"Franzosen!"
"What do they want?"
"Brot!"
"Then go ahead. Go ahead!"
She sees me there looking, too . . . me and Lili and Bébert the cat! the younger one comes over and speaks to me in French: "I beg your pardon, Monsieur, are you waiting for bread too?" "Yes, I have the honor! it won't be long now . . . haven't you heard the bells? . . ." "Oui, oui, Monsieur! . . ." Our beggars were howling now . . . and kicking the drawbridge . . . sick of waiting . . . "Bastards! profiteers! traitors! There's bread in there! . . ."
Bzing. Boom!
"Hang Laval! stinker! bread! . . . shit! . . . Brinon! . . . cocksucker!
bread!.
. . "
The
anger was rising . . .
There were at least
three hundred of them howling for bread! . , . climbing, crossing the moat . . .
Bzing zoom
against the drawbridge! . . . you can imagine, that drawbridge was massive, there could have been three thousand of them . . . quite a chunk of furniture . . . a whole army could have passed over it, artillery and all! the itching villains could bat their brains out! the more they hammered the less it moved! in my opinion this whole bread routine was a sweet little trap laid by Raumnitz to nab the malcontents . . . load all those troublemakers in
a
box car bound for some camp . . . "this way, my petulant friends!" The Krauts are slippery, slimy . . . you can expect anything! take the music halls, all the prestidigitators are Boche! . . . that proves it . . . and Göbbels is the champion! . . . you can't trust them around the corner! . . . "Little soldier boy! Gare de l'Est! . . . nothing to fear! pile right in!" . . . two million dead!
I could see it was a trap . . . a provocation . . . I kept my eye on that crevasse . . . at the bottom of the rockpile . . . where the two women had come from . . . sneaky-looking . . . and why the two pink parasols? . . . and those green and gray peplums covered with spiderwebs? . . . what cellar had they come out of? . . . search me . . . Better ask the one who speaks French . . . "You live there? . . . in the basement? Madame?" She had spoken to me, there was no impertinence in asking her where she'd come from . . .
"Yes, Monsieur . . . yes . . . and you? are you from Paris?"
"But to whom have I the honor, Madame?"
"Companion to the Princess."
The Princess wasn't very outgoing . . . she doesn't like us . . . she looks the other way . . . her nose tells me . . . I try to get a better look . . . three, four warts . . .
"Princess who?" I ask.
"Hermilie of Hohenzollern . . ."
That set me straight . . . she must have been telling the truth . . . the nose was right . . . I'd seen enough Hohenzollern phizzes in the last few months, their portraits in all the corridors of the Castle . . . on all the walls . . . eagle beak with a bud on the end . . . all with one, two . . . three lavender warts! yes, even the very old portraits . . . from the tenth . . . or eleventh century . . . noses like hers, hooked, with lavender warts at the end . . . like this princess . . . Seemed funny we'd never met her in her own Castle . . . believe me, there were lots of people in the Castle . . . every floor . . . fourteen ministers, plus Brinon . . . fifteen generals . . . seven admirals . . . and a Chief of State . . . with their staffs and retinues! . . . but her, we'd never seen her . . . hidden away sulking . . . neither Lili nor myself . . . especially Lili who went all over . . . they must have been living at the bottom of a tunnel . . . and they'd come out just on time for bread . . . for the big banquet . . . when the rebels were out of control . . .
Gzing! boom!
. . . and the curses . . . Hermilie all dignity with her parasol paying no attention to the riffraff . . . speaking only to her companion . . . say, she wanted her bread bad . . .
nun! nun!
prodding her timid companion! . . .
nun! nun!
she should pound too! and not let these 1,142 howlers take her turn!
bzing! bam!
as if the bread was owing to them! pounding! pounding! the insolent horde! Just then the clarion ; . . yes, at that exact moment . . . on the other side of the rampart . . . sounds the general salute . . . the Castle guard . . . not Boche clarions, Boche clarions are like bugles . . . no . . . real ones . . . you'd have thought you were at Lunéville . . . or La Pépiniére barracks . . . the drawbridge jolts . . . the chains, the pulleys . . . it moves . . . downward . . . very slowly . . . it drops . . .
Bam!
. . . there it is . . . flat on the ground . . . This was it! We expected a troop of flunkeys loaded with baskets full of loaves, brioches, sausages and petit-fours. . . a beautiful handout . . .
