Stiil not sure I care for this chapter, but I've fixed up the formatting.
Let us retrace our steps a little, something which I fancy we may do without recourse to breadcrumbs or any other aide-memoires.
Let us return to the evening of the escape attempt and the moment when M. Delbecq had just barked at a junior officer to go and sit in his office before he could "fuck anything else up."
The young officer seemed not to hear and remained in the courtyard, craning his neck up at the roof and then asking Delbecq with an eager, repentant air whether he "ought to help L'Anglais fetch down 57884?"
"I told you," said Delbecq in the tone which he was accustomed to use in taverns when asking someone to 'step outside like a gentleman', "to fuck of out of my sight!"
"Sir, I'm sorry," began the boy, "Really, I should help L'Anglais – it's my fault. Or, rather, it wasn't my fault – I did everything that I was meant to do – "
This was not a lie, since the young man was not at all given to lying, but it was none the less a blatant falsehood. Upon hearing it, Monsieur Delbecq was seen to turn an attractive shade of brick and made a lunge for his subordinate's collar, simultaneously letting fly a volley of invectives which almost drowned out the noise of the alarm gun.
A loose pane of glass in the top right-hand corner of Delbecq's office door jumped and shivered in its rickety frame when Delbecq slammed the door behind him, as if in sympathy with the equally rickety nerves of the young man who had been thrust into the office moments previously.
The sound of an ancient key being turned in a rusty lock was followed by the sound of heavy foot steps retreating down the corridor on one side of the door, and on the other, by that of the young man sinking heavily onto a geriatric rush bottomed chair.
Charles 'Posh' Darbeau sighed. This was not a situation that he was entirely unfamiliar, although this time he felt that things might have finally gone a bit far. Almost from the point where his memories began he could remember occasions like this: himself, very small, having his ears boxed by his mother; himself, slightly older, having his ears boxed by the village priest; being (repeatedly) caned by his school masters, by his mother again, by his father. His father, and their last interview together. Darbeau shuddered. And then, somehow, he had ended up here, and he had really done his best to be sensible . . . Darbeau never meant badly, he was simply maladroit.
He hadn't done badly, either until today (but that was not to be thought of). How much of that was down to Louis, however, was a question certainly worth asking. Yes, Louis Javart was a good friend to him, despite his odd ways. Very odd, some of them, but if you could get used to them then it was possible to become quite fond of him. Darbeau certainly had, which was odd since in many ways 'Posh' and 'Gypsy' were the most unlikely of companions. Anyone might have thought that it was Louis Javart who was the rich man's son rather than Charles Darbeau, since Darbeau could and would converse with anyone, make his home anywhere, a pretty young man always with a subversive joke on his lips and at least one wench on his arm. Louis, although he could entertain when he chose, entirely lacked the power to charm. He was, at heart, one of life's observers, wrapped up in a profound shyness that was read by others as pride. "King Louis" they mockingly called him, or "the prince of thieves", as if they felt the weight of his surveillance and resented it. And of course, Darbeau reflected, Louis did nothing to help himself.
Darbeau wondered what Louis was doing now, whether he had returned to the prison complex yet, and what Delbecq would have to say to him. Worse, perhaps, than the string of predictable expletives that Delbecq would sling at Javart was what Javart himself would have to say to Darbeau. He pictured his friend, eyebrows contracted, expression pitched midway between wry concern and a sort of weary contempt which would contain no surprise. "But why did you not check the chains, Charles? But why did you not count them?" Meaning, Darbeau thought angrily, "Why are you such a fool, Charles? Why can't you just be sensible?" This, he mused, would be grossly unfair. Certainly Louis Javart had steered him clear of a good deal of trouble, but there were ways in which he, Darbeau, looked after Louis too. After all, that was as Monsieur Thierry had – not ordered, since Monsieur Thierry did not often need to order – but had suggested . . .
