seven o'clock struck. i did not forget that i was dining in the rue des beaux-arts, and hurried towards the left bank of the river. on the way i wondered what had dictated this visit? was it filial affection? not at all. i was simply acting in accordance with a banal convention.
my father had never taken any interest in me, even when quite tiny. as my health, which was poor at that time, had prevented his thinking me fit to be made into a soldier, i had been practically non-existent in his eyes. victor, my elder by two years, was everything to him. he had him educated at la flêche, though it cost him a lot, in order to steep him, from his childhood, in military ideal and discipline.
it is the dream of all fathers to be continued in their sons. colonel dreher only wished to live over again in the hope of revenge. i have already said that he fought like a demon in the year '70. when a young subaltern in the guards, he had been in the charge at st. privat, had had his horse killed under him, and had got a bullet through his arm. captured at metz, and taken on into westphalia, he had found a way of escaping, of reaching holland, and of rallying faidherbe's army in time to get a splinter of shell in his thigh at[pg 52] bapaume. the news of the armistice had found him in hospital, that of the treaty had disgusted him. he who burned to go on fighting, who felt no fatigue! the renunciation of the two provinces had been a bitter blow, and the counter-blows more bitter still.
as a lorrain of lunéville, he had quite a number of near relations in the neighbourhood of sarrebourg, many of whom had not the courage to ruin themselves by throwing their lot in with their true fatherland. these people were dead for him, needless to say. but these repeated misfortunes had done not a little to contribute to the growing gloom of his character. he had rejoined his regiment and had been quartered successively at joigny, moulins, and rouen where he had married, and lastly at tours, where most of my childhood was spent. decorated for distinguished service in the field, a superb leader of men, he would have been made a general but for his obstinate, though discreet opposition to a government timorous enough to put up with such peace terms.
my mother, the one person i might really have loved, had died just as i attained my fourteenth birthday. i had finished growing up under the paternal tutelage. for a long time i succeeded in persuading myself that the colonel felt heaven knows what secret fondness for me. then with the audacity of youth, intoxicated by the first lucid glance i had cast on life, i admitted to myself that i had been duped. i was of very little account in this old man's eyes. let him content himself with my deference, as i did with his correction!
there was no intimacy between us. as i grew up, our relations came to be stamped with rather a cold courtesy, like that between strangers thrown together by chance, for the space of a voyage. my father never[pg 53] asked me about my ambitions, once only about my immediate prospects; it was after i had taken my second degree. he neither approved nor found fault with my intentions.
having been placed on the retired list just at this point he came to live in paris. i never knew if it was to facilitate my studies.
three years went by, then my year of military service. on leaving the regiment i felt the need of a separate establishment. no objections were raised. my share of my mother's fortune already enabled me to support myself, and my post in the abyssinian railway company soon brought me affluence. i dined with my father every sunday, as i said before. we exchanged opinions on the events of the week, without in any way committing ourselves. he gave me news of victor's household.
on leaving st. cyr, my brother, having chosen to go into the colonial infantry, had been sent to rochefort to await his commission; and then he went and fell in love with a girl he met at the "cercle militaire" ball. at the request of her family, he had obtained leave to exchange into the home forces. he had got married. my father had not blamed him in the least for giving up a life of warlike adventure.
full of his one idea, the old soldier preferred to see his son on the frontier ready for the day, which he always hoped was close at hand, when war would break out.
my brother! to think that when we were brought up together, before he left for la flêche, we were fond of each other!... little by little had come detachment and loss of affection.... to-day we were strangers to each other. our intercourse was confined[pg 54] to the exchange of a few post cards at new year and easter. my sister-in-law, geneviève, a pleasant, insignificant little creature, had been friendly to me at the beginning; i had spent three days with them at st. mihiel not long ago, at her request. i was bored to tears. in future it would be quite enough for me to see them during the short stays they made in the rue des beaux-arts, twice a year. i went when invited. my father seemed to have grown young again. he cheered up and chatted, and played with his grandchildren whom he was mad about. he adored his daughter-in-law too, and paid her endless little attentions. it caused me no embarrassment or jealousy to be present during these effusions.
my father got up from his chair and came to meet me. he was drawn up to his full height. his face beamed as i had expected.
"you're pleased?" i said.
"yes. oh, yes. i had given up all hope of seeing this!"
the soup was brought in. i urged him to talk. he did not wait to be asked twice. he had a good word for several of our politicians—an astounding thing for him!—for the abettors of the "loi de 3 ans," for the president of the republic, for the president of the council. this mobilisation order was a good answer to the german measures! tit for tat! the rogues, we had our eye on them! hour by hour we knew all they were plotting and planning!... my father declared that he had gone over completely to the government. at such a time all differences must be sunk. it struck me that he had gleaned these doctrines from his newspaper. i admired the eternal authority of common[pg 55]places. i suddenly saw him searching his pockets. he had received a letter from st. mihiel this morning, as on every morning since the outbreak of the crisis. he handed it to me.
"it's from geneviève."
"has victor gone?"
"he went four days ago."
mobilisation had not been expected over there. it was on thursday, the 30th, in the middle of the night that geneviève, standing at her window, her head framed by those of her two little children, had seen her husband march away proudly, with raised sword, at the head of his company. this vision intoxicated my father. it did not leave me indifferent. and, like him, i approved of the steadfast, confident tone of the young wife's letter. as to leaving st. mihiel, she wrote, such a thought had never entered their heads!
