Read Online Castle to Castle by Louis-Ferdinand Céline - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis-Ferdinand Céline
Tags: Classics
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both sides . . .here we are! they sit me down . . . three Krimimlassistents are going to question me . . . by turns . . . oh, without the slightest brutality . . . But so invariably boring . . . "Do you admit handing over the plans of the Maginot Line to the Germans?" And myself just as invariably: No! and I signed! every bit as serious as they were! all this went on in English . . . that gives you an idea of the decline of our language . . . If it had been under Louis XIV or even Fallieres, they'd never have dared . . . " Do you admit? . . . Do you admit? . . ." My ass! no! non! signed . . . no comment! once I had said no and signed, they put my handcuffs back on and took me down to the bus . . . and off again . . . the whole city, from East to West!
It went on like that for months and then one day I couldn't move at all . . . the three Kriminalassistents came over to see me . . . in my hole . . . to ask me the same question all over again . . . and when I say a hole I mean a hole! go see for yourself, ten by ten, twenty feet deep . . . a well . . . just the thing for moss, beriberi and lichens! I who lived eighteen years in the Passage Choiseul, I know something about dismal abodes . . . but the Venstre takes the cake! a slight suspicion that I'd die there? definitely . . . no scandal, no brutality . . . "He couldn't take it!" Take Renault for instance . . . the way they went about it! Stupid to be in such a hurry! two years at the bottom of a well, they'd have had him! Nothing to worry about! . . . for me, five, six months . . . I'd kick off . . . I was supposed to! . . . seventy-five percent disability! . . . No soap! . . . I stuck it out! Lousy luck!
Now, ten years later, here in Meudon-Bellevue, nobody asks me anything . . . they tease me a bit . . . but not much . . . I don't worry my head about them either . . . other troubles . . . gas, electricity . . . coal! and carrots! The pirates who walked off with everything I had . . . sold it all in the Flea Market . . . they don't have to worry about hunger . . . or anything else . . . crime pays . . . Olympic champions for crust! arm-bands, ribbons . . . ten . . . twelve party cards! if they'd cut off my head with a penknife, they'd have been on the Arc de Triomphe! glory! and not "unknown"! . . . Oh no, in neon lights.
But maybe it's wrong of me to complain . . . I'm alive after all . . . and I lose an enemy or two every day . . . cancer, apoplexy, gluttony . . . it's a pleasure the number that pass on! . . . I'm not hard to please . . . a name! . . . another! . . . there are good things in life . . .
Oh yes, I was telling you about Thomine . . . Thomine, my cat, I forgot! senility is no excuse . . . I was telling you about my patients too . . . my last few . . . in consideration of my kindness, my patience, and because they're all very old and I refuse to be paid! oh, absolutely! . . . these few very very old people still come around . . .
My way of life dates from the Second Empire . . . a practitioner of the "liberal arts" . . . supposedly . . . Once I've paid my taxes and my dues to the Medical Association, paid for my license and a bit of heat, and my burial insurance . . . I'm cleaned out . . . that's the truth! . . . flat! . . . liberal arts . . . a good joke . . . I know what you're going to say: "Bleed your Achille! all he has to do is sell a few of your books! . . ." Hell! that's one thing he's careful not to do . . . all he can do is scream that I'm ruining him . . . talk about monumental advances . . . oh, hypocritical Achille! . . . what people! . . . he does everything in his power, two-timing, three-timing, apocalyptic maneuvers! . . . to prevent people from buying my books . . . he keeps me in his cellar, he buries me . . . there'll be a new edition in a thousand years . . . but here and now in Bellevue . . . I can croak . . .' "Ah yes, Céline! . . . he's in our cellar . . . he'll be out in a thousand years! . . ." In a thousand years nobody'll speak
It went on like that for months and then one day I couldn't move at all . . . the three Kriminalassistents came over to see me . . . in my hole . . . to ask me the same question all over again . . . and when I say a hole I mean a hole! go see for yourself, ten by ten, twenty feet deep . . . a well . . . just the thing for moss, beriberi and lichens! I who lived eighteen years in the Passage Choiseul, I know something about dismal abodes . . . but the Venstre takes the cake! a slight suspicion that I'd die there? definitely . . . no scandal, no brutality . . . "He couldn't take it!" Take Renault for instance . . . the way they went about it! Stupid to be in such a hurry! two years at the bottom of a well, they'd have had him! Nothing to worry about! . . . for me, five, six months . . . I'd kick off . . . I was supposed to! . . . seventy-five percent disability! . . . No soap! . . . I stuck it out! Lousy luck!
Now, ten years later, here in Meudon-Bellevue, nobody asks me anything . . . they tease me a bit . . . but not much . . . I don't worry my head about them either . . . other troubles . . . gas, electricity . . . coal! and carrots! The pirates who walked off with everything I had . . . sold it all in the Flea Market . . . they don't have to worry about hunger . . . or anything else . . . crime pays . . . Olympic champions for crust! arm-bands, ribbons . . . ten . . . twelve party cards! if they'd cut off my head with a penknife, they'd have been on the Arc de Triomphe! glory! and not "unknown"! . . . Oh no, in neon lights.
But maybe it's wrong of me to complain . . . I'm alive after all . . . and I lose an enemy or two every day . . . cancer, apoplexy, gluttony . . . it's a pleasure the number that pass on! . . . I'm not hard to please . . . a name! . . . another! . . . there are good things in life . . .
Oh yes, I was telling you about Thomine . . . Thomine, my cat, I forgot! senility is no excuse . . . I was telling you about my patients too . . . my last few . . . in consideration of my kindness, my patience, and because they're all very old and I refuse to be paid! oh, absolutely! . . . these few very very old people still come around . . .
My way of life dates from the Second Empire . . . a practitioner of the "liberal arts" . . . supposedly . . . Once I've paid my taxes and my dues to the Medical Association, paid for my license and a bit of heat, and my burial insurance . . . I'm cleaned out . . . that's the truth! . . . flat! . . . liberal arts . . . a good joke . . . I know what you're going to say: "Bleed your Achille! all he has to do is sell a few of your books! . . ." Hell! that's one thing he's careful not to do . . . all he can do is scream that I'm ruining him . . . talk about monumental advances . . . oh, hypocritical Achille! . . . what people! . . . he does everything in his power, two-timing, three-timing, apocalyptic maneuvers! . . . to prevent people from buying my books . . . he keeps me in his cellar, he buries me . . . there'll be a new edition in a thousand years . . . but here and now in Bellevue . . . I can croak . . .' "Ah yes, Céline! . . . he's in our cellar . . . he'll be out in a thousand years! . . ." In a thousand years nobody'll speak
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