At half-past-ten, Richard was at the Hôtel de Matignon. He was quickly received by the Président who, seated at his desk, offered his hand without getting up:
‘How are you?’
‘Not good. You allow yourself to wake me up at nine after I get in at six, following a night on the train for no useful purpose. And there was I thinking that all cabinet ministers got up at eleven o’clock at the earliest. I’m totally disillusioned!’
‘Forgive me, but it’s very important. I tried to reach you yesterday, but Iwas told you weren’t back.’
The two men had known each other for nearly sixty years, having gone to the same provincial school. In Paris, where Romain Bernès practiced law whilst his friend took up medicine, they never lost contact, despite the different paths they took. They respected each other very much, and for that reason, didn’t spare the sarcasms. Richard, in particular, was good at the sport.
Even though they were the same age, the politician seemed much older than the scientist. Not that he had let himself go. On the contrary, he had fought the decline by every means possible, but only succeeded in making it more obvious... He dyed his hair.
A crafty politician, even though short-sighted and mixed up in local fights, he owed his prominent position precisely because of his lack of a broader perspective. Without clear opinions, let alone the ability to defend them, he placed himself unfailingly in the middle ground. As a result, whatever the political orientation of the party in power, he was a safe pick.
His lack of a political personality made him the natural choice for prime minister during those periods, such as now, when the political parties were catching their breath and sharpening their knives for future battles.
‘It threatens the very existence of the ministry,’ he continued.
‘Ah, I understand. It’s obviously becoming very serious. And by what is this last-born ministry endangered?’
‘You’ve known for a long time. It’s the abominable matter of the man in the grey overcoat.’
‘A modern version of the ancient cloak of invisibility. No. How can such a minor event worry you? You’ve seen much worse.’
‘I can assure you, my old friend, the parliamentary authorities are worried.’
‘They’re always worried.’
‘I sense a coup if I don’t act. To think that we’re already at the fourth murder.’
‘So what? What’s that? Have you worked out that’s only an average of a murder every two days? Which means, by the end of the year, there will be one hundred and eighty-four deaths. In round figures. And, in ten years, one thousand eight hundred stiffs. Unless the executioner gets tired or dies before that.’
‘Or arrested.’
‘That’s another story. But, do you realise? You’re getting upset about one thousand eight hundred deaths in ten years. And if we doctors announced that in France, year in, year out, tuberculosis and syphilis each kill one hundred thousand individuals, you’d shrug your shoulders. Internally, of course, because, just for the form, you would cover us with flowers. But you don’t do anything. Or very little: just for show, with no appreciable result.’
‘What do you expect? Those are subjects that don’t interest anybody. We make great speeches. Everyone applauds. Once their back is turned, nobody gives it a second thought. And, more importantly, no government has ever lost its majority over that. Whereas I can assure you that, if we don’t bring a rapid end to this series of crimes, this one will fall.’
‘Obviously, for you, it’s a sensitive matter.’
‘Seriously, you must realise that no self-respecting government can tolerate such a massacre. My conscience and my feelings for humanity are offended.’
‘Oh, yes. Conscience! Humanity! They wouldn’t be offended if a war were declared which killed more victims in one minute than the man in the grey overcoat in ten years.’
‘That’s not a valid comparison! There are always good reasons to go to war. And there’s no instance in history where a government has fallen by asking parliament to declare it.’
‘That’s obviously an unassailable position. But....’
‘I know what you’re going to say, you over-sensitive old misanthrope. The human point of view. There’s no lack of philosophers to show that war is the only state in which humanity finds fulfilment. Without it we would be in perpetual decline. It’s the great regenerator. It’s what brings to our bodies and souls the fresh, pure breath which purges the deleterious miasmas accumulated after over-long periods of peace.’
‘No doubt it’s mustard gas or lewisite which constitute the purest form of your fresh breath.’
‘You know that a statesman must rise above such trivial considerations.’
‘And the man in the grey overcoat isn’t a consideration?’
‘Don’t be a porcupine. What’s your frank opinion?’
‘I’m not a politician. I haven’t got the ability to change my opinion. So I don’t form one quickly, and never without evidence.’
‘You’ve already done better than that. Or at least as well. Where shall I begin? In my opinion, our criminal is a madman.’
‘That’s a tautology. Since you’re not—at least for now—in charge of education, you probably know what it means. So I won’t translate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All criminals are mad. That’s obvious. There’s no situation, no matter how tense or serious, that cannot be resolved by a means less brutal than crime. Without mentioning the resulting inconvenience for the criminal himself. So you have to be crazy to choose that method. Madness can limit itself to that. It might not even be apparent, leaving the individual’s logical faculties intact. But it will nonetheless be there, the determining factor.’
‘That’s a technician for you.’
‘Is that an insult?’
‘A cutting one. Technicians are the people I detest the most. Their contemptuous tone when they speak about their speciality to ordinary folk makes my blood boil.
