The Praetorians (42 page)

“‘But on certain nights I remember that in the other guard-posts there are friends of mine, chaps like Esclavier or Raspéguy, and it's stronger than I am, I can't betray them. So I press the button and the nomads, bearded and tattered, but very much alive, with warm blood in their veins and healthy appetites, are sacrificed to the perambulating corpses in the city.

“‘This nightmare—which is very much like my real life—culminates in a dead-end.

“‘How the Sahara nights inspire one to write! I only wanted to tell you that I've had a child by a Eurasian girl, a bit of a slut who used to live in Marseille and whom I met again in Algiers.

“‘This is her address:

“‘Mlle Florence Mercadier,
17
Rue Félicien-Bonte, Algiers.

“‘As you see, the family traditions are not dying out! Did you not behave in the same way with the Russo-Chinese woman in whom you planted your seed?

“‘Good-bye, old
taipan
. I don't think I'll let the bearded nomads through.

Julien.'

“That's all,” said the old man. “Now let's go and have some lunch. I'll watch you eating, as I can't get anything down myself.

“I too wanted to play a trick on my son. I never told him I was suffering from cancer and only had a few more months to live.”

The article appeared a week later in
Influences
, heralded by a publicity campaign that was typical of this periodical.

“The veil is at last lifted on the secret of the
13
th of May. From the torture-chamber to the Elysée. The murder of Ben Mohadi. The true story behind the resignation of one of the great figures among the Red Berets: Major Philippe Esclavier.”

The cover bore the photograph that Philippe had given Irène, of himself on a stretcher at the Zair well just before the helicopter flew him out.

With his head lolling on one side, he was the perfect, conventional picture of the stricken hero.

Below it was a quotation from Péguy on which Michel Weihl-Esclavier had insisted to offset any nuisance that his brother-in-law might be caused through the publication of such a document:

“Mother, here are your sons who have fought so hard,

May they not be weighed as a soul is weighed,

May they rather be judged as an outlaw is judged

Who comes creeping home along deserted paths . . .”

For
Influences
stood in serene but inexorable judgement of Philippe Esclavier, the paratroops, the French army and the whole régime behind it.

The article was signed Irène Donadieu, but a short
introduction by Villèle explained the situation “objectively” and gave the journal's point of view:

“We hesitated to publish this document, but after long reflection we felt that our readers and the whole of France had a right to see it, for it throws fresh light on the
putsch
of the
13
th of May. It explains by what stratagems General de Gaulle came back to power, carried on the shoulders of a handful of mercenaries in camouflage uniform who were under close judicial observation and had nothing further to lose.

“Our correspondent Irène Donadieu, while on holiday at her father's home in the little Provence village of Saint-Gilles-de-Valreyne, by chance met Major Philippe Esclavier who had taken refuge there after his resignation. The officer made a number of disclosures to her, as he would have done to anyone who knew about his problems and was capable of understanding them.

“He was not aware of Irène Donadieu's profession. Since she was not contemplating using this confession, our correspondent did not consider it necessary to let him know she was on the staff of
Influences
. We have every reason to believe, however, that if he had known that Irène Donadieu was a journalist, Philippe Esclavier would not have spoken in any other way.

“But later on our colleague realized that her duty as a journalist should come before scruples of a more personal nature.

“Through her courageous decision she honours the profession.”

The article began as follows:

“Major, or rather ex-Major, Philippe Esclavier is the perfect picture of those heroes in camouflage cap and uniform who became front-page news on the
13
th of May.

“His war record is one of the best that any officer could have: Commander of the Légion d'Honneur, Companion of the Liberation, the Resistance rosette, eighteen mentions in dispatches, a member of the F.F.L. from the very start, deported to Buchenwald,
he belongs moreover to a family of great university figures which has in many cases conscientiously served the French Left Wing.

“He has the leanness and toughness of a wolf. To him women are puppets or playthings, a warrior's pastime or machines for producing children. Men who do not lead the same harsh life as himself are readily dubbed ‘rotten' or ‘decadent.'

“In point of fact, behind this surly attitude can be seen the immense despair of a man undoubtedly gifted in many ways, but who has become, by dint of fighting in wars which in his heart of hearts he condemned, a sort of robot, a killing machine. . . .

“He could be taken for the angel of death, but a sarcastic and sharp-tempered angel. A serious wound has afforded him time for reflection, which has led to his painful conflict of conscience. It has enabled him to tear himself away from this infernal cycle of torture, summary executions, merciless fighting, plots, schemes and play-acting.

“But Philippe Esclavier has been marked for life by the two wars of Indo-China and Algeria, like those trees struck by lightning which stand twisted and blackened in the middle of a forest.

“As a result of his disclosures I can now firmly state:

“That Lucien Ben Mohadi, the great Algerian Liberal, was murdered by the paratroops at Z.

“That the man responsible for this murder, Captain B, was killed in action, or rather committed suicide under the guise of an operation which was in progress in the western Sahara.

“That at the root of the May
13
th conspiracy there was this murder and the fear of the guilty parties of being brought to justice, which would have led to their being questioned about the torturing and disappearance of individuals during the battle of Algiers.

“That it was at machine-gun point that General Salan had to opt for de Gaulle, who was directly or indirectly controlling these officers through the medium of a former R.P.F. leader who is now a deputy.

“That the rallying of the Moslems was deliberately engineered by this group of officers who, as prisoners-of-war in Indo-China, had borrowed from the Vietminh their methods of crowd
management and propaganda technique, but without basing them on any ideology whatsoever, except a hotch-potch of conventional ideas in which Nationalism, Christianity and the West were all blended.

“That it was the paratroops who launched the word Integration and, like haughty prætorians, tried to force de Gaulle to ratify their scheme. But in him they found a man who was even more difficult and haughty than themselves.

“That these very paratroopers are at the root of the Public Safety Committees, whose real aim was to give the whole of France a military complexion. The ultimate result: a single party, of a Communist or Fascist type.”

In her article Irène Donadieu dwelt at some length on each of these points, padding them out with details and remarks which she put into the major's mouth.

She passed over the Restignes affair in complete silence.

“You see,” Villèle had told her, “it would disturb the unity of your contribution. . . .”

Urbain Donadieu, still in his slippers, with an old raincoat thrown over his shirt and trousers, arrived two days later at the Gare de Lyon. A taxi drove him to his daughter's flat and at nine o'clock in the morning he was ringing her doorbell. As there was no answer, he went panting downstairs to the concierge, borrowed a key and climbed up again panting even more heavily.

Irène was asleep. On her bedside table lay a half-empty tube of sleeping-pills.

Urbain made some strong coffee, roused his daughter, forced two cups down her throat, looked for a chair big enough for his buttocks and, not finding one, sat down on the bed, which made it creak.

“I came here,” he said, “for you to explain . . .”

He drew the paper out of his pocket and pointed at it:

“This!”

Irène rolled over on the other side of the bed.

“Everyone is wanting me to explain it! Leave me alone, I've got nothing to explain.”

“I don't give a damn about what you've written. You have merely falsified the truth without betraying it completely. You have simply taken facts out of their background and context, like a fish which is lifted out of its bowl and, on dying, at once loses its colour. You've also allowed yourself several omissions . . . Communists invariably behave in this fashion, but they have an excuse: they believe they're serving their cause and their religion.

“Your article looks very much like the vengeance of a woman in love. I'd be very vexed all the same if my daughter behaved like a little shopgirl who's been deceived by her boy-friend.

“Philippe is also in Paris. He's been summoned to the War Ministry where they're going to ask him to take proceedings against you. I'm told he'll refuse.”

“Give me another cup of coffee, Papa Urbain, I've behaved like a slut. Yesterday evening it preyed so much on my conscience that I thought of killing myself. But it's too silly, after all, to die at the age of twenty-seven, especially when life lies open before one, ready to be enjoyed.

“It's not so much what I wrote that I regret, because it's what I believe, and when a woman is faced with an adversary as dangerous and attractive as Philippe there are no holds barred.

“But the motives which prompted me to act in this way are unpleasant. That's what made me feel so nauseated last night. The woman in me rebelled against Philippe because there was no room for her in his simplified ruthless universe. I couldn't bear it.”

All of a sudden Irène burst into tears; her sobs were so violent that her body heaved under the bedclothes.

“Give me a towel soaked in cold water. It's only the shopgirl having her fit of hysterics. You're right, it all began through jealousy, a sentiment of which I thought I was incapable. I felt it deep down in my guts; I should have been warned by that. Women never heed the warning of their guts enough. We were on our way back from that old drug-addict, Boisfeuras's father. I don't mind people who take drugs occasionally, because one must experience everything, but I don't like those who build their whole life round drugs and shelter behind them to keep apart from the living.

“The old boy was repulsive and at the same time attractive, with the body of the dead captain which seemed to be lying in the middle of the room and to which he and Esclavier kept harking back.

“When we got back to Saint-Gilles it was dark. There was a girl standing in front of her white convertible car, twirling her keys round her finger. She was tanned by the sun, the sea and beauty products. A girlish and at the same time mature body, the sort old men find attractive, and a greedy, eager mouth with full lips. It was a certain Mina, a little tart who was trying to get into films.

“She looked at Philippe as though he was her personal property, as though she knew every inch of him and was in the habit of using them all.

“In her imagination she was already in his bed, ready for all sorts of beastliness; I could see it in her eager eyes. And there was Philippe, rolling his shoulders, knowing that he only had to snap his fingers for her to go down on her knees and lick his feet.

“My guts, those damned guts of mine, turned over. Just like the drug-addict. I too, without noticing it, had built my life round Philippe—more specifically, round what there was below Philippe's waistline. No, that's not true; I needed all of him, but maybe that is how it all began.

“That longing to have him always with me, even to hate him, to tear him apart!

“Naturally, I tried to brazen it out. I was keen on my independence and freedom and at the same time didn't know what to do with them.

“In my mind or in my subconscious, I don't know which, Philippe belonged to me, had always belonged to me. I could not admit any past life of his in which I did not figure.

“He introduced us:

“‘Mina, a friend of mine—Irène, another friend and also a sort of cousin.'

“My guts ached and my legs were unsteady. . . . That bastard had got under my skin, into my blood. . . .

“He asked us both in for a drink. I knocked back a couple of whiskies, neat, one after the other. Philippe was watching me
and I fancied I saw in his eyes, in those cruel motionless eyes of his, that he was amused.

“I made some excuse to leave. I must have looked like an idiot and got up as though I was abandoning my place to the other girl.

“Philippe's eyes were still laughing.

“He came as far as the front door with me. I spat out:

“‘You can have her if you feel like it.'

“‘Really? Wouldn't you mind?'

“I almost retorted: ‘If you so much as touch her I'll tear your eyes out.'

“But the pride of a female who always wants to play the male, to be as hard as he is, to beat him on his own ground, made the words stick in my throat.

“‘No, I wouldn't mind at all. You can tell me all about it afterwards.'

“He went slightly pale, all the same, and I, like an idiot, believed I had scored a point.

“‘You're quite sure? Then I'll have her, as you suggest. Mina knows a trick or two in bed.'

“Do you know, Papa, I tottered home, stumbling over the stones in the path, knocking against the walls. You weren't in, I left you that message: ‘Sorry, recalled urgently to Paris.'

“I bundled whatever came to hand into a suitcase, together with my notebooks which were still blank, I even forgot my nightdress.”

“Philippe brought it back to me. You had left it at his place.”

“I asked young Raybaud to drive me to Cannes, where I just managed to catch the night train.

“The noise of those wheels reverberating in my head, and Philippe whom I kept picturing in the act of making love to that over-scented, over-painted puppet! I tossed and turned in my sleeper and dug my nails into the mattress. Towards midnight I found some peace at last. I began to think more clearly, I realized I should never be able to share my life with him, that he was attached to another human species than ours, a circumscribed species in which women submit and abdicate all personality. At
the same time I was tempted to become that sort of woman, for I suddenly found my solitude unbearable.

“By the time I reached Paris it was no longer against Philippe that I was rebelling but against the type of men who denigrate women, which he represented. I could no longer bear anything about him: his wars, his friends, his army, and still less what he had tried to inflict on our country, that idiotic Nietzscheism, that circumscribed romantic adventure, that Marxist-like nationalism which is nothing but a Boy Scout movement brought up to date, a sort of neo-Pétainism with a faint tinge of pink. It was in this fit of temper that I wrote my article. But how I'm going to suffer for it, Papa Urbain!”