This morning, at first light, a formidable drum-roll woke me with a
start....
A drum-roll from amongst my pines at this hour!... What a ridiculous
thing. For goodness sake.
As quickly as I can, I jump out of bed and run to the door.
Nobody about! The noise has ceased.... From the midst of some wet wild
vines, a couple of curlews fly off noisily.... A light breeze sings in
the trees.... Towards the east, on the sharp ridge of the Alpilles, a
golden dust amasses, from which the sun slowly appears.... The day's
first sunbeam is already touching the roof of the windmill.
Immediately, the drum-roll starts again, hidden, this time from in the
fields....
The devil, I had forgotten about it. What sort of idiot, then, greets
the day from the middle of the woods with a drum?... I try my best to
get a look, but I can't see anyone.... Nothing except the tufts of
lavender and the pine trees which go down right to the road.... Perhaps
there is some goblin, hidden in the thicket, mocking me.... It must be
Ariel or Puck. The rascal must have said to himself as he passed my
windmill:
--That Parisian is much too tranquil in there, let's have a dawn
serenade for him.
Whereupon, he took up his big drum and ... more drum-rolls.... Will you
shut that thing up, Puck, you will wake up the cicadas.
* * * * *
It wasn't Puck.
It was Gouget Francois, called Pistolet, drummer in the 31st Battalion,
and right now on his biannual leave. Pistolet is bored stiff here and
he has his memories, and he has his drum, and--when someone from the
village wants to _borrow_ the instrument--he goes out and bangs the
damned drum in the woods, and dreams of the Prince-Eugène barracks,
back in Paris.
Today, he is honouring a small, green hillock with his reveries. There
he is, propping up a pine tree, his drum in his arms, having a field
day.... Partridges, alarmed, take to the air from under his feet; but
he doesn't notice them. Wild flowers bathe him in their scent; but he
doesn't smell them.
He doesn't see the fine spiders' webs vibrating in the sun amongst the
branches, nor the pine needles, which jump about on his drum.
Completely given over to his reverie and his music, he looks lovingly
at the blur of his whizzing drumsticks, and his large, dull face lights
up with pleasure at every roll.
"How lovely the great barracks is, with its large flagged courtyard,
its orderly, all in line windows, its men in military caps, and its low
arcades full of clattering mess-tins!...
"Oh, the echoing steps, the whitewashed corridors, the smelly
dormitory, the belts to be polished, the slab of bread, the tins of
polish, the iron bedsteads with grey covers, the gleaming rifles in the
rack.
"Oh, the good days with the corps, the cards that stick to your
fingers, the hideous queen of spades with her feathered charms, the old
newspaper, pages missing, scattered on the beds....
"Oh, the long nights on guard at the Ministry's door, the old sentry
box which rains in, the frozen feet!... The carriages which splash you
going past!... Oh, the extra fatigues, the days without break, the
stinking wash tub, the wooden pillow, the reveille on cold, wet
mornings, the retreat in fog and at lights on time, the evening
call-out that finds you late and breathless!
"Oh, the bois de Vincennes, the thick, white, cotton gloves, the walks
on the fortifications.... Oh, the Military School entrance, the loose
women, the sound of the cornet at the Salon de Mars, the absinth in the
bars, the shared secrets between hiccoughs, the sabres drawn, the
sentimental tale told hand on heart...."
* * * * *
Dream on, poor man! I won't be the one to stop you.... Hit your drum
and hit it hard, hit it as hard as you can. I have no right to ridicule
you.
So, you are nostalgic for your barracks; am I not just as nostalgic for
mine?
My Paris haunts me just like yours. You--you play your drum among the
pines. Me--I write here.... What a right pair of Provencal people we
are. Back in Paris, we miss our Alpilles and the smell of wild
lavender. Right here and right now, bang in the middle of Provence, we
miss our barracks, and everything that reminds us of it is so dear to
us!...
* * * * *
Eight o'clock strikes in the village. Pistolet, drumsticks at the
ready, starts on his way back.... He can be heard, playing non-stop,
coming down from the woods.... Me--I lie down in the grass, overwhelmed
with nostalgia. As the drum fades into the distance, All my own
familiar Paris passes before my eyes, there amongst the pines....
Ah, Paris!... Paris!... Paris for ever!