Every man and woman in the crowd watched Georges Clemenceau, for his
presence dominated them all. Even the naturalness with which he sat in
his chair and looked at them from under his bushy eyebrows seemed part
of his greatness, part of his magnificent yet subtle simplicity. They
saw in him the man who had held up the sword-arm of France, a man who
could be stubborn with the stubbornness of a peasant. That round head of
his and that almost feline face had a shrewd and humorous benignity. The
Tiger could smile, he could hate, and he could love.
He began to speak to them, leaning back in his chair; his hands resting
on his thighs.
“Let me tell you that in the country men do not make speeches; they put
their hands to the plough and hoe; that is the eloquence we understand.
To-day I came to this village of yours to see if Monsieur Durand had
been telling me fairy tales, and I find a little family quarrel going
on, and someone has asked me to sit here as the head of the family to
decide who is right and who is wrong. At my age—and in these days—the
things that are right and good for our country seem so plain and so
simple that it is easy for us to judge whether a man is a good citizen
or not. The ruins and the very stumps of the dead trees call to us for
help. He who builds, he who plants, he who gives his sweat to France,
that man is the man whom we honour.”
He paused, smiling round at the listening and attentive faces. He was
speaking like a peasant to peasants, and he had his hand on their
hearts.
“Let me tell you that I have visited many villages. What happens? The
people crowd round me; they say: ‘Monsieur, when will the Government
help us? We have no material. What are we to do? It is sad, it is
tragic.’ And I say to them, ‘Work, children, work. Do not wait for the
bureaucrats and for indemnities. The world is a selfish world, and
officials do not hurry, but I will hurry them with all the strength that
is left to me. Our sufferings are not yet over, but let us suffer a
little longer for France. Work; look about you, do not sit still and
wait. Clear the ground—gather together what you can; we will see to it
that you have food and fuel. During the war we gave blood; now—we must
give our sweat.’ And they are good people; they see that I cannot
promise miracles and they forgive me.”
Paul Brent was lying in the little room listening to Monsieur
Clemenceau’s voice. His face was turned to the window that opened on the
garden, and he could see the line of the stone wall and the branches of
the lime trees making a broken pattern against the blue of the sky.
Beaucourt seemed very silent, extraordinarily silent, and yet Brent knew
that nothing but a brick wall separated him from all those people. The
street below the Café de la Victoire was as quiet as a court of justice,
and the voice of Clemenceau was the voice of a judge.
Marie Castener sat on the chair beside the bed, a big, blond, patient
woman, who listened intently to all that the great man said. Now and
again she nodded her head and made some comment. “Yes, that’s sound
sense.” “This man gets to the heart of things.” “We make our own
miracles.” “Listen, Manon is speaking.”
They heard Manon’s voice coming out of that same silence, the profound
silence of men and women whose sympathies are challenged by some drama
of life that stirs their emotions, their loves, and their hates. They
had listened to Clemenceau with stolidity and interest, but when Manon
Latour began to speak to them their eyes lit up with living passion.
Into the open space where Bibi and Ledoux were standing someone had
pushed Pompom Crapaud, and at the sight of this sinister little devil
still carrying his tin of petroleum, the crowd uttered its first cry of
anger. These peasants looked meaningly at each other. Mouths and eyes
hardened. A house had become a sacred object in Beaucourt, and Crapaud
had been caught in an act of sacrilege.
Manon was standing beside her chair. The sight of Crapaud angered her as
it angered the crowd.
“What had we done to you that you should wish to burn our home?”
Crapaud giggled. He found himself between Bibi and Ledoux and facing
Clemenceau, that grim old badger with the white moustache. Fear made him
impudent and vicious. He leered up at the blind and sullen face of Louis
Blanc, and at the uncertain and flickering eyes of Lazare Ledoux.
“You look cheerful—you two!”
He nudged Bibi with his elbow and was shrugged aside by an angry jerk of
Blanc’s big body. Bibi was sulky and furious; these “roughs” were of no
more use to him.
