Cloudless May (48 page)

In fact, he had made Lucien wretched. . . . What will he think of me when I leave him? . . . He had not dared yet to tell Bergeot about Rienne's promise. All the way to the Manor House he was composing the phrases of a letter he would send back from the Marne—if the worst came to the worst, from the Seine—enclosing the fifty-franc note, “which naturally I could not spend, knowing I was leaving . . . your generosity . . . genius . . . the honour of working for you. . . .” When he reached the Manor House, he forgot everything except his hope of seeing Catherine.

Alone, Bergeot sent the porter to bring him coffee, and began to draft the memorandum he proposed to send to the Minister.
Towards nine o'clock Thiviers rang up and asked if the Prefect would see him.

“Why, certainly,” Bergeot said. “Come at once.”

Slightly uneasy, he wondered whether Thiviers wanted to complain about his speech. He felt the familiar twinge of panic—and contempt. Poor old boy, he said to himself, he's as nervous about his property as an old woman; he'll tell me I've unsettled his workers. If only I could think so!

When the banker came in, Bergeot said with a clumsy touch of defiance,

“Did you approve of my speech? You've had a report about it?”

Thiviers did not smile. “Yes, yes, I realise that you have to make these ridiculous misleading speeches. I didn't come to talk about it. I came to ask why you've changed your mind about a free press. You refused to suppress the
Journal
when Mathieu made his shameful attack on Labenne. Why was Derval arrested?”

“No one has ever accused Mathieu of helping the German army,” Bergeot said.

“What do you mean?”

“I had Derval arrested for printing an article about the war which must have frightened his readers to death—if they believed him. And for talking in cafés as though we were defeated, even praising Hitler.”

Thiviers looked at him disdainfully. “Who is your café spy?”

“There's no question of a spy,” Bergeot said tartly. “He talked to a young officer, a Lieutenant Aulard—and to other soldiers—”

He stopped, vexed that he had given away Aulard's name. He hoped Thiviers had not noticed or would forget it. Looking at him sharply, he was vexed again, by the banker's air of patience and noble calm.

“In my judgement, you have acted foolishly,” Thiviers said.

“Your judgement weighs with me. Of course. But ultimately I must judge what is and is not for the public safety.”

“And you think that arresting a friendly editor——”

“Friendly!” Bergeot cried. “Whose friend? Monsieur Hitler's?”

“I was not joking. I have helped this young man, Derval. I can always, for instance, go to him and say: Oblige me by
not
printing the fact that Monsieur Bergeot and I are holding large sums in dollars in New York.” A sublime smile made him look even kinder. “Can you say the same for your friend Mathieu?”

Bergeot accepted the threat without seeming to notice it. He was always, out of shame, able to hide that he had been alarmed. He felt that you can sometimes repay an insult or an injury, thus cancelling it, but nothing cancels the disgrace of showing that you are wounded.

He looked at Thiviers with an air of frankness. “You think I was wrong to make an example of Derval?”

“Political life would be impossible unless both sides took care not to find examples,” Thiviers said. “Leave that to the extremists. Who never—you must have noticed it—never get anywhere. Never reach office. They have no power, and become bitter and unbalanced.”

“I'll think over what you've said.” Bergeot let himself glance at his littered desk.

“You're busy.” Thiviers got up. “It was good of you to see me,” he said warmly. “I believe we can still help each other—and you know my affection for you. Good-night, Émile.”

“Good-night.”

As soon as he was alone, Bergeot said aloud, “Now what?” He struck both hands on his forehead as though he hoped an answer would spring out. The pressure inside his head was terrible. He walked about the room, waiting until he felt calmer before trying to decide where he stood and what he ought to do. . . . Was Thiviers speaking only for himself? Am I ruining myself? Am I strong enough to threaten him with an equal exposure? How strong am I?. . . At this moment, with a sinking heart, he knew that in the world of high politics he was clay against iron.

He no sooner knew it than he denied it.

