary, nothing is fairer. Those who die for a sacred cause well deserve to enter heaven. This is precisely the case for the Poldevian soldiers—by taking up arms in good cause, they have enlisted God on their side. This is also the case with those fighting for Molletonia. No one told us, but God is with them too. Together that makes a lot of people and I am afraid the war will last a long time yet. On both sides, the troops’ morale is high and the generals have never been so brilliant. We must not expect them to bother with us before the war is over. Ought to be pleased really that our files have not been lost in the chaos.”
Mademoiselle Borboïé was at first very depressed by the notary’s revelations. Yet upon reflection, she doubted that he was telling the truth. In his lifetime a fairly honest man, still he had never shown any enthusiasm for the trappings of religion and had, moreover, acquired a reputation of being as miserly as he was greedy. This would be more than enough to damn his soul.
On foot and horseback, the soldiers went on singing and disappearing into the glorious Gates of Heaven, whose outer edges, flung wide, formed a grand avenue. Nearby, sitting on a cloud overlooking the Gates, Saint Peter was overseeing the troops’ entry and keeping the tally. With the unconcern of a clear conscience, Mademoiselle Borboïé boldly stepped into the middle of the avenue. An archangel came to meet her and said in a voice that was infinitely gentle, as if already speaking in heavenly music:
“Old woman, go back where you came from. You know quite well that the avenue is forbidden to civilians.”
“Good angel, you surely don’t know who I am. I am Mademoiselle Borboïé, of Cstwertskst. I am sixty-eight years old, I am still a virgin, and I believe I have always lived in the love and fear of the holy name of God. The priest of my parish, who was also my spiritual guide … ”
While innocently enumerating her claims to the tribunal’s indulgence, she continued to move forward, despite the archangel’s protests as he tried in vain to interrupt her.
“But I tell you, the avenue—”
“… Morning prayers, thanksgiving prayers, then
six-o’clock Mass in all weathers. After Mass, a special invocation to Saint Joseph and thanks to the Virgin. Rosary at ten o’clock, followed by a reading from a chapter of the Gospel. Benedicite at noon … ”
Despite his orders, the archangel stopped resisting and began to listen attentively. For these heavenly creatures, nothing is more endearing or more moving than a pious old maid’s enumeration of her merits and good works. The compulsion we down here enjoy when we read an Alexandre Dumas novel conveys not the least idea of the transport of exquisite anguish that grips an angel at the cataloguing of these thousand tiny, quotidian strivings towards goodness.
“Listen,” said the good archangel, “your case interests me. I would like to try to do something for you.”
He led Mademoiselle Borboïé up to the edge of the cloud where Saint Peter sat enthroned and, rising with a flap of his wings, went to whisper into the right ear of the glorious Holder of the Keys, who listened carefully, though never looking up from the line of soldiers.
They had almost agreed the deal, that he would lift the restriction in the case of Mademoiselle Borboïé, when another archangel flew in and bent his left ear to tell him that the great spring offensive had begun on the Poldevian frontier. Saint Peter waved grandly as if to sweep away all the civilians in creation and began to bellow commands.
Driven back among the civilians on the path by which she had come, her heart bursting with terrible distress, Mademoiselle Borboïé now began to trudge back up alongside the lines of troops who were already crowding upwards in greater and greater numbers. Line infantry, sappers, chasseurs, dragoons, gunners, all made their way in loose order, weapons sometimes crossing and catching between them, and a great roar rose up from this immense army on the march. Officers shouted orders, the soldiers were singing, trading insults privately and between companies, calling out to civilians, joking with the women and yelling out in chorus those obscene songs that belong to every heroic tradition. Sometimes a jam held up the interminable queues. The rows bumped into each other, and the further chaos and waiting whipped up endless storms of curses, the artillery insulting the line infantry, who then took it out on the dragoons or the grenadiers, and so on. Deafened by the racket, Mademoiselle Borboïé almost believed she was already in hell. Dazed, she walked along the road and more often in the ditch beside it, keeping a lookout among the crowds of apathetic civilians for the notary from Cstwertskst or for some other acquaintance whose company might have been a comfort to her in this ordeal. Several times, she was subjected to some vulgar chorus, blasted right at her by a hundred voices. Weary and desperate, she ended up sitting down on the far side of the ditch, her face wet with tears.
An obstruction whose source was some distance away down the line of soldiers happened to bring a platoon of horse guards to a standstill right opposite Mademoiselle Borboïé. Leading his platoon, an old, white-haired, moustachioed captain had his head, topped by the horse guard’s collar, proudly carried under one arm while he tried to calm his impatient mount. Annoyed by the lengthening delay, he stuck his head on the point of his sabre and lifted it, stretching his arm out to see what was happening up ahead. And then suddenly, a loud, indignant exclamation drew Mademoiselle Borboïé’s attention.