“Get out!”
Crapaud was jostled against Ledoux, who looked like a great melancholy
bird disturbed on its perch. Ledoux was afraid. His red eyes could find
nothing pleasant upon which they could come to rest.
“The capitalists have got us, old man!”
“Shut up, you fool.”
Manon had begun to speak, and in that little, quiet room Paul Brent had
held out a hand to Marie Castener. Instinctively she drew a motherly
chair nearer to the bed.
“Can you hear?”
“Yes; she is telling them everything.”
Paul lay and looked at the blue sky. His body ached; it hurt him to
breathe, but he was conscious of a great tranquillity, the contentment
of a sick man who surrenders himself and his fate to the care of others.
“I am glad,” he said.
Manon was invisible to them, but her voice and the words that she
uttered made her visible to Paul Brent. She was speaking very slowly,
and with the naïve persuasiveness of a complete and intimate simplicity.
Brent could picture her standing on the raised path in front of her
house, rather pale but very determined, looking steadily at these many
familiar faces, her eyes as dark as her coal-black hair. She did not
hesitate or search for dramatic effect, but told them the tale of her
house of adventure—how the English soldier—Paul Brent—had come into
her life, how Bibi had grown jealous of their home, and how his brute
violence had lost him his sight. She did not attempt to excuse Paul’s
concealment of his identity, but she explained it.
“I will tell you,” she said, “how it came about. He had been in an
English prison before the war; he had made himself responsible for
another man’s rogueries. After the war he did not wish to return to
England, but he desired to begin life again as a Frenchman. He came to
Beaucourt where he had buried his friend, and here we met again, by
chance—for he had billeted himself in my cellar.”
She held the crowd on the most delicate of threads, and instinctively
she made haste to strengthen it.
“Many of you will ask me why I trusted him, a man who was a deserter,
and almost a stranger to me. I will tell you.
“He had helped me to bury my treasure. When I returned to Beaucourt, it
was still there. . . .
“He intended to go away; it was I who asked him to stay. . . .
“He told me the whole truth from the very beginning, and when we
realized that we loved each other, and that he wished to marry me and
remain in Beaucourt, he told the truth to Messieurs Lefèbre and Durand,
and this very week he was to have surrendered himself to the English in
order that our marriage might be honest and clean.”
It was Bibi who interrupted her, and it was this very interruption that
gave her the inspiration that she needed.
“It is rather late in the day—to marry.”
She turned to Bibi with a calm frankness.
“You hear what this man says? I will answer him. Had I given my whole
self to my betrothed, would Louis Blanc be the man to accuse me of
shame? But it is not so.”
She faced the crowd again, with her hands on her bosom.
“Am I stripping myself that justice may be done to the man I love? Why
do I love him so much? Because he is not so stupid as most men, because
he did not ask me to give him the thing that most men ask for, because I
could trust him. He helped to build my house; he helped to make my home;
he protected me. We are lovers, yes, but he waited, he held back. Do we
love men who are generous and honourable and masters of their own
bodies? Or do we worship the animal?—the beast that seizes love by the
throat and makes it nothing but a carcass? I stand by the man who has
given me the labour of his hands, the man whom I love because he does
good things. Have not the war and these ruins made us long for a life
that looks happily at children and trees and gardens—the clean linen
hanging in the orchard—the steady eyes of the quiet fellow who loves
you and works for you? Envy and violence are hateful to me. I ask to be
left alone with the man who healed the wounds of my home with the labour
of his hands.”
She stood in silence, holding out her hands to these peasants, and
instantly the crowd rose to her with passionate enthusiasm. She had won
them. She had given her heart into their hands, and they offered her
their human and simple blessing in return. Philipon the smith was the
first to give expression to the emotion that stirred them all. He came
to her behind the row of chairs and kissed Manon on the forehead.
“You have shown us your heart, and we see how good it is.”