Hell, no! . . . it's cops that come out . . . first three or four . . . then at least fifty shuppos in a big wood-burning truck . . . and then another crowd of cops . . . the French police . . . and after them . . . the Marshal! . . . yes, the Marshal! . . . to the left and behind him, Debeney . . . General Debeney, the one who was amputated . . . but no more bread than butter up your ass . . . the Marshal . . . out for an outing . . . that's what the 1,142 zebras had been waiting for! . . . you might have expected . . . not at all! . . . that they'd chew him out something terrible . . . that it was a shame! a disgrace! him and his sixteen food cards . . . not at all! . . . everybody knew! . . . and knew he ate them all up! that he didn't leave a crumb for anybody! that his appetite was remarkable . . . not to mention the total comfort . . . housed like a king! . . . him who was responsible for everything! Verdun! Vichy! and all the rest! and all our misery! all the fault of Pétain! Pétain up there, housed like a dream! . . . a whole floor to himself! . . . heated! . . . with four meals a day! . . . sixteen cards plus presents from the Fuhrer, coffee, cologne, silk shirts . . . a regiment of cops at his beck and call . . . a staff general . . . four cars . . .
You would have expected that crowd of roughnecks to do something . . . to jump him . . . to disembowel him . . . not at all . . . just a few sighs . . . they step aside . , . they watch him start on his outing . . . his cane out ahead . . . and off we go . . . and dignified . . . he answers their greetings . . . men and women . . . little girls: curtseys . . . the Marshal's walk . . . but no bread, no sausage . . . Hermilie of Hohenzollern doesn't greet him though . . . thornier, more forbidding than ever . . .
Komm! Komm!
. . . to her lady-in-waiting . . . they disappear . . . they don't even say goodby . . . into the hole they had come by . . . the slit in the rock-pile . . . she and her companion . . . no more Hermilie! no more lady-in-waiting . . . they were gone under the Castle . . . ah, they hadn't got any bread either! . . . hell! . . . neither had we . . . damn! . . . Lili and Bébert and I . . . we'd sort of come for that . . . we hadn't time to be sad . . . I see Marion! I catch sight of him. . . Marion, the only one who had any heart . . . who never forgot us . . . who always came to the
Löwen
, bringing whatever he could . . . not much . . . a few leftovers . . . mostly rolls . . . there were rolls in the Castle . . . not very many, but say three four to each minister . . . sometimes it's not so bad being a minister . . . Marion always thought of us . . . and Bébert. . . his big joke was when Bébert played Lucien . . . Lucien Descaves° . . . I put my muffler on Bébert . . . with his bristling moustaches he looked just like Lucien Descaves . . . that was our little joke . . . ah, it's far away . . . no more Lucien . . . no more Marion . . . no more Bébert! all gone!. . . with our memories! slowly, slowly . . .
As I was telling you . . . I see Marion . . . He was on the outing, too . . . but far from Pétain . . . they weren't on speaking terms anymore . . . far from it! . . in all regimes at all times, the ministers hate each other. . . and worst when everything is falling apart . . . absolute hostility! . . . a frenzy of rancor . . . they'd got to the point where they couldn't even look at each other. . . it rankled so bad they'd have massacred each other at the table . . . at meals . . . they sharpened their knives during the cheese course so menacingly that all the wives stood up! "Come! Come!" . . . and made their ministers, generals, admirals leave the table . . . they were on the point of drawing their swords! boiling! oh, it's the same all over . . . Berchtadgaden, Vichy, the Kremlin, the White House, no places to be during the cheese course . . . not with the Hanover-Windsors either . . . which explains why on this walk distances were kept . . . Protocol! . . . no question of arm in arm . . . far apart . . . all very far apart . . . way in the lead the Marshal Chief of State, all alone! his one-armed chief of staff Debeney three steps behind to the left . . . further on a minister . . . further still another . . . strung out at least a hundred yards . . . and then the cops . . . the whole procession at least two-miles long . . . Say what you like . . . I can speak freely because he detested me . . . Pétain was our last King of France. "Philip the Last! . . ." the stature, the majesty, the works . . . and he believed in it . . . first as victor at Verdun . . . then, at the age of seventy and then some promoted to Sovereign! Who could have resisted? . . . A pushover! "Oh, Monsieur le Marechal, how you incarnate France!" That incarnation jazz is magic . . . if somebody said to me: "Céline, damn it all, how you incarnate the
Passage!
the
Passage
is you! all you!"—I'd go out of my mind! take any old hick, tell him to his face that he incarnates something . . . you'll see, he'll go crazy . . .
you've pierced his heart! . . . he won't know which way is up . . . Once Pétain incarnated France, he didn't care if it was fish or flesh, gibbet, Paradise or High Court, Douaumont, Hell, or Thorez . . . he was the incarnation! . . . that's the only real genuine happiness: incarnation . . . you could cut his head off . . . he'd go right on incarnating . . . his head would run along all by itself, perfectly happy, seventh heaven! Chariot shooting Brasillach!