I could release Derval without any harm done, he thought. His arrest will have frightened him, he'll be more careful in future. . . .

An honest rage seized him. . . . Let him out, the young beast! An embusqué. He'll think he can risk anything, with his powerful friends backing him. He'll laugh at me!

Even his vanity was on the side of keeping Derval locked up. I must put my feelings aside, he said to himself. He tried to decide calmly whether self-interest and prudence really added up to the public good. . . .

About eleven o'clock Lucien looked in and said timidly, “I saw your light under the door——”

“Well? What d'you want?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Bergeot said. His face twitched. “What the devil can anyone do in this sink! One's defeated all the time, by men without vision or honesty.”

“No, no,” Lucien exclaimed. “You saw how those men felt today. You can do anything with them.”

“They're as big fools as you,” Bergeot said cruelly. “Go to bed.”

Next morning at eight o'clock, when Lucien came into the office, he was startled to find the Prefect already at work. Had he even been to bed? The greyness of Bergeot's face, its lines, shocked the young man. Remembering his snub of the night before, he said nothing.

An hour later, when Lucien was in the room, the Public Prosecutor rang up. Bergeot spoke to him calmly, almost lightly.

“You had my message? Yes, yes, I think we ought to release Derval. . . . What? . . . Oh, he's had his lesson, we mustn't be dictatorial. . . . Certainly, I agree. . . .”

He put the receiver down and went on with the letter he was dictating. His secretary had flushed deeply. His hand shook. When he glanced up for a second, Bergeot thought there was even a tear at the back of his blue small eyes. He was seized with fury.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” he said. “You're stupider than ever this morning!”

In the afternoon of June 6th, two men who felt closer to one another than either did to a colleague of his own age, were sitting in a room in the barracks. Both were deeply religious, one a Catholic and the other Protestant; both felt for the Republic a coldness they excused easily by identifying it with its corrupt politicians, Jews and intriguing Freemasons. Like so many friendships, theirs was the closer because neither could see far into the other's heart. It was a polite intimacy. Thiviers was anxious as well about his own great wealth and the powers it gave him. General Woerth had neither money nor social influence. It was natural for him to feel a more spiritual need for power; he was poor, chaste, and as a soldier obedient, without losing, indeed with an aggravated growth of his pride and his impulse to authority.

He had given M. de Thiviers the only modestly comfortable chair in his room. The other was narrow and wooden: he straddled it, resting his arms on the back, and seemed at his ease in that posture. He had brought his friend here after a meal at Buran's, where they had talked about horses: an unspoken agreement kept them silent on the only thing that occupied both their minds. As soon as Woerth shut the door of his small room, Thiviers spoke.

“What is going to happen now?”

“To the army?” Woerth said.

“To the country,” Thiviers said. “To us,” he added, after a moment.

“France has lost the war. There is no longer any possibility of avoiding defeat.”

“Could it have been avoided?”

“That's not my business,” Woerth said; “my business is to see that no useless and foolish action is taken here.”

Thiviers bent his head. “War is unspeakably hideous nowadays,” he said. “When I think that Seuilly could be wiped out by a dozen young airmen. . . . The very base of society, the safety of property, could be destroyed. France couldn't survive two more years of this war.”

“The war is finished. But the danger to society is not. There's still the danger of Monsieur Bergeot's armed mob—I'm speaking of all the Bergeots in France.”

Thiviers saw his library collapse in flames, the bust of Socrates and the ashes of his own manuscripts attributed, firmly this time, to death. “Mobs wrecked the Italian factories after the last war,” he said heavily. “It could happen here. . . . What are Piriac's orders?”

“He has none,” Woerth said.

Thiviers felt rather than heard the slightest possible hesitation in his friend's voice. He is keeping back something, he thought.