"she's quite right," said my father; "the prussians will never get there; they'll soon be sent back again. you know we've already got seven hundred thousand men on the frontier."
he added:
"and victor in the first line."
his first-born, the re-incarnation of his imperious youth! the old man's bellicose imagination rode along at his side. he explained to me how, since the other day, he followed him hour by hour; he saw him, having taken up his position on a spur of mont-secq, watching the woevre where the cavalry would soon be engaged. though not very familiar with the topography of this region, i understood the r?le assigned to the covering forces, to hold on at all costs, in front of the c?tes de meuse even if attacked by forces ten[pg 56] times superior in number, while the concentration went on behind the hills.
"a dangerous task, that!"
"yes," said my father. "most of them will stay there."
i examined him, furtively; his massive lorrain's head, the ruddy face beneath the white hair, the square jaw, the nose with a heavy, decided bridge. sturdy and tall like an old oak, his only complaint at the age of sixty-seven was an occasional attack of rheumatism. i might have been gazing at the portrait of some ancestor. was he not indeed an anachronism in our century. taciturn and reserved, but upright, frank, and sound all through, the hero of an exclusive faith, of a single hate and a single love, he treated with scorn all human contingencies in the exaltation of his passion. it is true that he loved my brother as much as if he had been his only son. and yet if he were to go and get killed in one of the first engagements, i could foresee that the old man would weep, gnawing at his grey moustache, but in this sorrow he would taste the joy of sacrifice. if france were victorious he would consider success cheap at the price. oh! how complete was the contrast between us, i thought. i supple, and of medium height, owing the triumph over my constitutional delicacy only to the tardy pursuit of sports. i, smiling and polite as a matter of form, but a cynic and dissembler; i who believed in nothing, loved and hated nothing!
led away by a natural inclination, he conjured up his recollections of the other war: deeds of courage and cruelty, stories breathing blood and powder, all ending in violence and murder. it woke him up and en[pg 57]raptured him to breathe the fumes of the slaughters of yesterday and to-day.
my demeanour and head tossings seemed to encourage him. oh! if only he could have read my thoughts. if he had guessed my detestation of all fighting. my horror of physical suffering, the only true suffering in my eyes, my longing for repose even without honour, my indifference respecting my threatened country, the wish which i caught myself forming—i had got as far as that!—to see our mobilisation hindered, or even prevented altogether, the red flag hoisted, and our defeat proclaimed before i had run any risk!
my father, happily, had neither the taste nor the gift for probing people's minds. his beliefs dazzled him with such shining proof that he could not understand any one challenging them. he could not have attributed thoughts like mine to any one but the scum of the nation, degenerates, debased by sloth, vice, and alcohol. strange that i should be of his blood.
the pudding was served. mélanie handed round a chestnut cream. my father led the conversation back to victor. i discerned the great longing in the old man's heart to see his son—the apple of his eye—again, and to do him honour.
"he won't be long now before he gets his company."
i had never taken umbrage at the paternal solicitude. why should i suddenly to-day consider as strange an affection so much out of proportion...? you might have thought my brother was the only one who was going to risk his life.... and what about me? i ventured to draw attention to the fact.
"you'll be only in the second line."
"i beg your pardon! our division is attached to the 4th corps on the active list."
[pg 58]
"when do you rejoin?"
"the day after to-morrow."
then he deigned to ask me certain questions, this one among others:
"how about your foot-gear?"
i explained that the regulation boots hurt me.
"that's a pity! a man with sensitive feet never makes a good soldier."
he went on:
"you'll remember you're a lorrain!"
but at that i came near to shaking my head. a lorrain? never. more likely of the other race, my mother's. or more likely still, of none at all. there were too many strains in me; none of them succeeded in getting the upper hand. i was the nameless product of concluding epochs.
time was getting on. i excused myself from staying late, and no efforts were made to keep me.
"you'll be busy to-morrow?"
"all day long, unfortunately."
"but still i'll try to look in to say good-bye" i added, "but i daren't make any promises."
i had quite made up my mind to do nothing of the sort.
"come and dine if you can."
i had got as far as the hall. mélanie turned on the light for us.
i thought, as i buttoned my gloves, how well adapted the situation would have been for the stage. the son leaving for the front. the great farewell scene. even a second-rate actor could have drawn tears from the public in it.... i, as actor and spectator combined, experienced not the faintest trace of emotion. nor, to a certainty, did my father. so much the better![pg 59] in that case we were sure to escape being ridiculous. why did it again occur to me that if it had been victor...?
"well, good-bye, father." i said.
"good-bye, michel."
he held out his broad wrinkled hand to me. to my surprise, it was shaking.
i had opened the door part way, and was on the point of going out, when he drew me back. i suddenly saw his face, with its white beard, bending over me. he kissed me. it was, i think, the first time for ten years.
"fight well!"
"i promise you i will."
i went quickly down the steps feeling quite staggered. hardly had i reached the bottom, when i recovered myself. i asked myself, mockingly, whether i had not been affected by the traditional emotion?
a little, i admitted.
but i had the decency not to scoff at it openly.
