Free The Red Collar by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Adriana Hunter Page B

was, who would speak to him without having to stick to an official version.
    â€œNothing. He’s only ever done good. He just told those butchers a few home truths. They obviously didn’t like it and they’re taking their revenge.”
    â€œThe military?”
    â€œOf course, the whole lot of them. The generals, the politicians they serve and the ones who sell the cannons. All the people who sent our local boys to their deaths.”
    The old woman automatically turned her gaze toward a dresser that stood along one side of the room, between the window and the wall to the hallway. Three framed photographs had been placed there, the faces of three young boys with calm, inane expressions full of hope. The eldest couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Beside them, in a larger frame, a crinkled photograph featured a man standing full-length, all done up in an engineer’s uniform.
    â€œMy son and my three grandsons,” said the old woman, as if she could tell Lantier had turned to look at the pictures.
    â€œAll . . . ”
    â€œYes. And in the same year. 1915.”
    There was a brief silence, then the woman shuddered slightly to brush aside the emotion. She drove a rubber tube into Wilhelm’s mouth and lifted up the pitcher to pour the water. The dog swallowed noisily. He coughed and choked but let her carry on, as if he understood it was all for his own good.
    â€œAnd what would you do if they sentenced his master to death? Could you keep the dog here?”
    â€œSentenced him to death! Oh, poor miserable soul! I should hope the good Lord won’t let a thing like that happen. For four years they came looking for our boys to kill them, but the war’s over now. What about the prefect and the police and all the big-shot draft dodgers who did well out of it? It’s about time they paid their dues. If they sentenced that boy to death it would be a terrible thing.”
    The dog had a violent bout of coughing, and water spilled from his mouth, spreading over the sheet.
    â€œBlast! I poured a bit too quickly. Easy, my beauty! Easy!”
    She lowered the pitcher and withdrew the tube. All of a sudden a thought came to her, and turning her dead eyes to Lantier, she asked, “Anyway, who are you exactly?”
    He felt uncomfortable.
    â€œA friend.”
    â€œOf the dog’s?” she sniggered.
    â€œOf his master’s.”
    Afraid she would pursue this and he would have to lie, which could have regrettable consequences, he swiftly took his leave.
    â€œI must go, I’m so sorry. I’ll come by again. Take good care of him. And thank you. Thank you again.”
    The major left and as he closed the door he heard the old woman joking with dog:
    â€œHe has some funny friends, that master of yours!”
    Â 
    * * *
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    Lantier hadn’t wasted too much time with this detour to the old woman’s house. When he reached the prison the abbey-church clock was just striking nine.
    He could tell at first glance that Morlac had been waiting for him. A radical change had taken place in the prisoner. He was no longer enduring the major’s interrogation, but looking forward to it.
    One of the charms of the military is that once an order has been given, it takes another order to abolish it. Lantier had said nothing to the contrary to Dujeux the day before, so the jailer led the defendant and his judge directly out to the courtyard at the back of the building, and closed the door to leave them to talk. From time to time he put his nose up to the square window in the door and came away reassured.
    This time Morlac steered the officer toward a stone bench which, happily, was in full sunlight.
    â€œI warn you, this is going to take quite a long time today.”
    â€œI’ve plenty of time.”
    The cool of the night stayed trapped in the confined space of that courtyard as it would in the bottom of a well, and the sunlight that reached them was