THE COMMANDANT: We’ll manage without them. Always have to manage without them whenever there’s work to be done or things get dangerous. This is a police matter. And the police will act.
CÉCILE: My God!
ME: Don’t be afraid. I’ll save you a second time.
THE ADJUTANT (to me): Hey you, what’s in your hand?
PATROL MEMBER: Open your hand. Right, there’s something in his fist. Open your hand, mulatto bastard! A possessed man with a stone in hand, not a good idea. Drop it, you son of a bitch.
ME: NO.
THE COMMANDANT (slapping me): Drop it.
CÉCILE: For pity’s sake, throw it away.
THE COMMANDANT: Let’s go! Keep moving. The rest of you, make way! Clear out.
ME (to Cécile): It was from you.
CÉCILE: What?
ME: The stone.
CÉCILE: What do you mean?
ME: There was a letter wrapped around it.
CÉCILE: What letter?
ME: The one you threw to me from your window. I saw the stone fall and I went to get it. But alas, the letter was gone.
CÉCILE: Oh!
ME: Thank you all the same.
CÉCILE: I still have your poem. I find it very beautiful. I also write poems, I’d like to show them to you.
ME: You’ll read mine and I’ll read yours.
CÉCILE: There’s the prison!
ME: Don’t be afraid. I’m with you.
PATROL MEMBER: Take the girls this way.
ME: If they question you, just say: René is guilty. He made weapons and conspired against the security of the State. He alone is guilty.
CÉCILE: Is that true?
ME: Yes.
CÉCILE: You sound like a sensible man.
ME: Do you think I’m crazy like everyone else does?
CÉCILE: I don’t know. That’s what I’ve heard, but I don’t know anymore. I’ve known you since you were little and I feel as if I’m seeing you for the first time. Your eyes, your smile, they’re not the same.
ME: That’s because you never looked at me before today. In your eyes I was just a beggar. Misfortune has brought us together.
CÉCILE: I hate the prefect, I hate the commandant, I hate them all. They disgust me and I’d like to see them dead.
ME: Don’t forget, Cécile, I’m the guilty one, I’m guilty, you have to say that.
THE COMMANDANT: Stop whispering, you two! Separate them. And bring me the girls.
ME: Farewell, Cécile.
CÉCILE: Farewell, René.
SIMON (to André): Stand up straight, old man. I’m scared too, and your brother’s body is heavy, but I’m holding up well enough.
ANDRÉ: I’ve never been in very good health. Our mother died of consumption. And recently I’ve been spitting up a little blood, too.
SIMON: Bugger me! Look! There’s Germaine! She’ll stop at nothing to get us out. I know her. She’ll sleep with the entire patrol if it will help. A good black woman, yeah. She’s waving to us. It’s good to see her.
PATROL MEMBER (hitting Simon in the back): Shut your hole, white trash, and put down the body.
They dug a hole and dumped Jacques’ body. I was standing between Simon and André. All of us shuddered at the thud of the body in the ditch. Sweat dripping in our eyes, teeth knocking together from faintness and terror. They herded us with their rifle butts into a room where they lined us up faces against the wall. I heard Marcia crying; Cécile’s silence seemed brave and dignified. The commandant asked for coffee, ordered that we be locked up, and left the room followed by the others. We were separated from the women and thrown in a cell.
“Shit!” Simon said. “Our goose is cooked.”
“I’m hungry,” André mumbled.
“How can you be hungry at a time like this?” I asked.
“I’m hungry,” he repeated.
Almost all at once we sank into a deep sleep. At dawn, they woke us with kicks and we found ourselves in a room with the commandant and three men from the patrol sitting at a table. Two rickety green wooden benches leaned against the wall, and there were torture instruments on the table in front of the policemen.
Looking worried and important, the commandant started handling the objects laid out before him with ostentatious reserve.
“I have pointed out the serious charges against the defendants. They have criminal records and left prison barely three months ago. I’ve been kind, indulgent, and today I regret it.”
“What were they guilty of?” one of the three men asked.
“They were inciting a mob, shouting: ‘To arms!’”
“You pardoned them?” the same man exclaimed. “And you dare admit as much!”
“It would appear that these words are from a poem by Massillon Coicou,” the commandant admitted sheepishly.
“Who is this Massillon Coicou?” the man asked. “Is he still in prison?”
“He’s dead,” the commandant answered. “At least, that’s what they’ve told me.”
“Do you hear the cry that resounded: ‘To arms!’” André said suddenly in deep, low voice.
“Silence!” the commandant shouted, “or I’ll break your neck… That verse, we checked it out and it really is from the poet Massillon Coicou. I thought a good beating and six months of detention would be enough punishment.”
“They’re making an ass out of you, Commandant,” one of the three men sniggered. “All one has to do is look in their eyes to see that they’re making an ass of you. That verse by Massillon Coicou, they’re using it to express their own feelings.”
“They’ll live to regret it, I swear,” the commandant hastened to assert.
“I find your zeal to be somewhat tepid,” added the one who had spoken first. “Don’t forget, we were ordered to suspect our own shadow and spare no one… Why don’t you begin the interrogation, Commandant Cravache?”
“You, white man, come forward,” the commandant said.
“Last name, first name, address and occupation,” one of the patrol members recited slowly while dipping a quill in an inkstand.
“Simon de la Pétaudière, French poet, residing in this province, cohabiting with Germaine, merchant on rue Chochotte.”
“Spare us the details,” one of the men pronounced slowly, “and go put yourself against the wall, arms crossed, feet together.”
“Next! Last name, first name, address and occupation?”
“André, son of Julie, poet, born and residing in this town, rue du Diable-Vauvert.”
“Speak up, imbecile!”
“Rue du Diable-Vauvert.”
“Have you heard of it, Commandant Cravache, Devil ‘Green Calf’ Street?” [60]
“No, but we’ll find it. They’re always holed up in ridiculous places, the swine.”
“Next! Hurry up. Last name, first name, address and occupation?”
“René, son of Angélie, malnourished poet.”
“Spare us your tales of malnutrition and just answer the questions.”
“René, son of Angélie, born in and residing in this town, rue de l’Enfer.” [61]
“Quite a brotherhood,” the commandant declared in annoyance. “All obsessed with the same fixed idea: speak French, write verse.”
“Rue de l’Enfer! Rue de l’Enfer! The streets of this town have ridiculous names!” exclaimed the patrol member who was writing everything down. “No wonder they shelter so many subversives.”
“Bring in the girls,” the commandant then ordered.
The adjutant entered, roughly pushing Marcia and Cécile before him.
“Here they are, Commandant.”