In the afternoon of June 6th, two men who felt closer to one another than either did to a colleague of his own age, were sitting in a room in the barracks. Both were deeply religious, one a Catholic and the other Protestant; both felt for the Republic a coldness they excused easily by identifying it with its corrupt politicians, Jews and intriguing Freemasons. Like so many friendships, theirs was the closer because neither could see far into the other’s heart. It was a polite intimacy. Thiviers was anxious as well about his own great wealth and the powers it gave him. General Woerth had neither money nor social influence. It was natural for him to feel a more spiritual need for power; he was poor, chaste, and as a soldier obedient, without losing, indeed with an aggravated growth of his pride and his impulse to authority.
He had given M. de Thiviers the only modestly comfortable chair in his room. The other was narrow and wooden: he straddled it, resting his arms on the back, and seemed at his ease in that posture. He had brought his friend here after a meal at Buran’s, where they had talked about horses: an unspoken agreement kept them silent on the only thing that occupied both their minds. As soon as Woerth shut the door of his small room, Thiviers spoke.
“What is going to happen now?”
“To the army?” Woerth said.
“To the country,” Thiviers said. “To us,” he added, after a moment.
“France has lost the war. There is no longer any possibility of avoiding defeat.”
“Could it have been avoided?”
“That’s not my business,” Woerth said; “my business is to see that no useless and foolish action is taken here.”
Thiviers bent his head. “War is unspeakably hideous nowadays,” he said. “When I think that Seuilly could be wiped out by a dozen young airmen. . . . The very base of society, the safety of property, could be destroyed. France couldn’t survive two more years of this war.”
“The war is finished. But the danger to society is not. There’s still the danger of Monsieur Bergeot’s armed mob—I’m speaking of all the Bergeots in France.”
Thiviers saw his library collapse in flames, the bust of Socrates and the ashes of his own manuscripts attributed, firmly this time, to death. “Mobs wrecked the Italian factories after the last war,” he said heavily. “It could happen here. . . . What are Piriac’s orders?”
“He has none,” Woerth said.
Thiviers felt rather than heard the slightest possible hesitation in his friend’s voice. He is keeping back something, he thought.
“Fortunately,” Woerth went on, “I have some authority for hoping that the troops under General Piriac’s command, with those facing Italy, will be free to deal with any disorders that might follow a capitulation.” He seemed to regret having spoken; he said quickly, “There will be none of the wickedness of 1789. If we had time this evening, I could prove to you that the retreat of our armies today is due to a collapse which started then: we have lost Paris in 1940 because it was lost a hundred and fifty years ago. Materially, morally—they drag each other along—the Republic has ruined us.”
“If we were choosing at this moment between defeat and Republican socialism,” Thiviers cried, “I should choose defeat.”
“There is no choice,” Woerth said coldly.
“We have a chance to wipe out an abomination. We must organise an oligarchy—only very few men are fit to have great wealth—we must discipline youth, we must have a Chamber of devoted men. The Republic made mistakes, we must profit by them. It’s precisely what Hitler did for Germany. But we have the virtue of our aristocratic families.”
“He has his faults,” Woerth said. “He’s a German. But he saved his country.” He paused. “We must try to see to it that he doesn’t injure ours.”
Thiviers folded his hands. “I have friendly relations with the German bankers. In any case, it’s not in their interest to ruin me. So far as that goes, I would trust them rather than Bergeot.”
Woerth’s interest in his friend’s money was platonic; he respected it as an idea, and left him the care of looking after it.
“I can’t endure any longer a system resting on lies, atheism, bribes,” he said with severity. “And I can’t stand aliens—let these wretched people find some other country to betray. Or let them die in their own. If I had the power which only one living Frenchman has—but thank God he is in the Cabinet—I should tell the country frankly that what it needs is work and obedience. I don’t enjoy the thought of defeat. But this time a defeat may save us. Without the bitterness of a long war, we shall be able to make reasonable terms—after all, Hitler has proved himself a statesman. No doubt we shall lose Alsace—for the time being—and our colonies. And the Germans will demand the use of the Channel ports against England. It’s unpleasant—but defeat isn’t victory. We shall have to pay something for it. . . . My only hope now is to be made use of. I can, I think, serve France better than if I were trying to prolong a useless war.”
“Count on me to help you,” cried Thiviers. “My friends on the other side of our frontiers know how disinterestedly I struggled to save the peace. My crusade was spoiled by this fatal war. I can set off again.”
“You can become a lay Pope and direct us!”
