ROBERT says something in the incomprehensible dream language, then: That’s all.
SIMONE: Many thanks. Of course. Look, over there—the towers of Orleans.
The Colonel arrives wearing armour under his dustcoat. He slinks across the yard and out.
PÈRE GUSTAVE: That’s a fine start. The brasshats are clearing off; they’re on the run.
SIMONE: Why are the streets so empty, Père Gustave?
PÈRE GUSTAVE: Probably all at supper.
SIMONE: And why hasn’t anyone rung the alarm bells now the enemy’s on the doorstep, Père Gustave?
PÈRE GUSTAVE: They were probably sent to Bordeaux on Captain Fétain’s orders.
The Patron stands at the entrance of the hostelry wearing a helmet with red plumes and an improvised shining breastplate.
PATRON: Joan, take these exorbitant packets down to the hall straightaway.
SIMONE: But Monsieur Henri, our beloved mother France is in danger. The Germans are up to the Loire and I must talk to the King.
PATRON: Are you mad? I’m doing all I can. Don’t forget I’m the Patron. Your duty is to me.
A man dressed in crimson emerges from the garage.
SIMONE proudly: Look, Monsieur Henri, here comes King Charles VII!
The man in crimson is actually the Mayor, who is wearing the royal robe over his suit.
MAYOR: Hullo, Joan.
SIMONE astonished: Are you really the King?
MAYOR: Yes, that’s official, I’m confiscating the lorries. We must talk in private, Joan.
The drivers, Père Gustave and the Patron disappear into the darkness. Simone and the Mayor sit down at the foot of the petrol pump.
MAYOR: Joan, all is lost. The General’s gone off without leaving an address. I’ve written to the Connétable to ask for artillery, but the letter with my royal seal was returned unopened. My Master of Horse says he’s been wounded in the arm, but if that’s so nobody has seen it. Everything is rotten to the core. Weeping: I suppose you have come to tax me with being weak. Well, so I am. But what about you, Joan? First of all, tell me where the black market petrol is kept.
SIMONE: In the brickworks of course.
MAYOR: I knew it, I winked an eye; but you’re robbing the refugees down to their last sou with your exorbitant packets.
SIMONE: It’s because I have to keep an angel’s job warm for him, King Charles.
MAYOR: And it’s to keep their job that the drivers transport Captain Fétain’s wine rather than refugees?
SIMONE: Also because the Patron says they’re on essential work, so they aren’t called up.
MAYOR: O dear, the innkeepers and the nobility, that’s who I have to thank for my grey hairs. The nobility is against the King. It says that in your book. But you have the people behind you, particularly Maurice. Shall we make a pact, Joan, you and me?
SIMONE: Why not, King Charles? Hesitantly: But you’d have to interfere quite drastically in business matters if the dixies are to be kept full.
MAYOR: I’ll see what I can do. However, I must tread carefully, or they’ll cut off my royal income. I’m the man who always winks an eye, and so of course nobody does what I say. I’m expected to do all the dirty work. Take the sappers, for instance. Instead of simply taking their food from the hostelry by force, they come to me and say ‘Mend the bridges yourselves. We’ll wait for our field kitchen.’ It’s not surprising then if the Duke of Burgundy goes over to the English.
PATRON in the doorway: I understand your Majesty is not satisfied. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to put yourself in the shoes of your civil population. They’ve already been bled white. Nobody feels for France more than I do, but … Gesture of helplessness. Exit.
MAYOR resignedly: How can we beat the English like that?
SIMONE: The time has come for me to sound my drum. She sits down on the ground and beats her invisible drum. Every beat resounds as if it were emanating from the bowels of the earth. Arise, bargemen of the Seine! Follow me, metal workers of Saint-Denis! You carpenters of Lyons, wake up! The enemy is coming!
MAYOR: What are you looking at, Joan?
