The Red Collar by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Adriana Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

farmed by his brother-in-law since his sister’s marriage. Morlac hadn’t even been to see them when he returned. He’d moved into a family-run boardinghouse under a false name, but the woman running the place had recognized him immediately. She’d put this anomaly down to the traumas of war.
    â€œI didn’t know that,” Valentine said.
    â€œDid he try to see his son?”
    â€œNot that I know.”
    â€œWould you allow him to?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWould you permit me to tell him that?”
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œAre you going to visit him in prison?”
    â€œI’ve no idea.”
    It was clear she’d been considering this for a long time. Something was holding her back, and Lantier didn’t have the heart to ask her what.
    As he pedaled back on his bike, the sun beat down on him mercilessly. He watched the front wheel wobbling under the effects of tiredness and the heat.
    And was annoyed he hadn’t asked more questions.
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    * * *
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    The abbey-church clock was striking two when Lantier put the bicycle back into the hotel’s yard. He went up to his room for a quick wash and to change his shirt. Then he headed for the dining room where Georgette had left his lunch on a table. On a plate covered with a white cloth he found a burbot tail and pureed oyster plant. Two rashly consumed glasses of Bordeaux forced him back upstairs for a half-hour siesta.
    It was almost half past three when he set off for the prison. The heat had dropped slightly. It was now colored by the hint of an easterly wind bringing in cooler air and smells from the forest. There were times, like this, when Lantier already felt very close to civilian life, and he was gripped by anticipatory nostalgia for the military. He thought he would miss it. He derived genuine physical pleasure from walking through this town strapped into the uniform he would soon stop wearing.
    As he turned onto Rue Danton, he walked out into the glaring sun on the square facing the prison. He almost tripped over a body lying across the sidewalk. It was Wilhelm, Morlac’s dog. He was lying on one side with his tongue lolling right out, almost down to the street. He looked exhausted by the days and nights spent howling. His eyes were bright with fever, and sunken in their sockets. He must have been appallingly thirsty. Lantier went over to a fountain in the shade of a linden tree in one corner of the square. He grasped the crank and worked the pump. Hearing running water, the dog clambered to his feet and came over to the fountain. His tongue worked methodically as he drank while Lantier continued turning the small creaking bronze handle.
    When the dog had slaked his thirst, the major sat down on a bench by the fountain, in the same patch of shade. He wondered whether Wilhelm would go back onto the square and start barking again. But instead the animal stood steadfastly by the bench with his eyes pinned on the major.
    Close up, the dog was a painful sight. He really looked like an old warrior. Several scars on his back and sides were evidence of wounds from gunshots or shrapnel. It looked as if they hadn’t been tended to, and the flesh had managed to knit together as best it could by forming ridges, hardened patches and calluses. One of the dog’s hind legs was deformed and when he sat down, he had to lay it at a diagonal to avoid falling over on his side. Lantier reached out a hand and the dog moved closer to be stroked. His head was uneven to the touch, as if he were wearing a dented helmet. The right-hand side of his muzzle was pale pink and smooth of hair, the result of a severe burn. But in the middle of this ravaged face shone two eyes full of pathos. Wilhelm stood motionless while he was stroked. He gave the impression he’d been trained not to fuss, to make as little noise as possible, except to raise the alert. But his eyes alone expressed everything that other dogs display