Discord before Christmas (cont.)
Raoul took a seat, gazing down at Pierre. "Monsieur Bertrand," he began sternly, "just what was all that about?"
Pierre remained motionless in his kneeling position on the floor, huddled together in such a way that Raoul could not see his face.
"Answer me!"
"I'm so sorry," Pierre said again, like a small child who only knows one phrase.
"So you have already said," Raoul observed drily. "I asked you just what you thought you were up to."
Pierre gave a helpless shrug, and answered quietly, "I lost control. I'm sorry — I have an unforgivable temper. When Dubois called me a liar I saw red."
"And what do you suppose is going to happen in the future? You're running around here with guns and fierce dogs — right now I have to concur with Dubois, you're a danger to our safety in yourself. I have to take care not only for my family but for my staff, for whose welfare I'm responsible. In my place what would you do?"
"I hate that question," retorted Pierre. "Every time I feel obliged to give you an honest answer. Shoot me down like a mad dog: here and now I'm not sure that it wouldn't be for the best."
"I'm no murderer, Monsieur Bertrand, and sometimes you carry your self-hatred too far," returned Raoul, somewhat more softly. "I want an honest answer. Can you guarantee me that in the future you will keep control of yourself?"
Pierre shook his head. "Unfortunately not."
Words poured out of him suddenly. "I really tried to control myself. In particular I didn't want a quarrel with Dubois, he keeps the books well, but I simply can't stand men of his type. The world only exists for them as figures on paper. D—- it all, I've already been involved in a feud of sorts, and that came out badly for both of us. I swore then that I'd never get involved in anything of the kind again, and now... I'm an old fool who has apparently learnt nothing at all from his mistakes."
"With all due respect to your self-analysis — don't you think this time you've finally gone too far?"
"Yes, of course." Pierre sighed in despair. "Long since. I would not have stood by and watched these antics of mine as long as you have. But sir, I beg you, even though I don't deserve it — give me one more chance."
"Only because you saved my life," answered the Vicomte. "And only under the condition that you humbly beg Dubois' pardon and leave him alone from now on. And no cheating — I'll be asking him later. You started the fight, and now it's up to you to do everything you can to make it up with him."
"And what if he doesn't want to?" enquired Pierre sceptically.
"Then I want to see at least that you're making the attempt. And one more thing — stop making plans with Babette to get married on the 31st of February. At your age it's just embarrassing."
Pierre stood up slowly. "Thank you, sir," he said simply. "You're the very first man ever to give me not just one chance but a second, third and still more, even though I always let you down. Only take care that your generosity doesn't get exploited."
~o~
The very next day there came an unwelcome visit. Two men from the tax authorities arrived in order to complain to the Vicomte that the estate's taxes for the year hadn't been paid.
"That can't be true," Raoul exclaimed, and went with them to find Dubois, who as usual was seated behind piles of ledgers and documents.
"Monsieur Dubois, these two gentlemen claim that we've forgotten to pay our taxes," said the Vicomte, and Dubois went pale.
"What's wrong?" Raoul was beginning to worry that maybe they really hadn't been paid.
"I had the cheque all ready prepared..." Dubois began to leaf through various of his books.
"Yes, and I signed it. And then what happened?"
"I'm not sure..." stammered Dubois, flicking ever more feverishly through the pages.
At that moment the door opened and Pierre came to see what was going on.
"You? That's all I needed," groaned Dubois. "Let me search in peace!"
"I'm saying nothing," remarked Pierre, and seated himself motionless on a stool in the corner where he could watch all that went on.
Suddenly a piece of paper slid out of a book and fell to the floor. Dubois scooped it up and handed it to the Vicomte. "There's the cheque you signed. I must have forgotten to send it in."
The Vicomte passed the cheque over to the two officials. "You see, it was nothing but an oversight. I deeply regret it and offer you my most formal apologies."
The officials accepted the cheque and considered a moment. Then one said: "I believe you when you say that it was not intentional, as up to now everything has always been in order. But since you've paid late, you'll receive a fine; I'll put in a good word for you, but be prepared to get fined."
Once they had gone, the Vicomte rounded on Dubois. "How could that happen? This isn't a matter of some small bill that could get overlooked. If those gentlemen hadn't been so understanding about it, they would have accused me of tax evasion, and in addition there's a fine coming our way; how do you explain that?"
Pierre, who was still sitting in the corner listening, grinned. Finally, for once, he wasn't the one responsible for the trouble.
"Forgive me, Monsieur de Chagny." Dubois was trembling. "Truly, I had everything prepared and meant to hand in the cheque, but... then I fell out with my son. You know, my son whom you so generously took on as an apprentice accountant. He... he told me that he doesn't want to become a accountant, but to run away and become a soldier, preferably in the Foreign Legion even though he's French by birth. I was in such a state that I must have entirely forgotten about the cheque."
Pierre broke in. "Perhaps I can help."
"You? You want to help me?" asked Dubois with disbelief.