SIMONE: They are coming! Don’t flinch! At their head is the drummer with a voice like a wolf and a drum stretched with a Jew’s skin; clinging to his shouldes, a vulture with the look of the banker Fauche from Lyons. Just behind him comes Field-Marshal Fireraiser. He is on foot, a fat clown wearing seven uniforms not one of which makes him look human. Swinging above the heads of these two fiends is a canopy of newspapers, making him easily recognizable. Behind them ride the hangmen and the generals. Each one has a swastika branded on his low forehead, and following them as far as the eye can see come the tanks and guns and railway trains, also lorries with altars on and torture chambers, for everything is on wheels and highly mobile. Ahead go the battle waggons and behind come the loot waggons. The people are mown down, but the harvest is brought in. So wherever they arrive cities collapse, and wherever they have been a barren waste remains. But now there will be an end of them, for here stands King Charles and the Maid of God, that’s me.
All the French characters who have already appeared in the play and others yet to appear group together on the stage, carrying medieval weapons and wearing improvised armour.
SIMONE radiantly: You see, King Charles, they’re all here.
MAYOR: Not all, Joan. I don’t see my mother Isabeau, for example, and the Connétable went away in anger.
SIMONE: Don’t be afraid. I must crown you King so that we have unity among the French. I remembered to bring your crown. Here it is. She takes a crown from her linen basket.
MAYOR: Who am I going to play cards with if the Connétable doesn’t come back?
SIMONE: Okkal grisht burlap.
Simone places the crown on the Mayor’s head. In the background appear the sappers beating their dixie with a ladle. Great ringing of bells.
MAYOR: Why are the bells ringing?
SIMONE: Those are the bells of Rheims cathedral.
MAYOR: Aren’t they the sappers I sent to the hostelry to collect their food?
SIMONE: They didn’t get any. That’s why their dixies are empty. Those empty dixies are your coronation bells, King Charles.
MAYOR: Clether dunk freer! Clicketick!
ALL: Long live the King and the Maid who crowned him!
MAYOR to Simone: Thank you very much, Joan, you have saved France.
The stage darkens. The voice of a radio announcer mingles with a cacophony of music.
2
THE HANDSHAKE
Early morning. The drivers Maurice and Robert, Père Gustave and the soldier Georges are sitting at breakfast. Sound of the wireless from the hostelry.
RADIO: We are repeating a bulletin released by the Ministry of War at 3.30 a.m. Owing to the unexpected crossing of the Loire by German tank formations, fresh streams of refugees have been pouring along strategically vital roads in central France tonight. The population is urgently requested to stay put so that the roads can be kept open for our relief forces.
MAURICE: It’s time to scram.
GEORGES: The head waiter and the others have gone; they spent the whole night packing the china, then they pissed off. The Patron threatened them with the police, but it made no difference.
ROBERT to Georges: Why didn’t you wake us right away?
Georges does not reply.
MAURICE: The Patron didn’t let you, eh? He laughs.
ROBERT: Aren’t you clearing off too, Georges?
GEORGES: No. I’ll get rid of my uniform and stay put. At least I get something to eat here. I’ve given up hoping my arm will ever be all right.
The Patron comes out of the hostelry. He is smartly dressed and appears to be very busy. Simone shuffles after him, carrying his suitcases.
PATRON clapping his hands: Maurice, Robert, Gustave, come along, come along. Get this china on to the lorries. Everything in the store room goes too. Pack the hams in salt. But first load up my best wines. You can drink your
coffee later, there’s a war on. We’re going to Bordeaux.
They ignore him and continue with their breakfast. Maurice laughs.
PATRON: What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear me? The things must be packed and put on the lorries.
MAURICE off-handedly: The lorries have been requisitioned.
PATRON: Requisitioned? Rubbish. With a great gesture: That was yesterday. The German tanks are rumbling towards Saint-Martin. That changes everything. What applied yesterday doesn’t apply today.
PÈRE GUSTAVE murmurs: Too true.
PATRON: Take that cup away from your mouth when I’m talking to you.
Simone has put down the suitcases and during this exchange has quietly returned to the hostelry.
MAURICE: Another coffee, Robert.
ROBERT: Right you are; you never know where the next one’s coming from.
PATRON trying to suppress his anger: Have some sense. Help your Patron to pack up. I’ll see you right. As none of them looks up: Père Gustave, go and get started on the china. Get a move on.
