The Praetorians (32 page)

The sand-laden wind lashed them as they sprang out of the car.

The general was a tubby, high-spirited little man, with crafty, darting eyes. He had a Carcassonne accent and the jovial cordiality of a radical deputy from south of the Loire.

He shook Glatigny's hand effusively.

“Delighted to welcome you here, my dear fellow, really delighted. We're vaguely related, I believe. . . .”

He turned to the melancholy captain:

“That will be all. Everything's ready for the parade tomorrow, I hope?”

The captain went out.

“He's a good lad, Peyreu, but a bit of a poet, always with his head in the clouds. Wants to become a monk when he retires. Sleeps with a crucifix, never with a girl. It would do him good, however.”

A soldier, wearing a barman's white jacket over his uniform trousers, brought in a syphon, a bottle of whisky and some ice.

“Another of Peyreu's whims: never touches alcohol.”

The general poured out a drink for Glatigny, then, glass in hand, sank back into an arm-chair.

“I want to put your mind at rest straight away, my dear Glatigny. Before you arrived I had a telephone call from Colonel Puysanges. He told me more or less about this business of yours. The Commander-in-Chief is not in the least angry with you, quite the contrary; but for certain, shall we say political, reasons he feels it's best for you to be away from Algiers for a few weeks.

“Make yourself at home here. If you want to get to know the Sahara, I'll put transport at your disposal. The oil-wells, most interesting! Go and have a look at Edjeleh and Hassi-Messaoued. You'll be very welcome. They receive their supplies by plane every day. We're having the director of the R.E.P.A.L.
*
and the C.R.E.P.S.
*
for dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, sir, but I'm feeling rather tired.”

“A few whiskies will soon put you right. The prefect is coming too. What a joker he is! He spends his time pulling my leg. Incidentally . . .”

The general pulled his chair closer.

“Is it serious, all this business in Algiers and the Public
Safety Committee? We're so out of touch here. I'll be quite frank with you—we're both of us cavalrymen, with the same background, almost from the same family. Tomorrow there's going to be a parade. I've got to make a speech, and so has the prefect. What do I say? Do I shout ‘Long live de Gaulle' and that stuff about ‘Dunkirk to Tamanrasset,' or do I pipe down?

“Mustn't go off at half-cock, that
13
th of May of theirs . . . or, if it comes off, that silly ass Mistloff mustn't be allowed to shout ‘Long live de Gaulle' before I do!'

“You can shout ‘Long live de Gaulle!,' sir, but, as two precautions are worth more than one, you'd better add: ‘Long live Salan!'”

“Sound advice. So you're sure it has come off all right?”

With an effort Glatigny acquiesced with a nod:

“It's come off all right, sir. In two days we'll have Corsica with us, in a week de Gaulle will be at the Elysée.”

“You know, I've always been slightly Gaullist. De Gaulle's the only man who's capable of restoring a little order in all this shambles. In the first place he's a soldier.”

“I want to ask you a favour.”

“Go ahead, old boy.”

“On this visit to the Sahara you've suggested I should like to have Captain Peyreu as a guide . . . unless he's urgently needed here.”

“By all means, by all means, Peyreu is never urgently needed anywhere. You can have him. When would you like to leave?”

“Tomorrow, if that's all right with you.”

The general gave a slight start.

“So soon? Well, why not? Talk it over with the captain. He'll be at dinner tonight.”

At dinner Glatigny found himself sitting between the prefect Mistioff and an engineer from the C.R.E.P.S. He took to the prefect because of his subtle irony and the humanity with which he tried to argue against the technocrat on behalf of the few feudal privileges which the great nomads still maintained.

“Those Touaregs are a lot of idle scum,” the engineer insisted. “We're short of labour, yet they forbid their niggers to come and work on the drills.”

The prefect retorted:

“If the
harratins
all came to work on the drills there'd be no one left to water the palm-plantations, which would then die.”

