The Praetorians by Jean Lartéguy

the gorge. Someswallows skimmed low over them and they could hear the muffled whistling sound produced by their wings.
    Esclavier propped himself up on his elbow:
    â€œRight and Left alike, the whole of France rejoiced at the fall of the régime. But not those, of course, who relied for their bread-and-butter on the big racketeers in Paris!”
    â€œIt seems to me a little too simple to account for the 13 th of May by disgust for what you call ‘the big racketeers.’ What about the parade at the Place de la République?”
    â€œCarnival always ends up with a masquerade.”
    Philippe was thinking of a photograph of his brother-in-law Michel, draped in a cape that was too long for him, parading with a placard saying “Down with Fascism.” That photograph had been given a big splash in
Influences.
    Throughout those days when they were scanning the skies of Paris for the arrival of the paratroops, Michel Weihl-Esclavier had played the rôle of Brutus, while taking certain precautions, of course. . . .
    Irène plucked a blade of grass:
    â€œA people without weapons could not stand up against a professional army, all the same.”
    â€œWhen a people wants to fight it will always find weapons. This time it merely sat back and jeered at the discomfiture of a gang of dirty crooks!”
    â€œYou talk like a Fascist.”
    â€œNo, I’m not a Fascist. The only temptation I might have had is towards Communism. But I should have to be even more disgusted with the world. People of my sort turn to Communism for the same reason they commit suicide.”
    Irène was lying on her stomach, nibbling the blade of grass, and this gesture reminded her of her childhood and her first love affair. At that time she too had proved intolerant.
    It was a commonplace, ludicrous story, the sort that makes adults laugh (and the laughter wounds the adolescents deeply).
    She was sixteen and was on holiday at Saint-Gilles. Since she had passed the first part of her baccalaureate, she considered herself quite a figure. He was seventeen, the son of an Italian mason, as handsome as the young gods she had seen at theLouvre and Palazzo Vecchio. Like them, he had a jutting forehead reminiscent of a young he-goat, and a smooth, flat, rather effeminate body. He always left his shirt unbuttoned to show off his naked chest.
    They were lying in a field behind the graveyard. She was talking to him about life, death, destiny, love, and for her these words were mere celluloid balls, weightless, with which she juggled.
    He was nibbling a blade of grass, gazing at her, and every now and then he rubbed his cheek against her leg.
    â€œYou’re not listening to me, Giulio,” she said.
    â€œWhy should I? I love you.”
    â€œWe’ll get married and I’ll be poor, like you.”
    â€œI shall work and your father will give us a little money. But we’ll have to wait before getting married. In the first place, your father must like me. This evening I’ll go fishing in a pool I know, near Goat Bridge, and bring him back a dish of trout. When they’re in season I’ll bring him some thrushes. He enjoys his food, doesn’t he?”
    The image of the youth dissolved; he had been only a holiday love affair. Giulio had never kissed her, although she had asked him to.
    â€œI’ll kiss you,” he told her, “the day we become engaged. We mustn’t spoil it.”
    Since then Irène had always “spoilt” everything. She now longed to rub her cheek against Esclavier’s leg. It would be a friendly gesture, which meant nothing, like the caress of a pet animal.
    The day before, they had gone down to the coast to bathe. Irène had been disturbed by the sight of Esclavier’s tall body stretched out on the sand, that scar on his chest which was going purple, and, on his thighs, arms and back, and even his neck, those marks of other, older, wars.
    â€œI hate