Cold Winter in Bordeaux by Allan Massie Read Free Book Online Page B

Russian soul. When they murdered our poor Tsar – not that he was much of a man, I don’t pretend that he was – the Almighty decided that Holy Russia should endure a time of suffering, so that she might expiate her sins, and he gave the land to the Bolsheviks and the Jews, first to the intellectual Lenin and then to the Georgian cobbler who calls himself Stalin, that the people should know the meaning of Hell and repent. And now he has sent Adolf Hitler to cleanse the land, after which Russia will be reborn. This is how it works. This is how History unfolds.’
    Sigi laughed when Michel recounted this conversation and said that the old man was ‘mad, loose in the top storey’.
    ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘he’s on the right side, and you can learn from him; not from his ideas, certainly, but from what he knows of struggle. He will make you hard. Do you know why Stalin adopted that name which is not of course his real one? It is because he thinks of himself as a Man of Steel, which is what it means. But he thinks of himself as a Man of Steel, which is what it means. But he will be melted in the flame of battle. There’s no doubt about that.’
    Michel loved the gym. A dozen of them, his colleagues in the Légion des Jeunes de l’Aquitaine, went there two afternoons a week. Sigi approved: you must build your body so that your mind and soul will be strong when the hour of trial comes, he said. Michel wondered at his use of the word ‘soul’, but, on reflection, concluded that he didn’t mean what the priests meant by it. Five years ago, he had been devout, attending Mass regularly, confessing his sins – before, he now thought, he had really had any sins to confess, not real sins. He had observed Lent faithfully, denying himself chocolate and all sweet things. Now Sigi assured him that there was no such thing as sin; it was an invention of the Church to keep even the strong in chains. ‘We have freed ourselves of such nonsense,’ he said. When he spoke, Michel believed him. Afterwards, alone, he wasn’t so sure. But in any case his religious enthusiasm had faded. Boxing took its place, boxing and girls. He decorated his bedroom wall with posters of boxers – Georges Carpentier, Eugène Criqui, and his favourite, Charles Ledoux.
    He was at home in the ring. Count Pierre called him ‘the most beautiful of boxers’. There were few things he liked better than matching Michel against a bigger boy, and watching him dance and jab till his opponent turned away in embarrassed anger at being made to look a fool. This afternoon he had sparred with his friend Philippe, who was taller, heavier, and slower. Philippe was powerful, with a swinging right hand which, however, he was incapable of landing on the light-footed Michel. Afterwards, Count Pierre applauded and rubbed embrocation into Michel’s thighs, muttering endearments in Russian.
    Philippe said, ‘I’m not going to fight you again. You always make me look a fool.’
    Michel smiled. Boxing was not only good fun. It was preparation for the war against Bolshevism in which, as Sigi assured him, he was destined to engage. The future of France was at stake. He said nothing of this to his grandfather. He loved the old man and respected him, but knew he was out-of-date, with no understanding of the reality of the world today – a reality which Sigi explained to him.
    ‘Every man has a choice,’ Sigi said. ‘He is either a slave or a master. I have no doubt to which category you belong. We are creating a New European Order and there is a place for you in its Orders of Knighthood.’
    Michel glowed with pride.
    Then Sigi said, ‘And your girl, Clothilde? She must not distract you. Nevertheless I approve of your relationship. Keep close to her. Yes, I approve. Her father is a man whom I respect, a man in whom I have long taken a close interest.’
     

IX
    ‘Nobody came asking for you, superintendent. I’m quite sure of that.’
    The waiter, Marcel, looked up