"Let me talk to your son," answered Pierre, emphasising his friendly tone, "and I'll wager you that after that he'll be eager to become an accountant and never mention the Foreign Legion again."
"It's because of you that he first got hold of this nonsense," Dubois accused him. "Before that he was always a good lad, but he admires you: he wants to have adventures like you, and flout all law and morality — just like you!"
"Just let me talk to him. Please."
~o~
The young man was very excited that the old officer wanted to speak with him. Pierre had offered his own room for the discussion to take place; since neither the Vicomte nor Dubois trusted him an inch in this matter, they had insisted on being present. Thus Maurice and Raoul sat at the table, and Pierre and the young man on the settee.
"So you want to be a soldier, boy?" Pierre began in a friendly way.
"Yes sir, I do."
Pierre felt in his pocket, drew out a hip-flask, took a swig and offered the flask to the youngster, who took a cautious swig of his own. Tears instantly sprang to his eyes, and he had to cough.
"You'll get used to it," said Pierre, and screwed the flask shut.
The young man was still coughing. Pierre lit up a cigarette. "Why do you want to join the Foreign Legion?"
"I want to see distant lands and have adventures."
Pierre nodded in understanding. "I've seen the world and travelled to far countries. Let me tell you, my boy, the world holds only one colour for me, and that's blood-red. One battlefield looks like any other and one heap of corpses stinks like any other... whereas here I see a beautiful garden, peaceful vineyards and green forest."
The young man stared at him for a moment, taken aback, then said defiantly: "I want to serve my country bravely and honourably."
"Oh yes?" responded Pierre derisively. "And what do you know of courage and honour? You haven't the faintest idea."
He stood up and took off his coat. Then he started to unbutton his shirt.
"First of all they take you captive," he began. "They submit you to public degradation in front of everyone; they brand you so that anyone you meet knows at once what they have done to you. They brand you like cattle to show everyone that you belong to them. They beat you and torture you until you will do anything they demand, destroy you and drag you through the mire. You forget your own name and think of yourself by the name they give you. You forget who you are and become whatever they order you to be. And if you are among the few who escape alive, you crawl out of there and struggle back into existence."
Pierre let his shirt fall and bent over the young man in such a way that the latter could see his bared torso. The boy's eyes widened in horror when he saw the scars. Apart from the fresh scar of the shoulder wound, Pierre bore three more bullet marks on his chest, and knife wounds on both arms as well as down his right side.
He turned so that the young man could see his back also. A terrible burn ran down from his left shoulder to the waist of his trousers, and seemed to continue lower. Pierre's back was marked with great weals where he had been beaten. High on his left arm he carried an arrowhead scar like a brand, and at his wrists and neck deep scars could be seen where ropes had bound him.
The young man was ashen. Pierre put on his shirt again and buttoned it quietly.
"Let's suppose that you survive," he went on. "Then you're sent back into battle. And then comes the day of revenge. Oh, not revenge upon those who did this to you, probably not even upon those of the same race. Some day when you're in a village where rebels are hiding, something or other will remind you of one of your torturers and you'll make them pay for everything that was done to you. You'll sink into an intoxication that is better than sharing a woman's bed, better than wine, better than any drug; you will be the master of life and death. Men will be playthings in your hands, so infinitely far above them will you be and they so infinitely far beneath you.
"And then you wake, and find that you are standing up to your knees in blood and that what you have done to the innocent is ten times worse than what was done to you. You realise that you have become exactly what you so much hated, what you wanted to wipe off the face of the earth. And then — then, my boy, you can speak to me of courage, for you will need it if you are not to put an end to yourself upon the spot."
The boy's face had gone green and he said not a word more. He stared at the old man in horror, then jumped to his feet and ran. Pierre stood there, face turned to the wall, against which he was bracing himself with both hands.
Raoul and Maurice were silent. They had heard everything and seen the scars on Pierre's body. There was nothing they could say.
This lasted until Pierre had himself far enough under control to turn round. He lit himself a cigarette and went up to Maurice. "He won't want to be a soldier any more."
"No, I don't think so," answered Maurice.
Pierre smoked his cigarette, then took a swig from his flask and lit up another. Finally he sat down on his bed and looked at Maurice, who was still very quiet. "May I take it that this humiliation has served to repay my offences against you?"
"Entirely, Monsieur Bertrand," Maurice answered, and stretched out his hand.
Pierre took it in a surprisingly gentle grasp and turned to the Vicomte. "I trust that by this penance I have also satisfied your sense of justice?"
Raoul simply nodded. He could not speak. Too many emotions which he himself could not understand had hold of him: on the one hand horror at what Pierre had recounted, on the other a deep pity for the man whose scars spoke all too clearly. Not for a moment did he doubt that Pierre had confessed his own life history and that every word had been pure truth. No-one could know such things who had not himself experienced them.
"You've knocked the nonsense out of my son and doubtless saved his life," said Maurice. "For that I am deeply in your debt."
Pierre looked at him with a wry grin. "And all without a single fact or figure."