the thieves.
We
just want to be left in peace.’ ‘We’ve been heroes long enough,’ said the oldest with a sigh. ‘Give us back our wives, our homes, our good wine.’ ‘Give us everything the good earth can provide,’ cried the young men as they returned from the grave, famished and voracious. ‘Lazarus must have enjoyed a good meal after his resurrection; how well he must have slept in his warm bed. Let us eat, drink, love. As for all the rest, we’ve had enough.’
The crowd welcomed the parade, the soldiers, Joffre and Foch and the foreign kings, cheered them on, but in their hearts they remained sad and nervous. People said that the soldiers marching beneath the Arc de Triomphe had never actually seen combat, that, as usual, glory was reserved for some and death for the others. And, no matter where you looked, there was nothing but mourning veils and armbands, children dressed in black.
A bitter wind blustered through the flags. The English and the Americans were having a good time. From the old dirty taxis that looked as if they’d been at the Battleof the Marne, they leaned out, kissed the women. On the pavements, disabled war veterans passed by in small wheelchairs. Pierre, pale and thin, unrecognisable with his forehead and arm covered in bandages, limped slowly along, supported by Agnès; he was bumped a bit in the mêlée, not maliciously, but because no one really noticed the wounded any more. During four years of war people had got used to seeing them. They no longer aroused either admiration or affection. ‘We don’t rank high nowadays,’ thought Pierre. ‘They pity us, of course, but only superficially and because we make them feel uncomfortable. But their pity will disappear long before our wounds heal.’ Like his fellow soldiers, Pierre was utterly exhausted: exhausted physically, mentally, spiritually. He didn’t know what to do: return to Saint-Elme and accept old Hardelot’s offer, or try to make his own way, as he’d done before the war. But everything was more difficult now than it had been in 1911.
He had gone to see his former employers.
‘They’ve kept my job for me,’ he told Agnès. ‘They assured me that as far as I was concerned, nothing had changed. But I’m not as valuable to them as I used to be and they know it. Just look at me. They want to send me to Brazil, to a region that is barely civilised. “You’ll be riding a lot,” they said. “You’re an excellent horseman.’ ”
He stumbled a bit on the paving stones of the Rue Royale. ‘That’s all in the past.
I’m
all in the past.’
‘Don’t they have anything for you in Europe?’ Agnès asked softly.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do you know what they told me? That Europe was too small for everyone coming back. And we thought we’d killed too many people. It seems we were wrong. It wasn’t enough, apparently.’
There was dancing in the streets. On a platform draped in the French flag, a blind soldier, who was extremely young, swayed to the music in the arms of an older woman who wore too much make-up. She was leading and, when the music stopped, she held on to him and planted a long wet kiss on his mouth with her thick red lips. And the soldier, the soldier just laughed, letting himself be led through the darkness by the horrible creature. At Weber’s some American officers were breaking the windows.
It was the final war. There would never be another. The thirst for blood had been satisfied. Not only was it necessary to forget the war: it had to be vilified in people’s memory. People rushed towards the dance halls and restaurants. They crushed themselves into Claridge’s and the Carlton dining rooms. It was evening. Dead leaves swirled about as if it were October. Above the mad, carefree and, in spite of everything, deathly sad city, above the pretence and the tears, a reddish, turbulent dusk began to fall. To attract the Americans, ordinary women and prostitutes placed widows’ veils over
We
just want to be left in peace.’ ‘We’ve been heroes long enough,’ said the oldest with a sigh. ‘Give us back our wives, our homes, our good wine.’ ‘Give us everything the good earth can provide,’ cried the young men as they returned from the grave, famished and voracious. ‘Lazarus must have enjoyed a good meal after his resurrection; how well he must have slept in his warm bed. Let us eat, drink, love. As for all the rest, we’ve had enough.’
The crowd welcomed the parade, the soldiers, Joffre and Foch and the foreign kings, cheered them on, but in their hearts they remained sad and nervous. People said that the soldiers marching beneath the Arc de Triomphe had never actually seen combat, that, as usual, glory was reserved for some and death for the others. And, no matter where you looked, there was nothing but mourning veils and armbands, children dressed in black.
A bitter wind blustered through the flags. The English and the Americans were having a good time. From the old dirty taxis that looked as if they’d been at the Battleof the Marne, they leaned out, kissed the women. On the pavements, disabled war veterans passed by in small wheelchairs. Pierre, pale and thin, unrecognisable with his forehead and arm covered in bandages, limped slowly along, supported by Agnès; he was bumped a bit in the mêlée, not maliciously, but because no one really noticed the wounded any more. During four years of war people had got used to seeing them. They no longer aroused either admiration or affection. ‘We don’t rank high nowadays,’ thought Pierre. ‘They pity us, of course, but only superficially and because we make them feel uncomfortable. But their pity will disappear long before our wounds heal.’ Like his fellow soldiers, Pierre was utterly exhausted: exhausted physically, mentally, spiritually. He didn’t know what to do: return to Saint-Elme and accept old Hardelot’s offer, or try to make his own way, as he’d done before the war. But everything was more difficult now than it had been in 1911.
He had gone to see his former employers.
‘They’ve kept my job for me,’ he told Agnès. ‘They assured me that as far as I was concerned, nothing had changed. But I’m not as valuable to them as I used to be and they know it. Just look at me. They want to send me to Brazil, to a region that is barely civilised. “You’ll be riding a lot,” they said. “You’re an excellent horseman.’ ”
He stumbled a bit on the paving stones of the Rue Royale. ‘That’s all in the past.
I’m
all in the past.’
‘Don’t they have anything for you in Europe?’ Agnès asked softly.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do you know what they told me? That Europe was too small for everyone coming back. And we thought we’d killed too many people. It seems we were wrong. It wasn’t enough, apparently.’
There was dancing in the streets. On a platform draped in the French flag, a blind soldier, who was extremely young, swayed to the music in the arms of an older woman who wore too much make-up. She was leading and, when the music stopped, she held on to him and planted a long wet kiss on his mouth with her thick red lips. And the soldier, the soldier just laughed, letting himself be led through the darkness by the horrible creature. At Weber’s some American officers were breaking the windows.
It was the final war. There would never be another. The thirst for blood had been satisfied. Not only was it necessary to forget the war: it had to be vilified in people’s memory. People rushed towards the dance halls and restaurants. They crushed themselves into Claridge’s and the Carlton dining rooms. It was evening. Dead leaves swirled about as if it were October. Above the mad, carefree and, in spite of everything, deathly sad city, above the pretence and the tears, a reddish, turbulent dusk began to fall. To attract the Americans, ordinary women and prostitutes placed widows’ veils over
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