But he could hold that against him, and it certainly wasn't Louis's fault that he was an idiot. No, he would have to get out of this one himself. That he would be leaving service at Toulon was absolutely certain, but what to do after? He leant forward onto Delbecq's desk and fell to studying a couple of sheets of course yellow paper laid out upon it. Then he picked up a quill and wrote on the first piece of paper, "Boulevard St Aubin, Vichy". Then, taking the second sheet of paper he wrote "Monsieur" then, further down, "My Father". Then he crossed this out, pressing down so hard on the paper that all the ink ran out of the quill in a great blot. He reached for the bowl of sand on the edge of the desk to blot the ink, upended it and covered the entire desk with sand. He feel to sweeping the sand into one great pile, then into lines and circles and finally spelled out "shit" with it in capital letters.
Now, Delbecq's office, such as it was, was constructed very much like a walk in cupboard tacked onto Captain Villerat's much larger office, from where it was accessible. There was just about room for a desk and a chair, the door by which one entered from the corridor, which was locked, and the door by which one could enter from Villerat's office, which was not. This door was situated somewhere behind Darbeau's left shoulder, so he did not see it open, and did not notice a man step lightly through it. So engrossed was Darbeau in his word game with the sand that he did not become aware of the man's presence at all until the new arrival was looking right over his shoulder. He turned around in his chair and found himself confronted by a figure that he found disturbing on many levels. Firstly there was the man's physiognomy to be taken into account, which was profoundly disconcerting. He was of medium height with broad shoulders and a barrel chest over which his coat pulled in odd places like a dust sheet thrown over an armchair. His skin was tanned so deep a mahogany that it was impossible to tell which part of France – if, indeed, any part of France – he might have hailed from originally, but which still retained a repulsive smoothness where it stretched over his cheekbones which, combined with his fleshy lips, over-prominent nose and beetling brows, gave him the look of an exotic species of toad. He was plainly dressed and had greying hair, close cropped as if he had been wont to wear a wig but had recently given it up.
Such was Monsieur Domenic Thierry. That it was this particular man standing behind him was, in itself, another reason for Darbeau's perturbation, He had just been thinking ofhim and these thoughts appeared to have summoned M. Thierry from the ether, causing him to appear like Old Nick in a virgin's mirror,
"Well, Darbeau, looks like you may have blown it this time," said M. Thierry, picking up the two pieces of paper from the desk.
"Yes, Sir"
Thierry frowned at the blotted sheet then, seeing 'Vichy' written on the second sheet, raised his eyebrows and made as if to tug at his non-existent wig: "Vichy? Now who could you be writing to in Vichy? Could you be writing to your father, Darbeau?"
"Sir"
"Ah, the prodigal son returns! And do you want to be writing to your father, Darbeau?"
"No, Sir."
"No, well . . . " Thierry paused as if communing with something unseen, then continued. "Do you have any inkling of the chaos that's going on down there, my lad?"
Despite his time at Toulon, Darbeau's skin was still light enough that when he blushed it was visible.
"Well, we have managed to get 57884 down off the roof. Down off the roof and into the hospital ward and I'll have something to say to that oaf Delbecq on that score. He cannot take such a cavalier attitude to damaging what s, in effect, state property. As for 24601, he could be anywhere in the Var, God damn him!"
Darbeau ventured a question, "And Louis Javart?"
"Gone with Villerat to look for 24601 – that lad's worth ten of you, Darbeau. Still, I shall be very sorry to see you go."
Charles winched as Thierry picked up the piece of paper headed 'Vichy' once again.
"You don't want to speak to your father. Which is good because I don't want you to speak to him either. What I want you to do is speak to someone else's father."
"I don't understand, Sir."
"You'd do much better as a soldier than a prison warder really – splendid uniform, all the girls love a man in uniform!"
"But I don't understand – "
"I'm giving you the opportunity to help me out and, in doing so, to help both yourself and our friend Javart"
"But what does Louis have to do with it? And why me?"
