In the clear light of early morning the quarters were full of the
passing to and fro of the men on duty, sweeping the cobbles, or
grooming down the horses. At the far end of the yard, clothed in his
canvas trousers and dirty blouse, stood Private Bonmont, with his
comrades, Privates Cocot and Briqueballe, peeling potatoes in front
of a cauldron full of water. Now and then a squad, under the conduct
of a non-commissioned officer, rushed down the stairs like a torrent,
scattering on its way the invincible gaiety of the young.
The most characteristic feature of these men who had been taught
to march was their step, a heavy, laboured step, crushing and
sonorous. Important-looking pay-sergeants continually passed by
with account-books of all sizes under their arms. Privates Bonmont,
Cocot and Briqueballe were peeling potatoes and throwing them into
the cauldron, and as they did so they gave vent to the most harmless
of thoughts in words that were few but of an exceeding coarseness.
Private Bonmont was thinking deeply.
In front of him, beyond the barrack gates that closed in the courtyard
of the huge building, stretched a circle of hills with villas nestling
in the purple branches of the trees, and sparkling in the morning sun.
There resided the actresses and light women brought to the town by
the presence of Private Bonmont. A whole swarm of women, bookmakers,
journalists belonging to sporting and military papers, jockeys,
procurers, male and female, and swindlers of all descriptions, had
settled down in the vicinity of the barracks where the rich conscript
was serving his time. As he peeled the potatoes, he might have
congratulated himself on being able to bring together so Parisian a
society at so great a distance from Paris. But he knew life well and
men better, so his pride was in no way flattered by the achievement.
He was worried and morose. Life held only one ambition for him, and
that was the badge of the Brécé Hunt. He longed for it with inherited
tenacity, with the forcefulness that his father, the great Baron, had
shown in his conquest of souls, bodies, and things, but not with the
deep, clear-sighted thought or genius of his stupendous parent. He
felt himself inferior to his wealth; this made him unhappy, and, in
consequence, spiteful.
“They only give their blessed badge to dukes and peers, I know,” he
reflected. “The Brécés are overrun with Americans and Jewesses, and I’m
as good as they any day!”
He threw his peeled potato angrily into the cauldron, at which Private
Cocot, with a big laugh and a big oath, cried out:
“There he goes, upsetting the broth, damn him!”
And Briqueballe, who was a simple soul, and of the same year, made
merry at the jest. He rejoiced, too, at the thought that he would soon
see his father, who was a harness-maker at Cayeux, and his home again.
“That old hypocrite Guitrel will do nothing for me,” thought Private
Bonmont. “He is a clever chap is Guitrel, cleverer than I ever thought.
He has made his own conditions. So long as he is not bishop he will not
say anything to his friends, the Brécés. He is a deep beggar, and no
mistake!”
“Bonmont,” said Briqueballe, “stop chucking the peelings into the pot!”
“It’s a dirty trick!” said Cocot.
“I’m not on duty this week,” objected Bonmont.
Thus spoke these three men because they were on an equal footing.
Bonmont went on thinking:
“I can do without Guitrel. There are plenty of others who will get the
badge for me. Terremondre, for instance; he knows the Brécés well.
His family is quite good, and he’s all right--but not to be relied
upon; he’s a dodger, a regular dodger! He’ll promise everything and do
nothing.”
“I couldn’t very well ask old Traviès, who goes out helping Rivoire the
poacher. There is General Cartier de Chalmot; he’d only have to open
his mouth--but the old crock hates me.”
These were Private Bonmont’s opinions, and they were not altogether
unfounded. General Cartier de Chalmot did not like him. “If little
Bonmont were under me I’d make him sit up,” he was in the habit of
saying. As for the General’s wife, her indignation regarding him knew
no bounds since the day she had heard him say at a ball: “Putting all
sentiment aside, mother is too damned lazy.” No, young Bonmont was not
mistaken, it was no good looking for help either from the General or
his wife.
He searched his memory to try and discover some one to render him the
service which Guitrel had refused him. M. Lerond? He was too cautious.
Jacques de Courtrai? He was in Madagascar.
Young Bonmont heaved a deep sigh. As he peeled his last potato a sudden
inspiration came to him.
“Supposing I made Guitrel a bishop! That would be rich!”
As this idea flashed through his brain a torrent of curses sounded in
his ears.
“_Nom de Dieu! Nom de Dieu! Misère de misère!_” yelled Briqueballe
and Cocot, as a shower of soot fell suddenly upon them, around them,
and into the cauldron, soiling their wet fingers, and blackening the
potatoes, which a moment before had been ivory white.
Looking up to seek the cause of their trouble, they espied through
the black shower some of their comrades upon the roof removing a long
chimney flue, and shaking out the soot with which it was filled. As
they caught sight of them, Cocot and Briqueballe cried as with one
voice:
“Hi! you up there! what the devil are you doing?”
And they hurled at their comrades all the curses their simple souls
could conjure up. They were innocent curses, full of genuine anger, and
they filled the barrack yard with echoes in the accents of Picardy and
Burgundy. Then the face of Sergeant Lafile, with its slight moustache,
appeared over the edge of the roof, and, amid the sudden silence, a
sarcastic voice rasped out these words:
“Three days for you two down there. Do you understand?”
Briqueballe and Cocot stood overwhelmed by the hard blows of fate and
discipline, while their companion, Private Bonmont, reflected:
“I can make a bishop right enough. I’ve only got to speak to Huguet,
and it’s done!”
Huguet was then president of the council. His cabinet was a moderate
one, supported by the Conservatives. When forming it, Huguet had been
careful to safeguard capital, gaining thereby a calm self-confidence
and not a little pride. He was Minister of Finance, and was supposed to
have given stability to the public credit, which had been shaken by his
Radical predecessor.
He had not always been so clever a statesman. He had been a Radical in
his hard-working youth, a Radical, and a revolutionary even. He had
been private secretary to the late Baron de Bonmont, for whom he wrote
books and edited papers. In those days he was a democrat, and a dreamer
in matters of finance. That was the baron’s wish, for the great man
was anxious to conciliate the progressive factions of Parliament, and
therefore liked to appear generous and even something of a dreamer too.
This was what he called “giving himself room.” It was he who made his
secretary member for Montil; Huguet owed everything to him, and young
Bonmont realized all this.
“I shall only have to say the word to Huguet,” he thought. That was
how he put it to himself, at any rate. But he was not really sure of
it, for he knew that M. Huguet, President of the Council, was careful
to avoid any encounter with Private Bonmont, and did not like to be
reminded of the old ties that had associated him with the great baron,
who had died so opportunely, amid dawning rumours of scandal. So,
on second thoughts, Private Bonmont sagely decided that it would be
necessary to find some one else.
He sat down upon the ground beside the pump, that he might be able
to think more at his ease, and was soon lost in meditation. In his
imagination every person who might, he thought, prove capable of
disposing of the episcopal crozier and mitre filed in a long procession
before him. Monseignor Charlot, M. de Goulet, Worms-Clavelin, the
_préfet_, Madame Worms-Clavelin, and M. Lacarelle crossed his mental
vision, and many others beside. He was awakened from his reverie by
Private Jouvencie, licentiate in law, pumping water down his back.
“Jouvencie,” said Bonmont solemnly, wiping his neck, “what is Loyer
minister of?”
“Loyer? Minister of Public Instruction and Public Worship,” replied
Jouvencie.
“Does he appoint the bishops?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Bonmont.
But to himself he said:
“I’ve got it--Madame de Gromance!”