°
he was in seventh heaven too! another incarnator! both in seventh heaven, both incarnations! . . . And Laval?
Even under much more modest circumstances . . . more practical, too . . . this incarnation racket performs little miracles! in the food department, for instance! . . . suppose tomorrow they start rationing us again . . . that you're short in everything . . . don't beat your brains out . . . the incarnation trick will save you . . . you take any old hayseed, any provincial writer, and you go up to him! you grab hold of him, you petrify him right there in front of you . . . And you bellow at him: "Man alive, you're the one and only . . . the living incarnation of Poitou! . . . Those precious thirty-two pages of yours! The whole of Poitou!" That does it! You'll never want for anything after that! packages from the farm! . . . You do it again in Normandy! . . . Deux-Sèvres! and Finistère! You'll have enough for five, six wars and twelve famines! . . . you won't know where to store your ten, twelve tons of packages! Incarnators are tireless givers . . . they keep piling it on . . . you've only got to keep telling them that they've got the whole Drôme in their work! . . . the Jura! . . . Mayenne! . . . Roquefort if you like cheese! . . . I'm not seeing things . . . take Denoël! . . . Denoël the assassinated . . . a slimy two-timer if ever there was one, but very Belgian and practical . . . all in all, now he's a corpse, if I compare him to what came after him, it's really a shame! . . . Two days before he was murdered I wrote him from Copenhagen: "Clear out . . . damn it! . . . make tracks . . . the rue Amélie is no place for you . . ." He didn't split, people never do what I say . . . they think they're guaranteed . . . amulets rubbed with onion . . . okay . . . if that's how they feel about it . . . anyway, the fact remains, that up to the time he was murdered he had all the butter he wanted, cheese, chicken, truffles . . . a sumptuous table . . . absolutely no trouble with his food supply! . . . he really lived well! . . . thanks to the Incarnationism of his authors . . . the revelation of their Mission . . . the Annunciation . . . but watch out . . . I'm warning you! . . . the thing is magic! . . . it can easily be fatal! . . . don't get intoxicated! . . . Witness Pétain! Witness Laval! Witness Louis XVI! Witness Stalin! . . . you go all out, nothing you can't get away with? . . . Goodby! . . . Playing the magician from province to province, unearthing incarnations of this one and that one . . . he lost his head . . . "Bravo! Charmed life! Nothing can touch me! . . ." But at midnight on the Place des Invalides, the charm broke! a cloud, the moon! the magic was gone . . . What finished Denoël, what put the quietus on his clowning, was his collection of provinces, the folklore addicts, the ecstatic incarnators of countrysides . . . the competing rat-racers: I! I! I! I'm Cornouailles! I'm Léon! . . . I'm Charente! . . . the epileptics of incarnation!
Nothing so unusual about it . . . "Kindly send Jeanne d'Arc!" I'll find you a dozen in every department . . . with packages thrown in . . . bologna . . . butter . . . whole carloads of cereals . . . turkeys . . . shepherd girls! . . .
"You have been entered in the Competition! . . . oh, how excellendy you incarnate Cameroon! . . ." the bananas start coming! . . . dates, pineapples! the whole Empire was coming to table . . . to his table! . . . believe you me . . . nothing was lacking . . . poor Denoël had really solved the problem of food supply . . .
Pétain was another . . . the Incarnation, it's me . . . Imperial! . . . Did he believe it? . . . He believed it all right . . . that's what he died of . . . total Incarnation!
All this blarney . . . I'm forgetting you . . . we were talking about the outing . . . well, the beginning . . . the Marshal on the drawbridge . . . Hermilie of Hohenzollern disappearing into the cellars with her lady-in-waiting . . . Pétain and Debeney step lively, they follow the Danube . . . the bank . . . the ritual walk . . . all alone up front . . . the ministers far behind . . . strung out . . . sulking, it looked like . . . And the little crowd of grumblers, waiting, their gastric juices ready for anything . . . nothing left for them but to vacate . . . They protested . . . but not too much . . . and went back to the stables, the attics, the
Fidelis
, the woods . . . what could they say? . . . all they could do was scratch . . . rip off their scabs . . . well, they'd scratch somewhere else . . .