“The Touaregs could do it themselves, shed their veils, tuck up their long robes and get down to work, instead of strolling about their dunes and strumming on a mandolin till dawn in their courts of love.”

“You mean their
amzad
, which is a sort of one-string violin. Only the women play it. The social structure of the great nomads may be imperfect and anachronistic but have you any other to suggest? All you want to do is turn them into labourers, rootless proletarians.”

“All that interests me is oil.”

“And I'm only interested in men.”

The prefect had bright blue eyes in a sunburnt face. He turned to Glatigny:

“What do you say, Major?”

“I've only just arrived, and I've never before set foot in the Sahara, but men have always interested me more than technicalities.”

“Do you know that in spite of my Russian-sounding name I'm of Swiss extraction. My father emigrated to France because he felt there wasn't sufficient air to breathe in the Valais. France captivated him with her huge African empire, and he came out to Africa to build roads and railways.

“I like belonging to a country which is blessed with wide open spaces, and I wouldn't like us to lose them. . . . That's why I spent five years with the Free French forces.”

Over coffee Glatigny leant towards him:

“After the parade tomorrow, Monsieur le Préfet, the general is going to shout out ‘Long live de Gaulle.'”

“That's interesting; so Charles has won.”

His eyes screwed up with laughter:

“But I'm speaking before him. Why are you telling me this, Major?”

“I don't like careerists.”

“But I may be a careerist myself!”

“I don't think so. Careerists never defend those who are
condemned to disappear, and they don't give a damn about wide open spaces.”

As he left the Hôtel Transatlantique, Glatigny took Captain Peyreu by the arm:

“As you know, we're leaving tomorrow for Djanet and the Tassili des Ajjers . . .”

“What do you want to see, sir? Primitive frescoes? The one with dancing ostriches? It was discovered by a friend of mine.”

“I'm not sure if I'm capable yet of dreaming, but I should also like to pray.”

 * * * * 

On the square with three porticos which Colonel Carbillet, drunk with dreams and love, had had built as a gigantic set for a film on the scale of the Sahara, in front of the Foureau-Lamy monument, the prefect Mistloff, having come to the end of his speech, cried out in a clear ringing voice:

“Long live de Gaulle! Long live French Algeria!”

“The dirty dog,” murmured the general, “he's double-crossed me. All that's left for me is that stuff about ‘Dunkirk to Tamanrasset.'”

 * * * * 

Villèle arrived in Algiers on Saturday
24
th May; he had come via Spain. Pasfeuro, who was used to working with him, welcomed him back with a certain amount of pleasure but also slight irritation.

Together with a few other journalists, whose names had “been drawn out of a hat,” he had been summoned to appear next day at the military aerodrome of Maison-Blanche. From there they were all to fly to Corsica, where some serious incidents had just occurred.

Villèle managed at once to have his name included in the list. Contrary to Pasfeuro's expectation, he had become
persona grata
in Algiers, the leaders of the
13
th of May being anxious to give evidence of their tolerance and to show that they were not the Fascists which they were accused of being in Paris.

On Sunday, towards eleven o'clock, the journalists saw some bigwigs arrive at the airport: Delbecque, Alain de Sérigny, Bonvillain, Roger Frey, Vinciguerra. On the way they had picked
up Colonel Thomazo, known as “Leather-nose,” who had arrived from the Constantine district.

“Where are you off to?” he asked Pasfeuro whom he had known for some time.

“Corsica.”

“Will you be back this evening?”

“Of course. We're just going there and back.”

“Then I'll come with you.”

Everyone piled into an old military Dakota, and a sergeant counted and re-counted the passengers.

“There's one too many,” he said. “Whoever it is must get off.”

“Come now,” Pasfeuro said to him, “you mustn't be so pernickety. There's a revolution on.”

“The revolution, sir, is one thing; regulations are another.”

“The supernumerary passenger is a colonel.”

The sergeant hesitated:

“All right, then, but just this once.”

In a biting tone Villèle asked Pasfeuro:

“You look very much at home in this revolution. You're not a member of the Public Safety Committee by any chance?”