PÈRE GUSTAVE gets up hesitantly: I’m still eating my breakfast. Don’t look at me like that. That won’t work any more. Angrily: You can stuff your bloody china, today. Sits down.
PATRON: Have you gone crazy too? At your age? He looks from one to the other, then notices the motorbike; bitterly: Oh, I see, so you’re waiting for the Germans? Your Patron’s finished? So that’s the love and respect you owe to your provider. To the drivers: Three times I declared you indispensable; otherwise you’d be at the front now. And that’s the thanks I get. That’s what comes of thinking we’re all one little family. Over his shoulder: Simone, a cognac! I feel quite weak. As there is no answer: Simone, where the devil are you?—Now she’s gone too.
Simone comes out of the hostelry wearing a jacket over her dress. She tries to leave without being seen by the Patron.
PATRON: Simone!
Simone continues on her way.
PATRON: Have you gone mad? Answer me.
Simone starts running; exit. Patron shrugs his shoulders and taps his forehead.
GEORGES: What’s the matter with Simone?
PATRON turning to the drivers again: So you’re refusing to work for me, eh?
MAURICE: Not a bit. When we’ve done eating, we’re off.
PATRON: And the china?
MAURICE: We’ll take it. If you load it up.
PATRON: Me?
MAURICE: Yes, you. It’s yours, isn’t it?
ROBERT: But we can’t guarantee we’ll get to Bordeaux, Maurice.
MAURICE: Who can guarantee anything today?
PATRON: That’s monstrous! Do you know what will happen to you if you disobey orders here in the face of the enemy? I’ll have you put up against a wall and shot.
Simone’s parents enter from the street.
PATRON: What do you want?
MADAME MACHARD: We’ve come because of our Simone. They say the Germans will be here soon and you are leaving. Simone is only a young girl, and Monsieur Machard is worried about the twenty francs a week.
PATRON: She’s run away, God knows where.
GEORGES: Hasn’t she come home, Madame Machard?
MADAME MACHARD: No, Monsieur Georges.
GEORGES: That’s strange.
The Mayor comes in with two policemen. Simone is hiding behind them.
PATRON: Just in time, Philippe. With a great gesture: Philippe, I’ve got a mutiny on my hands. Do something.
MAYOR: Henri, Mademoiselle Machard tells me you are planning to make off with the lorries. I shall prevent this unlawful act with all the means at my disposal. That includes the police. Points to the policemen.
PATRON: Simone, have you had the impertinence … ? Gentlemen, in the kindness of my heart I gave this creature a job for her parents’ sake.
MADAME MACHARD shaking Simone: What have you done now?
Simone remains silent.
MAURICE: I sent her.
PATRON: I see. And you obeyed Maurice?
MADAME MACHARD: Simone, how could you?
SIMONE: I wanted to help Monsieur le Maire, Maman. They need our lorries.
PATRON: Our lorries!
SIMONE becoming confused: The roads are blocked for André, you see. Unable to go on: Please, Monsieur le Maire, you explain.
MAYOR: Henri, do try to be a bit less selfish. The child was right to call me. In times like these whatever we have belongs to France. My sons are at the front, so is her brother. Not even our sons belong to us any more.
PATRON outraged: So there’s no more law and order? So private property has ceased to exist, has it? Why don’t you hand over my hostelry to the Machards? Perhaps these gentlemen, my drivers, would like to empty my safe? This is what I call anarchy! May I remind you, Monsieur Chavez, that my mother went to school with the Préfet’s wife? And there’s still a telephone.
MAYOR more weakly: Henri. I’m only doing my duty.
PATRON: Philippe, be logical. You talk about what belongs to France. Don’t my provisions, my valuable china, my silver belong to France? Would you like to see them fall into the hands of the Germans? Not a coffee cup, not a tin of sardines, not a single sausage must fall into enemy hands. They must find a desert, I hope you remember that. You as mayor should come to me and say: Henri, it’s your duty to get all your possessions to safety. To which I’d have to reply: Philippe, to do that I need my lorries.
Agitated voices of a crowd from the street. The bell of the hotel is being rung and a door being hammered.
PATRON: What’s that? Georges, go and see what’s happening Georges goes into the hostelry. And as for my employees, who have so far forgotten themselves as to abandon my possessions, you should say—to the drivers: Gentlemen, I am appealing to you as Frenchmen to pack the china.
