Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

His lungs were giving out. The final phase of an illness that had crept up on him in Paris. The Ducroix brothers kept it from me for as long as possible. When they decided to say something, Armand did so in inimitably stoic fashion: “Cadet, the Marquis of Bazoches is dying.”

He would not be coming back to Bazoches — a fact that seemed to have more finality than the death itself. I froze. To me, Vauban had become a figure standing outside of human contingencies. It was like being told fire can no longer be lit, or that the moon would henceforth rise and fall in a matter of seconds.

Zeno was already with the marquis, assisting him with the final act. Armand and I climbed into a carriage and set out for Paris. It was a strange journey. I had never been to Paris, the head of that war-loving religion named France. I tried to stay attentive, and at the same time, I couldn’t get Jeanne from my thoughts. Yes, it was as though a cosmic conjunction had forecast these two ruptures in such a short space of time. I was also bothered by uncertainty, something that, out of fellow feeling, I didn’t dare put to Armand. He answered my question without my having to formulate it: “The marquis will hold on until he has said goodbye to each and every one of his close relations.”

One of the inconvenient things about being a patrician of the first order is that all manner of people will flock to your deathbed. Custom demands that, even in great agony, almost anyone has the right to come and bother you, What’s-his-name, Thingamaijig, first and second secretary to the commander at the Hellespont, cousin of your alcoholic father-in-law’s other son-in-law. That the person going through those agonies should have to put up with a chattering multitude has always struck me as unnecessary and cruel. But can I truly criticize? After all, I myself went and took up position in that troop of undesirables. In my case, because of something very pressing.

For Vauban was going to validate — or not — my fifth Point. According to Armand, the marquis had expressed an interest in examining me personally. A great honor, even greater considering the circumstances. Perfection among Maganons is based on a rule of ten — so what it meant, the authority that came with reaching five Points, isn’t hard to see.

Vauban’s Paris home was a small palace but not ostentatious. In the antechamber to his room, there must have been fifty or sixty individuals awaiting an audience. Protocol demanded that he be seen according to a strict hierarchy, and since the least grand personage was the owner of five cannon factories, night had fallen by the time it came to me.

“If I were the marquis,” I said with a sad sigh, “I would hurry up and die and not have to put up with all these bootlickers. Merde! ”

“Keep quiet and follow me.”

And Armand made his way through the people. Getting to the door, predictably enough, a servant, primped and preened to the extreme, detained us. “Eh, you! Wait your turn.”

“Sir!” said Armand indignantly. “I am the marquis’s personal secretary, and my place is at his bedside. Or do you fail to recognize me?”

“Ah, yes, a thousand pardons,” the man said. He did not know about Zeno’s twin brother. “But were you not inside? Excuse my error, I must not have seen you leave.”

We crossed the threshold. Armand grumbled, “Moles. . The world’s full of them. . They’re all moles. .”

The great Vauban was reclining in a magnificent four-poster bed. His upper half was sunken in a voluminous cushion. He was dying, and no mistake. But even at this final hour, his presence was awesome. His broken breathing was like that of a lion. His family was there. Jeanne was by his side.

Protocol demanded that I approach the foot of the bed and greet the great man with a bow of the head. I could not. To him I owed the two most rewarding years of my life, the shaping of my character and my destiny. I sprang toward his hand and raised it to my cheek, sobbing like an infant. To the Vauban family’s credit, no one held me back or reprimanded me. Furthermore, when I raised my head, the marquis regarded me, and if a father’s look can say to a son, “You are my creation,” that was indeed the most paternal look I had ever been given.

“You have entered this room as a cadet,” the marquis said. “My wish is for you to leave it a royal engineer.”

He bade his daughters and secretaries leave us, Armand and Zeno to stand at the door. I would have liked to see the face of the servant who tried to stop us from coming in: the personal secretary appearing before him again, now double.

“For obvious reasons,” rasped the marquis, “the exam will have to be brief. I am going to ask you one question only.” He gazed up at the ceiling for a few moments, mouth open, deep in thought. Finally, without taking his eyes from the ceiling, he said, “Summarize the following: What elements comprise the optimum defense of a besieged stronghold?”

I could not have imagined a simpler question. It was a formality, then. Before he died, Vauban wanted to send his final engineer out into the world, that was it. For all that he might try to hide it, I knew he was extremely proud of this student of his — unruly, quick to answer back, but at the same time, well suited to the office. I began to sketch out the vertical columns supporting a decent fortress with bastions. The glacis, the covered path, the correct distance between bastions to avoid creating blind spots in the areas that took the brunt of the onslaught. I even permitted myself an analysis of the gullet, that is, the bastion entrance, which, to my mind, tended to be built too narrow. But then something unexpected happened. Vauban interrupted me. He still had the strength to raise his voice. “Get to the point, please!”

I was also startled to hear: “No, no, that’s not it.”

I was on the wrong track? I became nervous. I went into detail on the width of rampart walls, the steepness of their inclines. On making the best of the terrain in erecting defenses. On the moat and the many ways of sealing breached walls. The chagrin on his face said no, this was not what he wanted to hear. He put his hand to his brow, an unmistakable sign of displeasure in the marquis. I spoke about garrisons, about the adequate number of men in relation to the size of the fortification, the necessary weaponry, ammunition, and provisions. I quoted Hero of Constantinople’s sage advice to a general defending a stronghold, at which moment a pained look came over the marquis. He half shut his eyes, pursed his lips. He looked up at the ceiling, as if requesting a postponement, then said: “No, no, and no! Get to the point, time is running low.” And sighed. “A word. The answer is comprised of just one word.”

People who are close to death have no time for being vague, and Vauban was treating me like some dolt. My spirit trembled. Everything I’d learned I now doubted. I went on a little more — perhaps Vauban wanted to hear about the compassionate element of a defense, so I made reference to each and every measure that might be taken to keep civilians safe during a siege. No. Wrong again. I stopped there. I had no notion of what he wanted to hear. I stopped speaking.

Forefinger raised, he uttered something I’ll take to my grave. “One word. All you need to do is say one word.”

I stepped closer to his bed and leaned over it, resting my fists on the mattress. “But monsieur, ” I said in a tone gentler and more respectful than for anything else I have ever said, “I have just recounted all that Bazoches has taught me.”

It was as though Vauban were surrendering. He lifted a hand to his eyes. “No, you haven’t done it. You haven’t understood. Enough.” He took a heaving breath, not looking at me. “I cannot give you my blessing, my conscience will not allow it. Believe me, I am sorry. You are going to have to find a better teacher than I. I have failed you.” And he issued his judgment: “You are not fit.”