A Game of Billiards
by Alphonse Daudet
Editorial Note:
The French author Alphonse Daudet (1840 – 1897) was a prominent figure in the Parisian salon world of the 19th century and made his name through hearty and dramatic tales of life in Provence. His varied and prodigious output included plays, novels, journalism and an intimate diary (La Doulou) chronicling his experience with the effects of syphilis (published posthumously in France in 1930, the diary was translated into English by Julian Barnes and published in 2002 as The Land of Pain).
The devastations of the Franco-Prussian War – a conflict in which over half-a-million people lost their lives – made an enormous impression on Daudet, and became the subject of his second collection of stories - Les Contes du lundi (1873). “A Game of Billiards,” the second story in the collection, marks the murderous distance that can obtain between individual interest and collective fate. It appears here in a new English translation by Elliot Menard.
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Having fought without respite for two days, and having passed the night with their backpacks on, under a torrential rain, the soldiers are exhausted. Yet for three perilous hours now they have been left to languish, guns at their feet, in the puddles along the highways, in the mud of the waterlogged fields.
Heavy with fatigue, weighed down by drenched uniforms, the soldiers huddle close for warmth and support, one against the other. Some are sleeping full upright, propped against a neighbor’s backpack; and on these slack and vacant faces, most of all, the lines of weariness and deprivation are clearly etched. Rain and mud, no fire or food, a low, black sky, and all around, the looming, unseen enemy. It is a gloomy picture.
What are they doing here? What is happening?
The cannons, their muzzles trained on the woods, seem to be watching for something. The volley guns, lying in wait, stare fixedly at the horizon. Everything is prepared for an attack. Why do they not attack? What are they waiting for?
They await orders. And headquarters sends none.
Headquarters, however, is not far. Look, halfway up that hill: it’s that beautiful Louis XIII château. See the red bricks, slick with rain, glimmer into sight between the tall groves. A princely dwelling indeed, well worthy to bear the banner of a Marshal of France. Past the road, behind a wide trench and a stone ramp, a smooth, green lawn bordered with flower vases extends to the grand entrance. On the far side, the private side of the house, bowery paths frame bright clearings, swans float in silence upon the glassy surface of a pond, and under the pagoda roof of an immense aviary, where peacocks and golden pheasants beat their wings and fan their tail-feathers, shrill cries ring out amid the foliage.
Although the owners have all left, there is no sense here of the abandonment, the complete neglect of war. The oriflamme of the chief of the army has preserved even the smallest flower on the lawn; and one is struck to find, so close to the field of battle, that opulent calm born of the order of things—the hedges aligned just right, all the avenues profoundly silent.
The very rain that has made a rutted mire of the highways is here nothing but an elegant, aristocratic shower, painting with fresh coats the red bricks and green lawns, burnishing the leaves of the orange trees and the swans’ white feathers.
All is calm and gleaming. If not for the flag flying on the roof and the two soldiers standing sentry at the gate, there would be no hint of anything martial to the place. The horses are resting in the stables. Here and there is seen an orderly in undress loitering about the kitchen, a gardener in red pants raking gravel in the tranquil courtyard.
In the dining room, where the windows open to the main entrance, is a table half-cleared: uncorked bottles, clouded and empty glasses, pale against the rumpled tablecloth. The meal is finished; the guests have departed. From the adjoining room come loud voices, sounds of laughter, of rattling balls and clinking glasses. The Marshal, you see, is playing billiards; and once begun, though the heavens fall, nothing will interrupt his game. So the soldiers wait.
Billiards! Yes, that is the great weakness of this mighty warrior! There he stands in full uniform, with all the solemnity of battle, his chest covered in medals. His eyes sparkle above flushed cheeks, kindled by the feast, the grog, and the game.
