Passenger to Frankfurt - Agatha Christie [56]
‘Riot must be put down. Rebellion! Insurrection! The danger to men, women and children, to property. I go forth now to quell the insurrection, to speak to them as their father, their leader. These students, these criminals even, they are my children. They are the youth of France. I go to speak to them of that. They shall listen to me, governments will be revised, their studies can be resumed under their own auspices. Their grants have been insufficient, their lives have been deprived of beauty, of leadership. I come to promise all this. I speak in my own name. I shall speak also in your name, the name of the Government, you have done your best, you have acted as well as you know how. But it needs higher leadership. It needs my leadership. I go now. I have lists of further coded wires to be sent. Such nuclear deterrents as can be used in unfrequented spots can be put into action in such a modified form that though they may bring terror to the mob, we ourselves shall know that there is no real danger in them. I have thought out everything. My plan will go. Come, my loyal friends, accompany me.’
‘Marshal, we cannot allow–you cannot imperil yourself. We must…’
‘I listen to nothing you say. I embrace my doom, my destiny.’
The Marshal strode to the door.
‘My staff is outside. My chosen bodyguard. I go now to speak to these young rebels, this young flower of beauty and terror, to tell them where their duty lies.’
He disappeared through the door with the grandeur of a leading actor playing his favourite part.
‘Bon Dieu, he means it!’ said Monsieur Poissonier.
‘He will risk his life,’ said Signor Vitelli. ‘Who knows? It is brave, he is a brave man. It is gallant, yes, but what will happen to him? In the mood les jeunes are in now, they might kill him.’
A pleasurable sigh fell from Monsieur Poissonier’s lips. It might be true, he thought. Yes, it might be true.
‘It is possible,’ he said. ‘Yes, they might kill him.’
‘One cannot wish that, of course,’ said Monsieur Grosjean carefully.
Monsieur Grosjean did wish it. He hoped for it, though a natural pessimism led him to have the second thought that things seldom fell out in the way you wanted them to. Indeed, a much more awful prospect confronted him. It was quite possible, it was within the traditions of the Marshal’s past, that somehow or other he might induce a large pack of exhilarated and bloodthirsty students to listen to what he said, trust in his promises, and insist on restoring him to the power that he had once held. It was the sort of thing that had happened once or twice in the career of the Marshal. His personal magnetism was such that politicians had before now met their defeat when they least expected it.
‘We must restrain him,’ he cried.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Signor Vitelli, ‘he cannot be lost to the world.’
‘One fears,’ said Monsieur Poissonier. ‘He has too many friends in Germany, too many contacts, and you know they move very quickly in military matters in Germany. They might leap at the opportunity.’
‘Bon Dieu, Bon Dieu,’ said Monsieur Grosjean, wiping his brow. ‘What shall we do? What can we do? What is that noise? I hear rifles, do I not?’
‘No, no,’ said Monsieur Poissonier consolingly. ‘It is the canteen coffee trays you hear.’
‘There is a quotation I could use,’ said Monsieur Grosjean, who was a great lover of the drama, ‘if I could only remember it. A quotation from Shakespeare. “Will nobody rid me of this–”’
‘“turbulent priest,”’ said Monsieur Poissonier. ‘From the play, Becket.’
‘A madman