The women were more deeply moved than the men, for only women know what
a good man means to a woman. They came crowding round Manon, holding out
their hands to her. Old Mère Vitry had tears in her eyes.
“Brave words, my child.”
“We believe it all—every word.”
“If he is English, what does it matter? He is a good man.”
Bibi was there in the midst of them, surrounded by petticoats, furiously
silent. His teeth showed in his black beard.
“These cows,” he said.
Someone heard him.
“He calls us cows! We women have something to say to him.”
Monsieur Lefèbre was on his feet, and his deep and pleasant voice was
calling for silence.
“My children, have patience. Let us be just. Monsieur Clemenceau is here
to judge; let us leave it to him.”
They obeyed Monsieur Lefèbre, and stood waiting for the old man in the
chair to speak to them. He had not moved, but sat there like a figure of
granite, imperturbable, inexorable. His eyes were fixed on Louis Blanc.
“Let us keep to facts,” he began, “the things that all of us can see and
understand. Louis Blanc, I am speaking to you.”
Bibi raised his blind face defiantly.
“Begin. I am ready.”
“You were a soldier?”
“I was a soldier; I have a medal.”
“Very good. But when you came back to Beaucourt, what did you do?”
“I wished to rebuild my hotel, but the luck was against me. There was no
labour to be had, and these people had thieved the best of the stuff.”
Anatole Durand interrupted him.
“That is not true. They took what lay ready to their hands—and they
have repaid it.”
Clemenceau smiled at Anatole.
“Please leave it to me, monsieur. Now, I ask you, Louis Blanc, did you
move a single brick or use your hands to help clearing the ruins?”
“No. It is not my way.”
“You are blind, now.”
“Yes.”
“We have been told how you came by your blindness. Do you deny it?”
Bibi’s face was all white and twisted.
“You have their word for it.”
“And your violence to-day tells us the truth. If you had no grudge
against these people, why did you lie, why did you raise a crowd against
them, why did you try to kill this man?”
Bibi shrugged.
“It can pass,” he said, and Clemenceau smiled.
“Now then, when you came to Beaucourt a second time, what did you do?”
“I put up a hut.”
“Yes?”
“I sold wine.”
“To the peasants?”
“No, to the workmen. I have no use for the cattle.”
“You made men drunk—sometimes?”
“It is possible.”
“Is it a good thing to make men drunk, to turn them into violent beasts,
when there is work to be done?”
“I am not God, monsieur.”
“Perhaps that is a blessing!”
“Madame Latour also sells wine, but that is nothing, I suppose! If an
angel makes men drunk!——”
“I will ask Beaucourt a question. Has the village been the worse for
Madame Latour’s wine?”
A number of voices replied to him.
“Never, monsieur, never.”
Monsieur Clemenceau had never ceased to watch Louis Blanc, but now he
let his eyes wander over the faces of the crowd. For half a minute he
remained silent, eyelids half closed, his head sunk between his
shoulders. Anatole was holding Manon’s arm and whispering something in
her ear. Lefèbre looked round at these people of his, and his eyes
blessed them.
Clemenceau was speaking again.
“Is there anyone in this crowd who has anything to bring against Madame
Latour’s partner?”
There was a short silence, but no one spoke.
“Nothing? Is there anyone here who can speak in his favour?”
Half a dozen voices were raised at once.
“Yes, monsieur, he has helped many of us.”
“He worked at my chimney.”
“He helped me with my roof.”
“And mine.”
“Without him I could never have got my walls straight.”
“He has given us his hands and his head.”
Clemenceau nodded. Then he sat up very straight in his chair, and made a
sign for them to be silent. His eyes seemed to light up; the colour of
them to deepen. His voice had a more ringing and passionate note, the
voice of the man who had inspired France.