“Fortunately,” Woerth went on, “I have some authority for hoping that the troops under General Piriac's command, with those facing Italy, will be free to deal with any disorders that might follow a capitulation.” He seemed to regret having spoken; he said quickly, “There will be none of the wickedness of 1789. If we had time this evening, I could prove to you that the retreat of our armies today is due to a collapse which started then: we have lost Paris in 1940 because it was lost a hundred and fifty years ago. Materially, morally—they drag each other along—the Republic has ruined us.”

“If we were choosing at this moment between defeat and Republican socialism,” Thiviers cried, “I should choose defeat.”

“There is no choice,” Woerth said coldly.

“We have a chance to wipe out an abomination. We must organise an oligarchy—only very few men are fit to have great wealth—we must discipline youth, we must have a Chamber of devoted men. The Republic made mistakes, we must profit by them. It's precisely what Hitler did for Germany. But we have the virtue of our aristocratic families.”

“He has his faults,” Woerth said. “He's a German. But he saved his country.” He paused. “We must try to see to it that he doesn't injure ours.”

Thiviers folded his hands. “I have friendly relations with the German bankers. In any case, it's not in their interest to ruin me. So far as that goes, I would trust them rather than Bergeot.”

Woerth's interest in his friend's money was platonic; he
respected it as an idea, and left him the care of looking after it.

“I can't endure any longer a system resting on lies, atheism, bribes,” he said with severity. “And I can't stand aliens—let these wretched people find some other country to betray. Or let them die in their own. If I had the power which only one living Frenchman has—but thank God he is in the Cabinet—I should tell the country frankly that what it needs is work and obedience. I don't enjoy the thought of defeat. But this time a defeat may save us. Without the bitterness of a long war, we shall be able to make reasonable terms—after all, Hitler has proved himself a statesman. No doubt we shall lose Alsace—for the time being—and our colonies. And the Germans will demand the use of the Channel ports against England. It's unpleasant—but defeat isn't victory. We shall have to pay something for it. . . . My only hope now is to be made use of. I can, I think, serve France better than if I were trying to prolong a useless war.”

“Count on me to help you,” cried Thiviers. “My friends on the other side of our frontiers know how disinterestedly I struggled to save the peace. My crusade was spoiled by this fatal war. I can set off again.”

“You can become a lay Pope and direct us!”

Thiviers missed the inflection of irony in the general's voice. His ambition to be a great spiritual leader possessed him so fiercely that it gave him a sort of innocence. The idea that he was a little ridiculous did not touch him. With as much passion, he longed to see his country chastised and to comfort it like a father—this included his workers: he believed sincerely that they were healthy when they were diligent and frugal; unnatural vices, fostered in them by men who love to destroy a good custom because it is a custom, made them unhealthy and miserable. Their misery made them naughty.

“I shall explain justice,” he said simply. “I shall explain that it would be just for all men to live alike. It would be just, and impossible; the strongest will always rule. Naturally. And you can't force the strong to be just—if you could, justice and force would be identical, which is absurd. You have only to read a little history. What you can do—and unless you do it, there will always be revolts and civil war—is to see to it that force is accepted as just. A discreet force—that is the secret of
peace. The fatality begins when poets or agitators tell the mob of weak people that they are being treated unjustly. They are so happy when they obey—and they obey because they believe that the laws they are obeying are just. Men who tell them anything else are really criminals, they poison society. They should be hanged—quickly and secretly. No public martyrdoms. When I was a child my father told me that the old peasants, the old workers, were always gay. Why? Because they lived by custom, not by thinking about their lives.”

“The finest custom is a King,” Woerth said. “To have the centre of the nation fixed—no disputes, and no choice. What country ever chooses the best President? They choose the meekest or most cunning.” He lifted a hand—he had small fine hands. “With a King we shall have peace.”

“Why is it,” Thiviers said meditatively, “that in peasant countries—like France and Russia—the mob is always unmanageable, except by a dictator? From one point of view, Germany didn't need Hitler. We needed him much more!”

Leaning back, the general offered to the light a web of fine lines covering his face.

“There are men who profess to be with us,” he said coldly, “for whom I feel nothing but distaste.”