Thiviers missed the inflection of irony in the general’s voice. His ambition to be a great spiritual leader possessed him so fiercely that it gave him a sort of innocence. The idea that he was a little ridiculous did not touch him. With as much passion, he longed to see his country chastised and to comfort it like a father—this included his workers: he believed sincerely that they were healthy when they were diligent and frugal; unnatural vices, fostered in them by men who love to destroy a good custom because it is a custom, made them unhealthy and miserable. Their misery made them naughty.
“I shall explain justice,” he said simply. “I shall explain that it would be just for all men to live alike. It would be just, and impossible; the strongest will always rule. Naturally. And you can’t force the strong to be just—if you could, justice and force would be identical, which is absurd. You have only to read a little history. What you can do—and unless you do it, there will always be revolts and civil war—is to see to it that force is accepted as just. A discreet force—that is the secret of peace. The fatality begins when poets or agitators tell the mob of weak people that they are being treated unjustly. They are so happy when they obey—and they obey because they believe that the laws they are obeying are just. Men who tell them anything else are really criminals, they poison society. They should be hanged—quickly and secretly. No public martyrdoms. When I was a child my father told me that the old peasants, the old workers, were always gay. Why? Because they lived by custom, not by thinking about their lives.”
“The finest custom is a King,” Woerth said. “To have the centre of the nation fixed—no disputes, and no choice. What country ever chooses the best President? They choose the meekest or most cunning.” He lifted a hand—he had small fine hands. “With a King we shall have peace.”
“Why is it,” Thiviers said meditatively, “that in peasant countries—like France and Russia—the mob is always unmanageable, except by a dictator? From one point of view, Germany didn’t need Hitler. We needed him much more!”
Leaning back, the general offered to the light a web of fine lines covering his face.
“There are men who profess to be with us,” he said coldly, “for whom I feel nothing but distaste.”
“Our deputy, who is only thinking of his career.”
“I’m not sure that Monsieur Labenne isn’t a more compromising ally.”
“You can leave him, he’s really a peasant, to me!”
“Gladly,” Woerth said, smiling. He frowned at once, with his habitual reserve. “And our Prefect? The immoralist? . . . The Minister, who is an atheist, a Jew, will support him—as long as he lasts himself.”
“I don’t believe that Monsieur Bergeot will go on giving trouble,” Thiviers said slowly. “If he does—General Piriac has a strong sense of duty——”
“Yes, yes.” Woerth looked down. “He can be of the greatest use.”
“To us?”
“To France,” Woerth said.
“The same thing. What terms are you on?”
“With Piriac? Oh, I allow him to believe he makes his own decisions.”
Thiviers smiled. He leaned forward. “Tell me one thing. You were quoting an authority—is he as optimistic about the future as you are?”
“I can only speak for myself,” Woerth said stiffly.
“But you’re satisfied?”
“The German army,” Woerth said in a dry voice, “will be our best, if unwitting, ally.”
“That’s really your opinion?”
“I have the deepest admiration for its discipline and equipment. Its leaders ought to be grateful to Monsieur Hitler. He gave them everything they needed. . . .”
“To conquer us,” Thiviers said.
“Yes.” Woerth stood up quickly. “Why not our turn next?”
“A strong government will build up the army. Is that what you mean?”
“It will take ten years,” Woerth said. He looked at his hands. “I’m healthier than Piriac.”
Thiviers smiled. His friend did not notice it: he had walked to the window, where his slight body was outlined on the bars of the shutter. A deep excitement had seized him, noticeable in his voice.
“You may think it’s not just that the innocent people in France should have to suffer for the wickedness of the rest. But there is a higher justice which holds the balances between nations at war, and presses first on one, then on the other side. The destinies of Germany and France are inextricably involved. Each of us was created to give the other lessons in courage, discipline, firmness. When one sinks, through weakness, through its vices, the other becomes a rod to punish it and bring it to its senses again. Foch was the real saviour of Germany, not Hitler. Hitler, and not Pétain, not Weygand, is just about to save France. If an equilibrium were ever established between our two countries, they would become the masters of the world. That may happen, in another century or so—we can’t know what an all-seeing Justice has in mind for us. All we know is that the hour of our greatest humiliation and our greatest triumph is at hand. You and I, my friend, won’t be those servants who hired themselves at the tenth hour. We may even be the first.”
“You’ve forgotten,” Thiviers said with his gentle smile, “that the first shall be last.”
The two men smiled at each other with the same good faith, the same, perhaps involuntary, understanding that made it possible for the dry, passionate and ambitious soldier to suit himself so well with the Protestant banker.
They shook hands, and Thiviers went off to call on Mme de Freppel. The mistress of the immoralist was the second ally he proposed to himself in this crisis.