“My children, it seems to me very simple. Let us look at these two men,
and at their lives. On the one hand you have this Englishman who works
with his hands, who is ready to help other people, who creates, who
restores. Behind me is the house which all of you know so well, a house
that was in ruins, but has become alive once more, a home. On the other
hand you have this Louis Blanc, a man who destroys, a man who is ready
to burn and to kill. What has he done for Beaucourt? Brought envy and
anger and drunkenness into it, turned Frenchmen against Frenchmen,
taught the religion of violence and of hate. My children, I am no bigot,
no Calvinist; sometimes I have hated the so-called good men, and loved
the sinners; but in this case my heart and head do not quarrel.”
He looked at Bibi, Ledoux and Crapaud.
“Louis Blanc, and you others, have you anything to say to me?”
Bibi folded his arms; he was defiant.
“Nothing.”
“And you?”
Lazare Ledoux’s eyes could not meet Clemenceau’s; he was capable of
nothing but mutterings.
“I am a Red. We do not waste words on the shopkeepers.”
It is doubtful whether Clemenceau heard him. He had risen from his
chair. His eyes flashed; that sturdy figure of his seemed to dilate and
to give a sudden impression of immense strength and passion. His right
hand shot out as though he was striking a blow; he pointed at Bibi.
“That man is evil; he is a bad Frenchman; I condemn him. Hatred
destroys; love builds up. What shall be done with him?”
There were cries from the crowd.
“We will not have him in Beaucourt.”
For a moment the street was in an uproar. Clemenceau had beckoned to
Manon, and he was speaking to her and to the three men, Lefèbre, Durand
and Philipon. The people saw Manon shaking her head. Philipon
interposed, moving that heavy and emphatic jaw of his, and beating the
air with his right fist as though spacing out the rhythm of his blunt
sentences. No one in the street could hear what he said, but they saw
the “Tiger’s” face light up.
He patted Philipon on the shoulder.
“Solomon! Let Beaucourt make its own laws and carry them out to-day. But
the man has property here?”
“He will sell it,” said the smith; “he will be glad to sell it. Yes.”
Anatole Durand had brought out his inevitable note-book.
“The site of the hotel and an orchard on the Rue de Bonnière. I will buy
the property—at any time. What do you say, Monsieur Lefèbre?”
“This is justice,” said the priest; “let us drive out the wolves.”
Philipon took the lead in the last act of this village drama. With his
hammer over his shoulder he marshalled the crowd in the Rue de Picardie,
made them a short speech, and then led them to the Place de l’Eglise.
Bibi, Ledoux and Crapaud marched in a bunch in the centre of the crowd,
guarded by the men. When they reached the Place de l’Eglise, Philipon
called a halt. He saluted the church, and standing on a block of
masonry, spoke these words to the people of Beaucourt:
“Here, in the centre of our village, we condemn these men, we cast them
out. Let them be accursed. Let them never show their faces again in
Beaucourt. Are we agreed?”
The crowd echoed his judgment.
“We cast them out,” was the burden of their cry.
They marched on down the Rue de Bonnière to Bibi’s buvette among the
apple trees, and here the crowd halted again with great orderliness and
in silence. A dozen or so of Goblet’s men were standing at the factory
gate, and three or four were with Barbe in the buvette, but they were
cowed, and made no attempt to interfere. Barbe, spitting like a cat, was
brought down into the street. The tin of petroleum was taken from Pompom
Crapaud, and Philipon, like some inexorable priest offering up a
sacrifice, drenched the piled chairs and tables and set the place
alight. The buvette blazed, and the crowd stood in silence, watching the
flames, and knowing that an act of primitive justice had been done.
“Allons!”
Philipon marshalled them again, with Bibi, the woman and the two men at
the head of the column. They moved on along the Bonnière road into the
wilderness that was ceasing to be a wilderness, and where Nature and the
hands of men were making the earth fruitful and good. They held on until
they reached the dead trees at Les Ormes, and here they cast off Bibi
and the others into the calm and acquiescent splendour of a summer
twilight.
Philipon stood like a black figure of fate, holding up his hammer.
“Outcasts,” he said, “go and learn to save France elsewhere. Never shall
you return to us. We peasants are obstinate. Go.”