A Noble Profession - Page 3

After hesitating a moment longer, Cousin finally accepted. Morvan was delighted. He seemed desperate not to lose this officer who had miraculously turned up on the road to take the place of all the other missing authorities. Cousin thought with animosity that he had been invited only because his presence would help blind the corporal’s family to his somewhat inglorious homecoming.

They walked on through a wooded area where the only sign of human habitation was a handful of scattered cottages buried among the trees. Morvan informed his companion that they were now in the valley of the Ranee, not very far from the sea. Presently they reached a village that seemed to be deserted. The inhabitants must have locked up for the night. The grocery was closed. Morvan banged several times on the shutters and called out his name. A moment later Cousin found himself in the presence of Morvan’s mother, an old peasant woman with a wrinkled face, and of Claire, his sister, a girl of about twenty, whom he judged at first glance to be made of sterner stuff than her brother.

After being warmly embraced by the two women, Morvan respectfully introduced his companion as an officer on a special mission. Cousin could not help feeling grateful for this and did not contradict him. The idea that he was not simply running away—this idea had so possessed him that it had lost every trace of fiction.

The homely atmosphere dispelled the dreams of valor that had occupied his mind for several days, and at last he thought of asking for news of the war. He had paid little attention to the rumors that were rife on the roads. The two women, who listened to the radio regularly, were aware of the latest developments. The situation could not be worse. The Germans were everywhere. There was talk of an armistice.

It was Claire who told him this. The old woman merely nodded her head and occasionally muttered the word “Boche” with a snarl. Both of them looked utterly dejected, but a gleam came into the girl’s eyes when she mentioned the broadcast they had heard the day before. She had not understood it all—the reception had been bad—but she had caught the gist of it. A French general in London had declared that the disaster was not irreparable and had called on his compatriots to come and join him in continuing the struggle.

When she had finished speaking, Cousin noticed that she was gazing at them both, at her brother as well as at him, with a sort of impatience, as though she were waiting for some reaction on their part. He flushed. He felt he ought to answer her unvoiced question. He was about to do so automatically, in the favorable way his deep concern for the opinion of others demanded and also for his own self-respect, when the young girl abruptly switched the conversation.

“You’d better change into civvies,” she said to her brother; “and you, too, Lieutenant. And you must be dying of hunger.”

She went off to find them some clothes and prepare a meal. An hour later. Cousin, dressed like a peasant in his Sunday best, sat down to dinner with the family in the back parlor, drooping with fatigue and lulled by the peace and quiet of

this country retreat. Outside, the village lay wrapped in silence. Claire had switched on the radio and kept glancing at the clock with impatience. The BBC eventually came on the air and they gathered around to listen. It was a rebroadcast of the

French general’s appeal.

In a flash Cousin felt wide awake, and the gift of intellectual zeal that had been bestowed on him at birth found itself once again roused to its highest pitch. It seemed to him that this appeal was addressed to him alone and that it was the natural justification of his odyssey across France. His exalted imagination established an immediate connection between the program outlined in the broadcast and the mysterious mission on which he had claimed to be engaged. He did not think of the urgent acts implied by his acquiescence. He felt subconsciously that this was a unique enterprise worthy only of a small elite, and the ecstasy into which he was plunged by this idea excluded every other material preoccupation from his mind.

He noticed that Claire was again watching them, Morvan and himself, with the same intent expression she had worn before dinner.

“Some fellows managed to get away yesterday,” she said. “They found a trawler. I helped them.”

“Get away where?” her brother muttered in amazement.

Morvan, like the others, had listened in silence, but he seemed to have taken in nothing and showed no sign of emotion. Cousin was shocked by this attitude, as though it were a mark of cowardice, and he fancied this lack of enthusiasm was equally galling to Claire. The indignant tone in which he replied reflected his feelings.

“Where? To England, of course! To carry on with the struggle.”

“I see,” Morvan replied simply, after a moment’s reflection. “Do you really think we ought to try and get away, sir?”

“There’s no question about it,” Cousin said with determination, although he had not yet even considered the practicability of such an enterprise.

“To England?”

“To England.”

“If that’s the way it is, sir . .”

Morvan's placid attitude remained unchanged. He was spared all mental confusion by the directives given in such a decisive manner by higher authority. He thought it over for a moment longer, then turned to his sister.

“Where can we find a boat?”

The spontaneity of her reply showed that she had already anticipated this question.

"There are no more transports, but we’ve still got our little launch. Mother and I managed to hide it away in a creek up the estuary.”

Cousin quickly switched his gaze to the old woman, who was taking no part in the conversation and seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

“What about fuel?” Morvan asked as calmly as before.

“I filled her up, just in case. And there are some spare tins Mother has hidden away.”

“In that case, sir . . .” said Morvan. “It's a fine night. I’m not a bad seaman. We shan’t be able to get as far as England in the launch, but there’s a chance we might be picked up by some Allied vessel out at sea. What should we take with us?”

He was a creature devoid of all imagination. Pure thought was alien to him, and he avoided ideas that were too complicated by reducing them to a practical level. His sister cast a glance of relief in his direction.

Tags: Pierre Boulle Thriller
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