Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

‘Very well, Joe. Of course, Joe. If you’re going to be such a fusspot, I’d really rather not go at all. I’ll stay behind and do a little souvenir shopping. And your appointment’s for two o’clock?’ Dorcas looked at her watch and frowned. ‘If we have a quick lunch we’ll have time to pack up the car and get straight off afterwards and then we could be in Lyon by this evening.’

He was pleased to be distracted by a practical arrangement.

‘Never sure you’re to be trusted. Going off on your own like that this morning! Marcus warned me to treat you like Carver Doone. .’

‘Who?’

‘His pet ferret. Rabbiter. Half trained he was. Never lived to be fully trained. Nine times out of ten he’d do what was expected of him but on the tenth, he’d run away and go wherever the fancy took him. Gone for hours. One day, poor old Marcus was discovered shouting vainly down various rabbit holes one after another, ordering the villain to come out at once or else. Suddenly, there was the most awful scream and Marcus raised his head from the hole with Carver Doone attached by his fearsome little teeth to his nose. It led to a painful separation. Now, something light, I think you suggested. . And while we’re choosing, why don’t you tell me what you were talking about so earnestly with old Didier?’

‘He’s a wonderful man. A soldier. Something of a Bolshevik, I’d have guessed. He was telling me about his daughter Paulette and her American husband. He’s devoted to his family. He’s got a baby grandson called John. Only six months old. He knows he’s dying, Joe, and can talk about it as though he’s just going on holiday. So matter of fact. I expect it was the truly awful time he had fighting on the Chemin des Dames that ruined his health.’ She thought for a moment and then went on: ‘Have you noticed, Joe, that throughout this case that name has kept coming up like a chorus in a song? Everywhere we turn it seems someone’s whispering about. . what would you say in English? The Road? Path? Of the Ladies? Which ladies? And which road?’

‘The Ladies’ Way, ’ said Joe. ‘A pretty name for a blood-soaked piece of country. North-west of Reims. The ladies were the two aunts of Louis XVI — the one who was guillotined after the Revolution — and the way was their favourite coach-ride along a high bluff overlooking low-lying plains to north and south. A fearsome strategical position since the Stone Age. Any army wanting to defend Paris has to hold that height.

‘And — chorus, you say!’ Joe shivered. ‘Have you ever heard it, Dorcas, the song that came out of that battle? The song of Craonne? The song of the mutineers? It has the most haunting of choruses.’

‘I don’t know it.’ She looked around her. ‘We’re out of earshot and we’re English eccentrics anyway — why don’t you sing it? You can always stop if the waiter comes.’

‘I warn you — I rarely manage to get to the end of it, it’s so sad,’ he said and, self-consciously, but confident of his baritone voice, Joe leaned over the table and began to sing.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour ,

Adieu toutes les femmes ,

C’est Men fini, c’est pour toujours ,

De cette guerre infâme.

C’est à Craonne, sur le plateau ,

Qu’on doit laisser sa peau.

Car nous sommes tous condamnés ,

Nous sommes les sacrifiés.

Unusually, Joe managed to get through the lilting song dry-eyed but hurriedly passed his handkerchief to Dorcas.

‘Sing it again slowly and I’ll translate as you go, if I can keep up.

‘“Goodbye to life, goodbye to love and goodbye to all women. . It’s all over — for ever, this terrible war. . It’s up there in Craonne, on the plateau, where we must all leave our skins?. . Die, does it mean?. . For we are all condemned. We’re all to be sacrificed.” They don’t sound like — what did you say? — mutineers, Joe. They’re saying goodbye, they know they’re going to lose their lives. It’s far too sad, too hopeless to be a song of revolt.’

‘It was a very strange revolt. And yet the army authorities were so afraid of the power of the song to move a whole army, a whole people perhaps, that they banned it and offered a huge reward to whichever soldier would turn in the man responsible for writing it. And, do you know, Dorcas, the money went unclaimed. No one betrayed the song-writer. And they all went on singing it.’

‘I’ve never heard of this. But then I don’t know much about the war.’

‘No one knows very much about this part of it. Even the English army fighting on the flank were not aware that the French had downed tools and declared they’d soldier no more. And yet that’s not exactly right — they never surrendered. They were not traitors. They held the line but declared that they would not advance another inch until peace had been declared. They were holding out for a settlement.’

‘You say the English didn’t know about it? Did the Germans find out?’

‘Those of us in British Intelligence who knew conspired with the French to keep the lid firmly on. And — goodness knows how — it worked. The German trenches were only a few yards away from the French front line in places and no rumour reached them.’ He shuddered. ‘One man caught in no man’s land and made to talk, one man deciding to go over to the enemy, and it would have all been over for us. They would have called up forces from the east and poured everything they had on to the weakened French lines and broken through.’

‘Poor Didier. And poor Clovis. He was up there too, wasn’t he?’

‘I believe he was. He killed Edward and then rode off into the night and back into battle as far as we know, expecting to leave his hide up there on the plateau with all the other sacrificial victims.’

‘I wonder what happened to the rebels? Do you know, Joe?’

‘I know. It’s very unpleasant and I’d really rather not talk about it, Dorcas. Not for your sake — for mine. Now — omelette do you? Or would you prefer steak-frites?’

Varimont, Bonnefoye and Sandilands sat down together around the table in the doctor’s office as the hospital bell sounded two o’clock. Bonnefoye produced the papers to be signed and succinctly set out the case for assigning custody of Thibaud to Aline Houdart.

Joe intervened at this point to voice his concerns about the welfare of the patient if such action were followed, and this was seriously considered by Varimont who questioned and evaluated his information. ‘This is indeed a cause for concern as Sandilands says, Bonnefoye,’ said the doctor. ‘Look here — there is a third way of doing this which perhaps in the light of Sandilands’ insights we ought to consider. Don’t assign him to anyone. I’m perfectly willing to hang on to him here if, truly, no better situation is available to him but — well, you’ve seen it. It’s not ideal. I am however very interested in Thibaud and his condition — and neurasthenia of war as it affects other unfortunates — and I’m making something of a study of these cases. It would be interesting to see how he reacts if transplanted into neutral surroundings.

‘Look — I would be quite prepared to tell the press and anyone else who’s interested that his identity remains unproven and he is being lodged with a third party, nominally under the control of the hospital, so that our experiments may continue and observations be made. Should this type of care prove successful the government will be only too pleased. Too many such cases clogging up the public health system.’

‘It’s a thought,’ said Joe. ‘Find and register a caring townsperson willing to liaise with the hospital.’

‘He’s Aline’s husband,’ objected Bonnefoye. ‘He’s Clovis Houdart. We can’t get around that. We have the widow’s identification, which I would now declare to be incontrovertible.’