“Is he really an eccentric? I’ve never heard of a man wanting to be alone. I don’t believe in men’s solitude.”
“What experience you have!”
“He may just be a man who’s only allowed to stay out until midnight and who’s frightened of missing the call?” added Fromentine casually, as she brushed her red hair.
CHAPTER IX
“HERE I AM, I’ve rushed over, what is it? What’s happened?”
Placide, his scarf knotted beneath a beard that had bristles harder than the back of an irritable porcupine, his hair awry, his trousers around his ankles, has arrived at Pierre Niox’s home and finds him extremely calm for once, sprawled in an armchair, a book in his hands.
“Nothing at all,” says Pierre calmly.
“What? You’re not even ill! It’s too bad. So why did you drag me out of bed? So that you can read to me?… And yet more Michelet!”
“He does make some good points,” said Pierre.
“A historian shouldn’t make points,” replied the Chartist. “In any case, Michelet’s Histoire de France is so confused that you close it having forgotten all your history. But that doesn’t explain why you called me urgently. What a pain…”
Placide’s dishevelled head and his confusion are so funny that Pierre, keen to prolong the teasing, continues his remarks in the tone of someone giving a lecture.
“Bit by bit, I have drawn up a small gallery of well-known geniuses, a portable pantheon of brilliant men. I give preference to impulsive heroes, to those who are geniuses at the first attempt, to leaders of military forays, to famous raiders. The contemplation of these supermen is as stimulating as listening to a military march. They are my patron saints.”
Placide could feel his temper rising.
“I know of only one patron saint for you, and it’s St Guy.”
“Caesar deserves the first place,” Pierre went on imperturbably. “One cannot but praise his crossing of the Rubicon, and also his armies that are dispatched suddenly right into the heart of Germany, and his lightning descents on Rome, from where he immediately set off again to the furthest boundaries of the Empire. Let’s read this page again where he relates how he comes to take a stand in deepest Illyria; there, he learns that little Brittany has risen up; ready to lend a helping hand, he shakes off his provincial encampment, hops over the Alps, delivers a right hook to the Armoricans while simultaneously stunning the Germans, who had also risen up, with a left cut…”
“Brutus murdered Caesar because his frenetic behaviour was getting on his nerves and the Senate supported him… and so do I!” yelled Placide.
“Compared to Caesar, the most celebrated conquerors seem to be asleep on their feet,” continued Pierre, not listening to him. “Charlemagne, for example, and his forty-year wars that dragged on like his beard! And those dull Crusader knights who got bogged down in arguments about etiquette, in lawsuits about common ownership, and romantic novels; and those dreary tournaments with sermons one after the other from the heralds-at-arms…”
“You’re not equipped to understand the sturdy and steadfast beauty of armour,” Placide cut in tersely.
“Let us prefer to them, ladies and gentlemen, Henri IV conquering his kingdom unawares, Gustavus Adolphus devouring Europe in a gulp, Condé and his strategic inspiration…”
“Thank you for this brief lesson about famous restless men,” Placide interrupted. “Now, tell me why—”
“—Why the greatest par excellence is Napoleon? Ah, Placide, what frantic pursuits amid the bell-towers and the cannon those Empire wars were! Those volte-faces, those perilous leaps, those pugilist’s counter-attacks that took advantage of the enemy’s slightest loss of equilibrium! The Italian campaign, I tell you, I know it by heart: the dazzling reversal at Montenotte, the scramble at Roveredo, the lightning raid at Bassano, the stunning victory of Marengo, the crossing of the Alps at a canter! Caesar or Napoleon, it’s the same triumph of resourcefulness. They always break out from impossible positions where the old strategy was not expected.”
“Enough!” Placide cries. “For once, I’m the one asking you to be brief…”
“And the French campaign in which the old lion, exhausted, out of breath, his muscles failing, suddenly rediscovers his form, his old determination, that way he had of spinning round that still used to terrify visitors to St Helena who came to ogle at him through the bars of the cage!”
Placide came and stood in front of Pierre and, with a malevolent smile, said:
“These leaders were better at winning battles than hearts: you’re rather like them in that respect.”
“Don’t you like me any more, Placide?”
“No.”
“Are you sulking?”
“The word is poorly chosen, as is everything you choose to do, what’s more,” cried Placide in exasperation.
“I’ve got some good news to give you, however. Aren’t you interested? Listen all the same: the two fourth-century urns and the casket from Oslo with gold coils that you didn’t approve of me buying, well, Baltimore Museum is buying them back from us at a hundred per cent profit.”
“And that’s why you asked me to come here,” moaned Placide, who was beside himself with rage.
“Yes, that’s why I sent for you. And also to tell you that I’m doubling your percentage on it. And also all your percentages on all our business deals, so satisfied am I with the smooth running of our partnership.”
Placide remained speechless, blushing and turning pale alternately.
“What, you’re not pleased?” asked Pierre with a smile.
“No, I am certainly not!” said Placide irritably. “The way you behave is killing me. Do you realize that I almost fainted from surprise! I’m terrified of shocks. Whenever you do something kind for me, you do it so suddenly that it makes me feel angrier than I am when I get a fine! You wake me up with a jolt! You don’t allow me time to get dressed. Not even the time to sleep, or so little that you prevent me from sleeping properly. You don’t actually give me time for anything! I’m your scapegoat. I feel I’m always trying to catch up with you. I need to live normally and not feel cooped up at the back of the train in the role of brakeman. And since I’m here this morning against my wishes, I’m taking the opportunity to tell you that I’m breaking off our partnership and that I’m setting up on my own.”
“Are you serious?” asked Pierre.
He gazed in astonishment at this friend of fifteen years’ standing, in whom he had noticed nothing more than an incomprehensible hostility. He felt like saying: “But what have I done to you?” since he was unable to understand that a mere difference in their respective tempos could fill Placide’s soul with such resentment.
He tried to see things from Placide’s standpoint, to view his own self impartially; what could he be blamed for? A little too much hastiness, verging occasionally — very rarely — on feverish activity. It was a fault, a shortcoming rather, a delightful shortcoming; so many people are lethargic, dead weights who are impossible to shift. In his case, everything was dynamism and lightness. People should, on the contrary, be grateful to him for speeding things up and bringing them to a satisfactory conclusion so quickly.
Placide had calmed down somewhat; he continued dispassionately:
“I need a more temperate climate than yours; you roast, while I need to simmer. Ever since I left the École des Chartes, you’ve been my evil genius…”
“Come now, I’ve been your salvation! I’ve broken you in, I’ve given you a flick of the whip when you needed it. Without me, would you have ever left your Mama for a single meal?”