The bald gentleman glanced about anxiously to see if anyone happened to be listening, and lifted a finger of caution to his lips. It is unclear if he wanted to rebuff something, because the third gentleman, a man whose shapely head was cleft like a walnut with the incision of an impeccable part, cut in and broke his silence.
“You are most certainly correct on many points,” he said, weighing his words with the dignity and restraint of a born parliamentarian. “Yet I cannot share your pessimism. It is no doubt possible that the population of Paris, should it continue to shrink at the present rate, will die out entirely before the epidemic’s course can be altered. But this is ultimately just a hypothesis that is no more or less likely than its antithesis. We ought to consider it, but we are not justified in raising it to the status of a certainty. Tens and hundreds of scholars and doctors behind the cordon are working round the clock on the struggle against this death-dealing microbe; none of us can guarantee that they won't succeed – if not today, then tomorrow.
“At any rate, we can’t deny that the events before us are in all respects symptomatic and instructive. We are forced to concede that, indeed, our democracy did not pass the grade in its attempt to reorganize itself on this reduced scale – if you permit me to use your expression. But the conclusions we draw from this mustn't be too far-flung. We all know the principle that the ruling class ages at the speed with which they consume the revolutionary capital that brought them to power. The French bourgeoisie is not and cannot be an exception. But it would be premature to suppose that the French bourgeoisie has played out its role in history and must now step down off the stage. In this day and age, when our science is so near to solving the mystery of the human aging process, why shouldn’t we be tempted to stop the aging of an entire class? Take note, the anti-aging process will be a good deal easier. The ruling class needs only renounce its privileges and become a ruled class for some period of time. Nothing is quite so rejuvenating as a touch of resistance. This is a fact we all know from parliament.
“The French bourgeoisie, which has long squandered the moral capital it earned through the Great Revolution and lost every bit of trust the working classes had in it, needs this operation more than any other class of any other nation. A coup d'état or restoration of the monarchy should have been staged long ago in the interests of preserving its position of supremacy, to help the bourgeoisie again play out its role as liberators. We can only be satisfied that this state of things has come about on its own.
“I am currently drafting a memo that I would like to present to the government in Lyon as soon as the epidemic is quashed. I contend that the immediate liquidation of the Paris monarchy would be an unforgivable error. On the contrary, I hold that for the sake of government and democracy we should make every effort to spread the monarchist system all across France, thus helping to stifle our shared implacable enemy – Communism. Only a revolution that is pre-staged and skillfully conducted at the right moment, which the bourgeoisie will be capable of performing – without the aid of the other classes and without bloodshed, naturally – will restore its moral revolutionary trust among the masses, raise its authority and shield its breast with new armor against the danger of Communism…”
Whether the bald gentleman and the gentleman in the pince-nez responded to this tirade, and in what way, Captain Solomin did not hear. He was suddenly overcome by a wave of infinite boredom. It all reminded him of the Moscow meetings in the Kerensky days, of speeches long as tapeworms, wherein the word “democracy” was repeated no less, only in a strong, sibilant Russian. The mention of Communism had reminded him of those creampuffs comfortably snoozing in their French prison cells (“They’ll sleep tight us with us all right!”).
He glanced at his watch: Two o’clock. He’d wasted time once again! And without finishing his carefully selected repast, he paid the extortionate bill and headed for Bourbon Palace through the desolate, suddenly charmless streets.
This time the bargaining moved along briskly, and less than an hour later, as he was laying down the curlicues of his signature upon the clause-blackened document, Captain Solomin allowed himself to smile inside – at last!
The final hitch was the timing. The French wanted to hand over the prisoners the following day. The leader of the Russian delegation wanted to make it at once. Impossible – formalities, and so forth. (What other kinds of godforsaken formalities could there be?) They had to agree to the following day. The Russians wanted to send two officers to fetch the prisoners. The French objected. They would bring them to the bridge themselves and hand them over when the border guard signed a receipt.
“All right, so be it. Well, till tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock.”
The delegates shook hands in silence.
The black, six-seater Fiat softly rolled along the semicircle of the shady bank and onto Jena Bridge.
V
“Comrades! Not all at once! Please sign up to take the floor. We’ve got to maintain some sort of order!”
“So maintain it, comrade! That’s your job. That’s why they chose you as chairman. Sign away. Only make sure that everyone gets to speak their mind. You’ve got your opinion, I have mine. But shaking a bell like they do in the capitalist parliament so that no one gets heard – what kind of order is that?”
“Comrades! Please calm down! Comrade Lerbier has the floor.”
“Comrades, I will not take much of your time. As Food Supplies Commissioner I have no reason to beat around the bush. The state of the republic’s food supplies is catastrophic. If we keep handing out quarter loaves of bread as we have, there will be enough for three days at best. And this is assuming that the population continues to drop at its present rate. Yesterday we handed out our last sack of potatoes. In three days, comrades, nobody will have anything to put in their mouths. The republic is doomed to die by starvation.”
“And the way out? What is the solution?”
“In my view, there is only one way out, comrades. Breach the Anglo-American territory and seize their provisions. As I see it, comrades, the British and American imperialists haven’t died of hunger since the world was made. They have surely hoarded up a decent store of supplies. We must be prepared, naturally, for their fierce resistance. The British militia is armed to the teeth, and in order to cross into their territory we’d have to force our way through two lines of barricades and wipe out a good few thousand gentlemen. But I don’t see any alternative. The people will happily go along when they find out that we’re expelling the British from Paris. Obviously this is no solution to the problem, but it will at least postpone it for some time, for as long as the American provisions hold out. If one of you, comrades, has a better solution, I’m all ears. I’ve said my bit, comrades. That’s it.”
“Remain calm! Please remain calm! Comrade Laval has the floor.”
“I must disagree, comrades, with the speaker’s opinion. Certainly, mopping up a few thousand British capitalists and cleaning out downtown Paris would be useful, no argument there. But now is not the time. The plague will do the job for us more tidily and efficiently. No point in killing for the sake of a few days; but above all, comrades, because I do not believe in these food provisions Comrade Lerbier expects to find there. Where could the British have gotten them? Money is another matter. We would doubtless find piles of money. But what do we want with money at this juncture, comrades? We can’t buy bread with it. It’s not worth the proletarian blood, comrades, we would have to spill. Even if there ever were provisions, they would have been eaten long ago. We won’t feed ourselves there. And it is still too early, comrades, for cleansing Paris. Until the city rids itself of this plague, it will be of little use to us. No, comrades, searching for food in Paris won’t do a bit of good. We’d only lose half our proletariat at the barricades, and they are dwindling in number as it is. With what forces, comrades, will we take control of Paris once the plague has been eradicated? We must guard, comrades, every drop of proletarian blood with our lives, and not help the plague do its work.”