His aides-de-camp gather round, eager and deferential, swooning in admiration at each of his shots. When the Marshal makes a point, they race to mark it; when he motions for more grog, they race to fill his glass. Amid all this rustling of epaulettes and feathers, this rattling of crosses and aiguillettes; among all these smiling and bowing courtiers, so many embroideries and new uniforms; in this lofty, oak-paneled chamber that overlooks parks and courtyards of honor—here, it might be a fine autumn day at Compiègne, far from those soiled overcoats that languish along the roads, that crowd together, somber and miserable, under the rain.
The Marshal’s opponent is a young captain of the staff, tightly belted, meticulously curled, and gloved in pale leather. He is skilled at billiards, capable of outplaying every Marshal on Earth. But he knows to keep a respectful distance behind his superior; he takes care neither to win outright nor to lose too easily. In short, he is an officer with a future.
Attention, young man! Stay vigilant! The Marshal has fifteen, and you ten. See that it stays that way until the end, and you will have done far more for your career than by standing outside with the others, under the torrents that drown the horizon, soiling your fine uniform and tarnishing your gold aiguillettes while you await orders that never come.
It really is a most interesting game. The balls roll and clatter and rebound, mixing their colors. The cloth grows hot. But suddenly a cannon shot flares across the sky. A muffled sound shakes the windows. There is a general shudder; everyone looks around with unease. But the Marshal sees nothing, hears nothing. He leans over the table, quite unmoved, totally engaged in setting up a magnificent draw shot. Draw shots are his forte!
Now comes another flash. And another. The cannonade falls fast and thick. The aides-de-camp run to the windows. Can it be? Are the Prussians attacking?
“So let them attack!” says the Marshal, chalking his cue . . . “It is your turn, Captain.”
The staff thrills with admiration. Turenne asleep on his gun carriage was nothing compared to this Marshal, so calmly inclined against the billiards table at the moment of action. . . Meanwhile the booming returns with redoubled force. To the shocks of the cannon are added deafening volleys and the continuous rolling of gunfire. A red cloud, fringed in black, rises at the end of the lawn. The whole back of the park is ablaze. Peacocks and pheasants cry out in terror from the aviary; while out in the stables, smelling gunpowder, the Arabian horses rear up in their stalls.
Throughout headquarters there is a mounting disquiet. Dispatch follows dispatch. Couriers gallop in, unbridled. They are asking for the Marshal.
But the Marshal will not be disturbed. Didn’t I tell you that nothing could prevent him from finishing his game?
“It is your turn, Captain.”
But the captain is distracted. Such is youth! Look at him lose his head: he forgets himself and makes shot after shot, nearly winning the game. The Marshal is furious. Surprise and indignation show on his manly face. At that moment, a horse arriving at full gallop falls down in the courtyard. An aide-de-camp, covered in mud, forces his way up the steps to the château in one bound. “Marshal, Marshal!” And what a reception he gets! Look: all puffed up with anger and red as a rooster, the Marshal appears at the window, cue in hand.
“What is it? What's going on here? Is there no sentry around?”
“But, Marshal! . . .”
“Very well . . . In a moment! In God’s name, in a moment! Let them wait for my orders.”
The window is violently shut.
Wait for his orders! Yes, that is exactly what they are doing, the poor souls. The wind drives the rain and grapeshot straight into their faces. Whole battalions are crushed, while others stand there uselessly, weapons in hand, unable to comprehend their inaction. Nothing to be done. They await orders. But needing no orders to die, the men die by the hundreds, falling behind the bushes and in the trenches before that grand, silent château. Unabated, the gunfire tears their fallen bodies, and from their open wounds softly flows the generous blood of France. Above, in the billiard-room, things are also heating up terribly: The Marshal has regained his advantage; but the intrepid little captain defends like a lion.
Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen!
Hardly any time to mark the points. The roar of battle draws nearer. The Marshal is one point from victory. Already shells are falling in the park. See one burst over the pond: the mirror shatters, a frantic swan swims in a whirl of bloody feathers. The last shot arrives . . .
And now, a great silence. The only sounds are of rain upon the bowers, an indistinct rumbling at the foot of the hill, and, out along the highways, something like the stampede of a rushing herd. The army is routed. The Marshal has won his game.