GEORGES coming back: A crowd of people from the village hall, Monsieur Henri. They’ve heard a rumour that the lorries are to be taken away. They’re very upset and want to speak to the Mayor.
PATRON growing pale: There you are, Philippe. I have Simone to thank for that. Quick, Georges, close the gate. Georges goes to do so. Quick, quick, hurry up!—That’s the effect of that vicious propaganda against my packets. The mob. To the policemen: Do something! Quickly! You must phone for reinforcements, Philippe, you owe me that. They’ll do things to me, Philippe. Help me! Please, Philippe.
MAYOR to his policemen: Guard the gate. To the Patron: Nonsense, nothing’s going to happen to you. You heard what he said, they just want to speak to me. Responding to a fresh hammering at the yard gate: Let a deputation in. No more than three.
The policemen open the gate slightly and negotiate with the crowd. Then they admit three people, two men and a mother with a child in arms.
MAYOR: What is it?
ONE OF THE REFUGEES excitedly: Monsieur le Maire, we’ve got to have those lorries.
PATRON: Didn’t you hear that the roads must be kept free?
WOMAN: For you? While we have to wait here for the German bombers, is that it?
MAYOR to the refugees: Madame, Messieurs, don’t panic. The lorries are all right. The hostelry just wants to save some valuable property from the threat of enemy action.
WOMAN indignantly: There you are! They want to evacuate crates, not people.
A noise of aeroplanes can be heard.
VOICES from outside: Stukas!
PATRON: They’re diving.
The noise becomes louder and louder. The planes have dived. Everybody throws himself to the ground.
PATRON when the planes have gone: One could get killed that way. I must be off.
VOICRS from outside: Hand over the lorries! Are we supposed to stay here and die?
PATRON: And the stuff hasn’t been loaded! Philippe!
SIMONE angrily: This isn’t the time to think of your provisions!
PATRON astounded: What’s come over you, Simone?
SIMONE: At least we could give those people the food.
THE REFUGEE: Ah, it’s food? I
s it food they’re trying to get away?
MAURICE: That’s it.
WOMAN: And there wasn’t even a drop of soup for us this morning.
MAURICE: It’s the French he’s trying to keep his food from, not the Germans.
WOMAN runs back to the gate: Open up, you! As the policemen hold her back she shouts over the wall: It’s the hostelry’s food stocks that’s supposed to be going on the lorries!
PATRON: Philippe! Don’t let her broadcast it.
VOICES from outside: They’re sneaking out the food!—Break open the gate!—Aren’t there any men here?—The idea is evacuate the food and leave us to the mercy of the German tanks!
The refugees break the gate in. The Mayor goes towards them.
MAYOR: Messieurs, Mesdames, no violence please! Every thing will be all right.
While the Mayor is negotiating at the gate a violent slanging-match breaks out in the courtyard. Two main groups form: on one side the Patron, the first Refugee and the Woman, together with Simone’s parents, on the other Simone, the drivers, the other refugee and Père Gustave. Georges takes no part in the proceedings but carries on with his breakfast. Old Madame Soupeau has meanwhile come out of the hostelry unnoticed. She is very old and dressed entirely in black.
WOMAN: At least eighty people with no chance of transport.
PATRON: They’ll take their bundles with them, Madame; why should I leave everything behind, they’re my lorries, aren’t they?
MAYOR: How much room do you need, Monsieur Soupeau?
PATRON: For at least sixty crates. Then the other lorry could take some thirty refugees.
WOMAN: So you’d leave fifty of us behind, would you?
MAYOR: What about managing with half a lorry, so that at least the children and the sick can go?
WOMAN: Do you mean to split up families? You wicked man!
PATRON: Another eight or ten could sit on the crates. To Madame Machard: I have your daughter to thank for this.
WOMAN: That child has more of a heart than all the rest of you put together.
MADAME MACHARD: Please excuse our Simone, Monsieur Henri. She got those ideas from her brother, it’s dreadful.
SIMONE: You know the roads and can take a roundabout way so as to leave Route 20 clear for the troops.