"Because no-one's going to tell their secrets to me, are they? I can't use a prisoner in this case – that would look very peculiar. You have authority, but not too much. You're very likeable . . . "
"But what's this about speaking to someone's father, sir? Whose father?"
"Why, Louis Javart's!
"But I don't know who his father is! I'm not even sure if he knows, he's never mentioned him before. Where am I meant to find him?"
"In the hospital ward."
"In the - ? What? You don't mean?"
"57884. Right name Andoche Javart. Do you know what he's here for?" He handed Darbeau a small leather bound book, "Anyway, this is all you need to know in here, and all I want to know. Oh, and at the risk of sounding like Delbecq, hurry the fuck up with this – I'd like the information before 57884 snuffs it."
Charles Darbeau did indeed visit 57884 in the sick ward. Since the youth had made himself a promise that he would "never speak again – or, at least, only speak about the weather" there is no record of what he said to Andoche Javart.
The matter of whether Andoche spoke back to him, and the usefulness of what he may have had to say if he did speak, can be measured by the fact that on the morning of the 2nd Darbeau received a letter and spent the rest of the day looking very cheerful indeed. On this day he also decided to pay another visit to the sick ward.
"What are you after then?" the medical orderly enquired with a mixture of wariness and bemusement, "And why haven't you been fired? Anyway, if you're here to ask questions of our escapologist friend, he's passed on . . . Well out of it to be frank with you. Very nasty business."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Why? Scum of the earth and it lands Delbecq in a right nasty position."
Darbeau made another 'oh' sound, one pronounced in a very different tone, "I'm not here about that. I'm here to see Javart. Louis Javart."
The orderly raised his eyebrows slightly. Why had Posh thought it necessary to specify Louis Javart – there was only one Javart about the place to his knowledge.
Javart was discovered sat up in bed, still looking a little worse for wear – he had a long, heavily scabbed cut running under one cheekbone and his normally piercing eyes had an unfocused expression, partially covered by heavy eyelids that drooped as if their lashes were weighted with beads of lead.
"What, you mean Delbecq's not had you sacked?" he remarked rather grumpily upon seeing Charles, then added in a tone which had much in common with the Gobi dessert – both dry and cold – "or shot"
"How charming, " Charles replied, surprised since he always expected Javart to be friendlier than he actually was, "What was that for?"
"Because you're a damn fool," said Louis tersely, closing his eyes in a way that suggested that the effort required to keep them open was untenable.
"Fine, yes," said Darbeau, not taking a seat.
"I'm sorry, you are. But I'm glad to see you all the same. I'm bloody bored here. Nothing they can do for me medically – I'm only here because Monsieur le directeur considers it bad for moral to have people vomiting and fainting about the place. I can see his point. You know what happened, yes?"
"I've been told," said Darbeau archly, "You're quite the hero, aren't you? Unlike me."
"No rudeness meant, Charles, but what are you still doing here?"
"Waiting to clear out! I'm joining the army – with commission! No more checking chains for me – just blood, gunpowder and glory."
Javart gave a disbelieving grim and shock his head. This evidently hurt him, so he stopped.
"See, soon you'll be able to out hero me, Charles."
"That I doubt. They say your man, 24601, is doing nicely. The leg was broken, but very cleanly. Nothing to stop him making himself useful throughout the rest of his time here."
Javart made an approving little grunt: "And . . . ?"
"57884 is dead," Darbeau told him in a tone pitched very correctly between solemnity and indifference. Since consideration came slightly more naturally to him than common sense, he then changed the subject:" I leave within the week – maybe even leave France in a month of so. I'll write – and you'd better write back, mind1 If you don't I'll take all my leave to come back here and make you write in your own blood using my saber! Maybe I'll get sent to Egypt!" he exclaimed, and pursued the thought with a selfish, innocent delight. Javart smiled a weak, grave sort of smile and ran a hand along his cut cheek.