The aircraft took off, vibrating in every strut. It was a machine used for parachute drops and the transport of wounded, with two steel benches down each side.

The bigwigs, with Bonvillain conducting, broke into song:

“‘We are the lads of Africa

Who've come from far away . . .

Who've come back from the colonies

To keep the foe at bay.'”

“A benevolent society,” said Villèle. “Paris and the whole of France is trembling before a benevolent society! Tomorrow the whole country will be transformed into a benevolent society.”

The “Lads of Africa” was followed by other patriotic songs, but after an hour and a half's flight they all realized that the aircraft was changing course.

Perfidiously Villèle remarked in the silence that had suddenly fallen:

“I say, they must be doing a Ben Bella on us!”
*

Sweating, Bonvillain went forward into the pilot's cabin. He came back smiling, but not very reassured.

“Gentlemen, a petrol lead has just broken. We've got to go back to Algiers.

“As soon as the damage is repaired we'll take off again.”

“The Corsica show has failed,” said Villèle with satisfaction. “We shan't have a benevolent society in France.”

He chuckled.

“We shall stay in this damp, stifling hot-house with its heady smells, in which, much to my satisfaction, the occidental values are slowly rotting away.”

At Algiers it took two hours to repair the aircraft, which then took off again.

“Where's Françoise Baguèras and that Yank of hers?” Villèle asked all of a sudden.

“On another story. The paratroop officers of the
10
th Regiment, Glatigny, Esclavier, Marindelle, Boisfeuras, who were the driving force of this revolution, have suddenly disappeared. They've been dropped into France, or else they're preparing to leave . . . but alone or with their men? That's the question.”

Night was beginning to fall when the aircraft touched down on the deserted aerodrome of Ajaccio, in the warm, acrid smell of resin.

A little paratroop captain was waiting for the passengers, standing in front of his company, which presented arms. Pasfeuro recognized him. It was Orsini.

“Yet another officer from the
10
th Regiment,” he said to Villèle. “Anywhere there's something afoot you're sure to find them, either in civilian clothes or in uniform, wearing in turn the blue beret of the home troops, the red beret of the colonials or their own cap. It's not a regiment that Raspéguy raised but a
coup d'état
school!”

The bigwigs drove off in their cars, and the journalists waited for someone to look after them.

The paratroops marched past with their loose-limbed gait and vanished into the darkness, indifferent to everything but their own dreams and nostalgias. They sang a strange dirge about the memory of something or other:

“‘The memory of a gallant pal

Scalped by the Indians in the war,

The memory of a bonny gal

Who left me to become a whore . . .'”

“Now that's a bit of all right,” said Villèle, “it stirs you up inside, it's got something. Don't you want to march off with them into the dark? Nothing else exists except the pal marching in step beside you, lost in a strange sort of exalting and melancholy dream. It's dreadful, this temptation!”

“If you go on like this,” Pasfeuro replied, “you'll soon be joining up with the paratroops.”

“Idiot, can't you see I'm working on an article! By the way, I saw your wife.”

“And you kept your hands off her, because you know I'd bash your face in if you didn't and because you're scared stiff. . . .”

“I'm scared stiff, of course, but I'm also so curious!”

The journalists piled into an open truck and drove along a deserted road into Ajaccio. There were no lights except in the square in front of the prefecture. The café terraces were filled with men and women who were waiting with a certain impatience for the curtain to rise and the great
commedia dell'arte
of the Corsican revolution to begin.

A row of paratroopers separated the auditorium from the stage. People were bawling out the “Marseillaise” and making historical speeches. The mayor, Casalta, played his part to perfection. In accordance with the agreement made with the “factionists,” he descended the great staircase wrapped in the folds of the town hall flag, singing “Aux armes, citoyens!” slightly off key. Everyone carried a weapon, but no one was anxious to use it.

Colonel Thomazo found himself, by the oddest chance, appointed military governor of Corsica, which led Pasfeuro to remark: