Cloudless May (62 page)

He is really senile, Bergeot thought, with impatience. “Yes, yes, General,” he said respectfully, “but we must do what we can to restore order—at least in one Department.”

Labenne leaned forward to speak into Piriac's face. “The town will be clear by this afternoon,” he said, “it's only a temporary dislocation.”

“Do you think so?” Piriac said.

“I swear it.”

At this moment Bergeot was seized by one of those intuitions which always dazzled him—because they offered a comparatively easy way out of a problem. Although time and again they had led him into difficulties far greater than those he wanted to escape, he continued to trust them: they flattered his belief in his subtlety. Better still, they were an outlet for his energy and a chance to act instead of waiting. . . . He believed he had guessed Labenne's deepest and secret motive—a savage jealousy. . . . He has always been jealous of me, of my success, my energy, my power. . . . Everything fell into its place in the light of this blinding intuition. Labenne had bought the
New Order
to use it against him, not for any political reason. His opposition was due wholly to envy—and not to the treacherous motives that Mathieu, the fool, thought he had discovered. . . . He felt an easy contempt for the Mayor.

“The German advance forces,” Piriac was saying, “cannot be more than a week distant from the Loire, perhaps nearer. Monsieur de Thiviers, in the event of a German occupation, you will tell your workers to keep calm and await orders.”

Bergeot seized the chance to impress the soldiers with his energy. “But before the Germans could occupy Seuilly, you will have destroyed the aircraft works, and—” He was

startled by a cry from Thiviers.

“Good God,” Thiviers stammered, “are you mad? Do you want to ruin the town?”

Before Bergeot could retort, General Woerth spoke for the first time. “Mr. Prefect, you can leave these measures to us.”

Ah, I've trespassed on your authority, Bergeot said to himself. And your vanity. He was amused. . . . General Piriac took hold of his arm: in a bewildered voice, he said,

“Those unfortunate people. What is to be done? The chaos”—his voice strengthened—” the country's awful need for discipline and faith . . .”

“Its immediate need is peace,” Woerth said drily. “In my opinion, the war was lost a month ago, on May the fifteenth. Now we have to face the social effects of defeat. A wise leader would be considering how to strengthen patriotism, silence men of ill-will, and revise the constitution. His plans ought to be ready to put into effect without delay after the armistice.”

There speaks the political general, Bergeot said to himself. Monsieur Woerth, you could be very dangerous. If I were Minister of the Interior, I should keep my eye on you. . . . He had detected as well a note of regret and bitterness. After all, Woerth was a soldier, he had the loyalties and narrow pride of a soldier. He could hardly be enjoying the thought of a German occupation.

“General Woerth, may I, without vexing you again,” he said, “make a comment?”

“Why not?”

“Seuilly is full of troops—and tanks. It would, wouldn't it, be possible to fight a delaying action here?”

“Yes,” Woerth said coldly, “it would be possible. All sorts of useless actions are possible in war.”

“It would be useless?”

Piriac had another access of energy. “For a weak country, all avoidable bloodshed is useless.”

“Think what would happen if Seuilly were bombed this morning,” Thiviers murmured.

“Or any other morning,” Labenne said.

Ignoring them, Bergeot turned to Woerth. “I'm not rash enough to argue with you. But surely
you
are being a little rash in taking the end of resistance for granted? Surely it's possible that you will be forced to defend Seuilly . . .?” Am I, he wondered, speaking for myself or Mathieu? “And the bare possibility is reason enough for sending the children away—if only to prevent their parents rushing on to the roads with them!”

Thiviers lifted his hands. “I disagree,” he cried in a shocked voice. “Children ought not to leave their parents.”

“As mayor, I will have nothing to do with any such criminal and fantastic plan,” Labenne said, with energy. “If your sole object is to spread terror in the Department, you couldn't think of a quicker way to do it.”

“General Woerth—” Bergeot began.

Woerth did not allow him to speak. “Mr. Prefect, you have a great deal of energy. May I remind you that, like any other civilian now, you are subject to certain disciplines? It would be better for the Department if you had less anxiety to show off your talents and more judgement.”

Labenne looked at Bergeot and smiled slightly.

The Prefect's intuition suddenly became ridiculous to him. He saw it as it was, a superb illusion of his own vanity, the most dazzling, the most fatuous, of his whole life. Perhaps the most fatal. . . . His exultance had been so unreasonable that he tumbled the harder. He felt giddy. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he covered his eyes with his hand. . . . What Labenne wanted—and possibly Thiviers—was nothing less than to keep Seuilly in a state of feverish disorder. They were deliberately courting panic. Why?

In his new clarity he saw, without any excitement, that he must openly attack Labenne. Insult him. Make him give himself away. . . . Straightening himself, he glanced at Thiviers.

Looking away from him at once, Thiviers said, “I have supported our Prefect for many years. I may say that I am not without responsibility for his career. It grieves me sincerely to withdraw—as I must—all support in the future.”

No one spoke. Bergeot had time to feel his isolation. He had sometimes boasted of it, but this was the first time he knew fully what it meant to a public man to have no one at his back, no party, no interest, and now no powerful friend. He felt a horrible weakness. His mind intrigued madly, seeking a way out for him.

This first moment of complete isolation was also the last when he saw clearly that he ought to denounce Labenne and Thiviers in such terms that the issue between them and him was unavoidable and naked—and would have to be settled by his disgrace or theirs. For a moment he saw this. He saw what
he must say. And the sarcasm and bitterness he must use. . . . His mind clouded. How to protect Marguerite? How be certain that if he were going to be disgraced for sending money abroad, Thiviers would share his disgrace . . .? He looked up, and saw that the others were waiting for him to speak. He said nothing. I must think, he said to himself; I must have more time to think.

This wise thought was an enormous relief to him. He did not know that it was also, and with more reason and a precise unpitying force, sentence passed on him—and his last choice.

Woerth leaned forward and touched Piriac's arm.

“You want to get back,” he said in a clear voice.

Piriac rose at once. “Yes, yes, of course. . . . Those lost people,” he muttered. “And think that the Germans are entering Paris this morning.” He turned his back on the Prefect.

“Monsieur Bergeot,” Woerth said, “the commander-in-chief and I came here this morning at the urgent request of Monsieur de Thiviers. You will not expect to continue the farce of these meetings, I think.”

He followed Piriac out of the room, guiding him deftly by an elbow: he must have been used to blind men. Bergeot watched them go without speaking. He was so deeply mortified that he did not show it. When the generals had left he turned to Thiviers and said calmly,

“I realise that if I am too active in trying to keep order in Seuilly, you will make difficulties for me.”

To his surprise, Thiviers said, “My dear fellow, you're mistaken. I don't approve of your plans, in my opinion they're ill-judged, but I have every sympathy for you. I shall consider what I can do to help you.”

The Prefect felt a weak thrill of hope. He did not allow it to show in his face, but instead of bowing stiffly to Thiviers, as he had intended, he held his hand out. The banker's long fingers pressed his lightly.

Labenne had watched. He was standing with legs apart, balancing his thick body. There was no life in his eyes, not even a breath of malice. He looked like a bailiff come to value the furniture of the room before seizing it. Bergeot felt sure he was meditating a last stroke. But when it fell, it was only an attack on his vanity.

“Perhaps Monsieur de Thiviers and I made a mistake—in deciding to let you hold one more of your little Committees. I can't say it's been a success.”

“The intention was kind,” Bergeot said, smiling. “Thank you very much.”

He saw them to the door, and had enough calmness left to tell Lucien not to disturb him. Then he sat down and gave himself up to a feverish search for expedients.

He realised, with irony, that his unfortunate Committee had never even been necessary. He had created it solely to glorify himself in the eyes of Piriac and the others.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

Outside the Prefecture, Labenne was mildly surprised to see Colonel Rienne.

“Mr. Mayor,” Rienne said gravely, “I hope you won't waste any time before making some reassuring statement to the townspeople.”

“About what?”

“But you've seen these wretched people who have been allowed, heaven knows why, to take to the roads? Unless something is done at once, Seuilly people may join them.”

“And what do you advise me to say?” Labenne said, with an insolence he was clumsy enough to mark by yawning.

“I don't intend to teach you your business,” Colonel Rienne answered. He went into the Prefecture.

Labenne glanced at Thiviers, who was smiling. “I see you're amused,” he said drily, “Would you, I wonder, be as amused if the army mutinied and our brave officer came to arrest you? . . . Don't worry. I have my eye on Colonel Rienne for you. . . .”

Bergeot heard Rienne's voice, and the excuses of his secretary. He rang the bell. “Send Colonel Rienne in to me, you know I'm always ready to see him.” In the moment before his friend came into the room, he looked in the mirror and was pleased by his reflection. He was pale and haggard. Bonamy would see that he had been fighting.

Rienne looked at him and said coolly, “You have a chance to put all your civil defence schemes into effect—in dealing with the refugees. I'll give you any help you want. If I post
men to direct them off the main street, will you arrange that they're given help of some sort? It's perfectly obvious that Labenne intends to do nothing.”

“And what can you do?” Bergeot said drily. “You're not the commander-in-chief.”

“Not yet,” Rienne laughed. “But I have my modest powers. They don't, though, stretch so far that I know why hordes of civilians are being allowed to stravaig about France—”

Bergeot interrupted him. “I can tell you that the civil administration of half the country has broken down. My dear Bonamy, I saw the Prefect, yes, the Prefect of the A—in that mob. I don't imagine he's the only one. . . . For the past three hours my secretary has been trying to put a call through to Bordeaux to the Ministry.”

“You had better have been doing something useful,” Rienne said.

Bergeot pressed his hand on his forehead. Through all his annoyance with Rienne, he saw him with a strange clearness: his energy, taking refuge in his mind, was trying to make sure that if he ruined himself through weakness or lack of judgement, he did it with his senses at their most acute. He saw that his foster-brother was a point in the French line; infinitesimal as it was, he was holding it with all those qualities of the French people which go best in pairs: gaiety and the stubbornness which rarely becomes fanaticism, the caution and logical acceptance of risk, the coolness hiding its grain of warmth, the refusal of injustice forming itself slowly in a strong patience, the good-humour and mockery, the generosity and shrewd calculation; all the faults and virtues which a long endurance of pleasure and misery, a clear air, and an exquisite balance of climate can bring to their term in a people—with the added benefit of a restless greedy neighbour.

“You're my only friend,” he said slowly.

Rienne smiled slightly. “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

In the very moment of speaking, he reached the irrational certainty that Thiviers was still his friend. Obstinate, blind and deaf to everything that could deny it, he chose to believe in Thiviers's good will. . . . At least he'll approve if I deal firmly with the refugees. . . .

“Listen, Bonamy,” he said, with energy, “I shall do everything possible.”

Rienne frowned. “It's the impossible that's needed.”

“I'll do that, too,” Bergeot smiled. “I'll use everything and everybody I can lay hands on. Surely you didn't think I was going to perch up here admiring the country? What a day, though. This morning at the Manor House I could smell the vines.”

He saw, without realising that it was because he had admitted spending the night with Marguerite, that Rienne was hesitating. Putting an arm round him, he shook him gently. “You old idiot,” he said lovingly, “go away and let me get on with it. I'll keep in touch with you.”

The heat of mid-afternoon, in the sunless angle of the barracks, laid a heavy hand on Piriac, on his old eyelids and the back of his neck. Sitting with head bent forward, and half-closed eyes, he was not listening to the talk between Woerth and M. de Thiviers. But sometimes a word or a sentence brushed him. He was, he thought, leaning on the wall of the square at Bourg, looking down on the Dordogne where it left the Gironde: children were playing about in the shadow of the church behind him, their feet rolling the gravel made a sound which pleased him dearly, though he had forgotten that it reminded him of the barracks; he felt young; a long way below him, at the foot of the cliff, the river was untroubled until one of two voices said, “The Germans have broken through in Alsace, near Colmar.” Alsace, he thought, seeing only the Gironde; a shadow raised mountains in it, it was level with the wharves, a gull flying inland cut livid marks with its off wing. . . . I'm asleep, he thought, forcing his eyelids to open. He saw Thiviers sitting between him and the light. The banker's face had its usual look of self-assured patience, as though he knew the right thing to do always and would do it in spite of calumny. That man, he thought, is a diplomat, no, he is a scoundrel, no, he is
good. . . . Thiviers disappeared; and Piriac gave himself up to the warmth and the smell of dust and old stones. Shall I go home now? he thought, seeing the sky, the steep road, the limes planted by his grandfather. The bees had been droning in his ears for several minutes before he noticed the limes. . . . “It would be better if the Prefect resigned,” Woerth said: “it says everything about the corruption of society that he is respected in the town. If he were arrested there might be trouble. . . .” “Now if we were able to wait until after the armistice. . . .”