“Thundering Cstwertskst!” shouted the old captain. “It’s those pigs of baggagers, they’ve done it again. Knew it! Swine! Sluggards! Ride like a bunch of village policemen! Damned if I’ll see baggage-handlers stroll into heaven before us! Why not the postal service too? A thousand typhoons over Cstwertskst!”
And all the guards followed suit, standing up in their stirrups and yelling:
“Down with baggagers! All baggagers are swine! To hell with baggagers!”
When all the voices had thus joined together, they thundered a hymn to their own glory, which began like this:
When the hussars from Cstwertskst
Ride into the squares
All the girls in Cstwertskst
Show off their best wares …
There was no longer any doubt that standing before Mademoiselle Borboïé were the horse guards from Cstwertskst’s garrison. Indeed she recognised the old white-whiskered captain from having often seen him trailing his sabre over the town’s old cobbles. He had even had a mistress, a girl without morals, for whom he would buy furs and silk gowns. The elderly spinster shuddered to think that the Gates of Heaven lay open to a man guilty of keeping a mistress. Looking further along the ranks, she found several more figures of former acquaintance, including among others a young second lieutenant, as pretty as a girl. He had enjoyed the company of handsome boys like himself and tales were told about him that the spinster didn’t quite understand but about which she had her doubts, for the women discussed them in lowered voices. This did not seem to prevent him from going likewise straight to heaven.
Mademoiselle Borboïé’s inspection reached the last few waiting rows, and now she gave a great scream, a cry of indignant astonishment. She had just recognised in the figure of a cavalryman bringing up the rear, among the last in the platoon, her good-for-nothing nephew Bobislas. At this, her deep sense of disgust lifted her to her feet at the ditch’s edge. This rogue without heart or honour, this bandit, this cynical degenerate dedicated to all the most shameful of vices, this man was welcomed into the Glory of Paradise without hesitation, while she would have to wait for years outside the Gates, still risking refusal even then! Thinking back on her humble spinster’s life, thinking of her prayers and her good works, the sense of disgust that had filled her heart gave way to a feeling of profound hopelessness to which she had resigned herself when Bobislas recognised her and spurred his horse out to the edge of the road.
“Well, he said, it’s the old crock herself! So we meet again … ”
Crock, a Poldevian expression that literally means old lady, carries the most disrespectful overtones. Pronounced by Bobislas, it also gained an air of resentment.
“Funny isn’t it that we both popped our clogs at the same time,” he continued. “As you can see, I’ve not ended up as bad as you predicted. This time my future is guaranteed. It looks to me as if you cannot say as much for yourself, correct?”
Mademoiselle Borboïé could not bear the cruelty of this sarcasm and hid her face in her hands to cry. At this, Bobislas felt sorry for her and said more kindly:
“Look, don’t cry. I’m not such a villain as I appear. See, I shall save you from this mess. Climb up here behind me.”
Mademoiselle Borboïé could hardly believe her ears, but since the column was about to get moving again, Bobislas leant down, hefted her in his arms and set her up on the horse behind him.
“Take hold of my waist and grip tight, and don’t be afraid of showing your legs. Come on, no one’ll go blind from seeing that! Besides, what’s the news from Cstwertskst?”
“The notary has died. I saw him just now beside the road.”
“Poor sod. Though I did do his wife good and proper, remember?”
Mademoiselle Borboïé was far from comfortable and wondered if she should beg Bobislas to let her get down. For an elderly lady well armed with holy sacraments, it was indeed a strange situation, to find herself riding pillion behind a horse guard, in the middle of a troop of soldiers all laughing at the sight of her in that fix. But this was not the worst of it, far from it! When one has behind one an entire lifetime devoted to the search for Christian perfection, it is truly a burning shame to owe one’s salvation to a scoundrel stained with the blackest of sins. And it is yet another, no less searing shame to acknowledge that one is entering heaven by means of cunning and artifice.
“Can’t catch what you can’t see,” said Bobislas. “Hold on tight.”
“We cannot know the will of Providence,” thought Mademoiselle Borboïé, with a hint of hypocrisy. The horses were moving slowly and frequent halts further prolonged her torture. Eventually the troop of cavalry came out onto the avenue, in front of the Gates of Heaven. The celestial trumpets launched into the March of the Hor
se Guards of Cstwertskst and the first few of the troop stepped out under the great vault. Enthroned on his cloud, Saint Peter surveyed the influx with a vigilant eye.
“Crouch down,” whispered Bobislas.
His advice was unnecessary. Shrunken with shame and fright, in her black clothes, Mademoiselle Borboïé looked like nothing so much as a bundle of rags left behind on the horse’s back. Already the animal was coming to the threshold, his nose just reaching the gateway, when out of the cloud, a great voice stopped them in their tracks: