The order to withdraw, one of the last he was to receive, reached Cousin before the enemy launched its final offensive. He obeyed without delay, like a well-disciplined officer, but not before voicing his indignation at the disgrace of such a retreat.
The withdrawal took him far toward the west along the main roads of France. To begin with, his unit remained intact and he did his best to follow the sporadic and contradictory orders he was given. Then he found himself cut off and out of touch with headquarters, having gradually lost all his men and become attached to a group of deserters and refugees. But he was still convinced that this position had been forced on him against his will by a pusillanimous High Command.
This long journey, carried out for the most part on foot, actually enabled him to enrich his mind with fresh visions and add a little more to his laurels. While his body toiled along in the midst of the crowd, his mind was busy weaving new dreams about the unusual turn that events had taken. Quite clearly, he imagined himself stopping suddenly in the middle of the road and facing the mob. A hero raised by Providence to put an end to their weakness and despair, he then cried out with the cool resolution born of a daring decision:
“Halt! This is where we shall check their advance."
There was a certain amount of opposition. Before facing the enemy, he first had to deal with his own side. He set to work, without any feeling of hate for the stragglers but with the firm determination necessitated by the grave situation. Some of them tried to force their way past him. He then whipped out his revolver —intoxicated by this picture, he even went so far as to reach for his holster and rehearse the gesture—and ordered them back. When this threat proved insufficient, he forthwith shot one or two of the wretches. A solemn silence ensued, but the crowd, realizing at last the feelings that had prompted his action, came to a halt and put themselves under his orders. A nucleus of resistance had been created. It gradually spread to all the other groups wandering aimlessly about the countryside and extended along the highroads until it formed a solid unbroken line, which, under his command and after a series of noteworthy engagements, turned defeat into a striking victory.
This mental vision of his had such an obsessive quality that he became quite oblivious of his plight and lost all sense of
time and place. It was thus that he found himself one day in Brittany, having inadvertently followed a column that had diverged from the main stream of the exodus.
Reluctantly emerging from his dream, he peered about him. He noticed he was looked at askance by every group that passed him on the road, and it was not long before he realized why—he had a sort of sixth sense by which he could tell in a flash what others thought about him: he was the only person in uniform. The civilians must have believed he had turned tail in the face of the enemy.
The revelation of this insulting suspicion made the blood rush to his head. He almost let loose at an old man perched on top of a cart who was looking him up and down with an expression of contempt. He was itching to explain himself, to make the fellow understand that he wasn’t the sort of man to slink away, and that he only happened to be there because of the orders he had been given. But the cart had already gone past. He shrugged his shoulders and moved on, drawing himself up to his full height and deliberately assuming a soldierly bearing. It was then he saw Morvan in front of him, getting to his feet again after a moment’s rest by the side of the road.
Like Cousin, Morvan was in uniform, and Cousin found himself frowning at the sight of him. On his own, and in a filthy, ragged state, this corporal—Cousin had noticed the man's rank—was in all probability a deserter. Perhaps he was one of those soldiers he had seen throwing down their arms and stealing away under cover of the mob. While Cousin was trying to make up his mind about the man, Morvan turned around, caught sight of Cousin, and came back toward him. He was dressed sloppily and had not shaved for several days. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes betrayed apprehension. Cousin did not like his looks at all.
“Sir!” said Morvan.
“Yes?”
He reported in correctly: Corporal Morvan, of a Signal Corps unit. Cousin asked him sternly what he was doing there. Morvan told him what had happened, somewhat diffidently, but to the best of his ability in his evident anxiety to make himself quite clear. He and his unit had been overrun and taken prisoner when they thought they were miles away from the front. But since the Germans who had captured them—a motorized unit thrusting inland—had no time to deal with them, they had simply seized their weapons and destroyed their vehicles; then they had driven on, announcing that the war would soon be over and ordering them to remain where they were.
Morvan had come to the conclusion that anything was better than just staying there until the main body of the enemy troops arrived. He had convinced some of his comrades, Bretons like himself, and they had struck out toward the west without meeting any opposition. He had lost his companions on the way and pushed on alone, marching instinctively in the direction of his village, situated near the Ranee, between Dinan and Dinard, which seemed to him the only desirable refuge in these circumstances beyond his comprehension.
Had he done wrong? He questioned Cousin with eyes full of uncertainty. At the start of his trek he had come across a few officers on their own, but none of them had been able to give him definite instructions. He had approached the police, with equal lack of success. A police sergeant had told him, however, that the war was over, or almost, and probably the best thing for everyone was simply to go home. He had therefore kept going. He was now about twenty kilometers away
from his village, where his mother must be worrying about him. His one thought at the moment, it was plain, was to lengthen his stride and put her mind at ease as soon as possible.
“Was that the right thing to do, sir?” he asked in an apprehensive tone of voice.
Cousin was appalled by the man’s irresolute attitude toward the situation. His own position struck him as being utterly different from Morvan’s. Yet, after thinking it over, he had to admit that the extent of the disaster and the general disorganization was some excuse for the mental confusion of certain feeble characters—this corporal, he now felt sure, was lacking in moral fiber—and he made a noncommittal reply in a condescending tone of voice. He told him he was probably not to blame if he had really done all he could to rejoin a fighting unit. Perhaps there would be further orders for him after he got home.
Automatically they went on walking together. Morvan was thankful to have an officer with him. As for Cousin, if he was mortified by the thought that his presence beside Morvan could authorize this runaway to establish an analogy between their respective conducts, he nevertheless saw a certain advantage in his company: two men already formed the nucleus of a platoon and offered less ground for the suspicion of desertion that he had noticed in the eyes of some of the civilians and that still made him smart with shame.
3
“Are you tired, sir?”
Cousin frowned. In this considerate question he thought he detected a tendency to familiarity, which he could not stand in a man like Morvan. However, he really was worn out, having marched for several weeks with scarcely any rest.
“It’s nothing,” he said, squaring his shoulders with an effort. “It’s my duty to keep going.”
Although they had barely exchanged a word since joining forces, he had thought it advisable to intimate to his companion that he was engaged on an important secret mission, his purpose being to make it impossible for the corporal to draw a comparison between their respective positions—a fear that had nagged him ever since their meeting. He had given no details—the corporal did not ask for any—but had simply made some vague allusions to certain contacts he had to make, which amounted to half believing in them himself.
"Sir,” Morvan went on diffidently, "this is the turnoff to my village. It's less than an hour away. It will soon be dark. I suggest you come and stay the night with us. There's only my mother, who runs a grocery, and my sister. We could put you up if you're not too fussy.”
Since Cousin did not reply, he went on in a roundabout way to explain at great length that his sister had left school and in normal circumstances worked as a stenographer in the town. But the firm that employed her had shut down at the beginning of the war and she had come back to the village until she could find some other job. Cousin listened to him without paying much attention, concentrating only on his suggestion.
"It'll certainly be better than sleeping out on the roadside, sir,” the corporal went on. “Besides, if the Germans come through here, you’re liable to be taken prisoner.”
"I must not be captured,” said Cousin.
He had already decided to accept the invitation, and the threat of Germans made his acquiescence seem perfectly natural. He repeated with fierce insistence that, whatever happened, he could not risk falling into enemy hands, as though his personal liberty were a matter of national importance.
"You’ll be all right with us. The village is well off the main road.”