where, thanks to a certain Rommel, war was raging. I wasn’t involved in it—no, don’t worry. I had already dodged the one in Europe. Mobilized of course, but I never saw action. In a way, I regret it. Maybe that would have changed many things? The French army didn’t need me on the front; it merely asked me to take part in the retreat. A little later I got back to Paris, and the Germans. I was tempted by the Resistance, about which people were beginning to talk just about the time I discovered that I was patriotic.

You are smil­ing? You are wrong. I made my discovery on a subway platform, at the Châtelet station. A dog had strayed into the labyrinth of passageways. Big, wiry-haired, one ear cocked, eyes laughing, he was cavorting and sniffing the passing legs. I have a very old and very faithful attachment for dogs. I like them because they always forgive. I called this one, who hesitated, obviously won over, wagging his tail enthusiastically a few yards ahead of me.

Just then, a young German soldier, who was walking briskly, passed me. Having reached the dog, he caressed the shaggy head. Without hesitating, the animal fell in step with the same enthusiasm and disappeared with him. From the resentment and the sort of rage I felt against the German soldier, it was dear to me that my reaction was patriotic. If the dog had followed a French civilian, I’d not even have thought of it. But, on the contrary, I imagined that friendly dog as the mascot of a German regi­ment and that made me fly into a rage. Hence the test was convincing.

I reached the Southern Zone with the inten­tion of finding out about the Resistance. But once there and having found out, I hesitated. The under taking struck me as a little mad and, in a word, romantic. I think especially that underground ac­tion suited neither my temperament nor my preference for exposed heights. It seemed to me that I was being asked to do some weaving in a cellar, for days and nights on end, until some brutes should come to haul me from hiding, undo my weaving, and then drag me to another cellar to beat me to death. I admired those who indulged in such hero­ism of the depths, but couldn’t imitate them.

So I crossed over to North Africa with the vague intention of getting to London. But in Africa the situation was not clear; the opposing parties seemed to be equally right and I stood aloof. I can see from your manner that I am skipping rather fast, in your opinion, over these details which have a certain significance. Well, let’s say that, having judged you at your true value, I am skipping over them so that you will notice them the better. In any case, I eventually reached Tunisia, where a fond friend gave me work. That friend was a very intelligent woman who was involved in the movies.

I followed her to Tunis and didn’t discover her real business until the days following the Allied landing in Algeria. She was arrested that day by the Ger­mans and I , too, but without having intended it. I don’t know what became of her. As for me, no harm was done me and I realized, after considerable anguish, that it was chiefly as a security measure. I was interned near Tripoli in a camp where we suf­fered from thirst and destitution more than from brutality.

I’ll not describe it to you. We children of the mid-century don’t need a diagram to imagine such places. A hundred and fifty years ago, people became sentimental about lakes and forests. Today we have the lyricism of the prison cell. Hence, I’ll leave it to you. You need add but a few details: the heat, the vertical sun, the flies, the sand, the lack of water.

There was a young Frenchman with me who had faith. Yes, it’s decidedly a fairy tale! The Du Guesclin type, if you will. He had crossed over from France into Spain to go and fight. The Catho­lic general had interned him, and having seen that in the Franco camps the chick-peas were, if I may say so, blessed by Rome, he had developed a pro­found melancholy. Neither the sky of Africa, where he had next landed, nor the leisures of the camp had distracted him from that melancholy. But his reflections, and the sun, too, had somewhat unhinged him. One day when, under a tent that seemed to drip molten lead, the ten or so of us were panting among the flies, he repeated his diatribes against the Roman, as he called him.

He looked at us with a wild stare, his face unshaven for days. Bare to the waist and covered with sweat, he drummed with his hands on the visible keyboard of his ribs. He declared to us the need for a new pope who should live among the wretched instead of praying on a throne, and the sooner the better. He stared with wild eyes as he shook his head. “Yes,” he re­peated, “as soon as possible!”

Then he calmed down suddenly and in a dull voice said that we must choose him among us, pick a complete man with his vices and virtues and swear allegiance to him, on the sole condition that he should agree to keep alive, in himself and in others, the community of our suf­ferings. “Who among us,” he asked, “has the most failings?” As a joke, I raised my hand and was the only one to do so. “O.K., Jean-Baptiste will do.” No, he didn’t say just that because I had another name then.

He declared at least that nominating oneself as I had done presupposed also the greatest virtue and proposed electing me. The others agreed, in fun, but with a trace of seriousness all the same. The truth is that Du Guesclin had impressed us. It seems to me that even I was not altogether laugh­ing. To begin with, I considered that my little prophet was right; and then with the sun, the ex­hausting labor, the struggle for water, we were not up to snuff. In any case, I exercised my pontificate for several weeks, with increasing seriousness.

Of what did it consist? Well, I was something like a group leader or the secretary of a cell. The others, in any case, and even those who lacked faith, got into the habit of obeying me. Du Guesclin was suffering; I administered his suffering. I discov­ered then that it was not so easy as I thought to be a pope, and I remembered this just yesterday after having given you such a scornful speech on judges, our brothers.

The big problem in the camp was the water allotment. Other groups, political or sectar­ian, had formed, and each prisoner favored his com­rades. I was consequently led to favor mine, and this was a little concession to begin with. Even among us, I could not maintain complete equality. Accord­ing to my comrades’ condition, or the work they had to do, I gave an advantage to this or that one.

Such distinctions are far-reaching, you can take my word for it. But decidedly I am tired and no longer want to think of that period. Let’s just say that I closed the circle the day I drank the water of a dying comrade. No, no, it wasn’t Du Guesclin; he was already dead, I believe, for he stinted himself too much. Besides, had he been there, out of love for him I’d have resisted longer, for I loved him—yes, I loved him, or so it seems to me.

But I drank the water, that’s certain, while convincing myself that the others needed me more than this fellow who was going to die anyway and that I had a duty to keep myself alive for them. Thus, cher , empires and churches are born under the sun of death. And in order to correct somewhat what I said yesterday, I am going to tell you the great idea that has come to me while telling all this, which—I’m not sure now—I may have lived or only dreamed. My great idea is that one must forgive the pope. To begin with, he needs it more than anyone else. Secondly, that’s the only way to set oneself above him…

Did you close the door thoroughly? Yes? Make sure, please. Forgive me, I have the bolt complex. On the point of going to sleep, I can never remem­ber whether or not I pushed the bolt. And every night I must get up to verify. One can be sure of nothing, as I’ve told you. Don’t think that this worry about the bolt is the reaction of a frightened pos­sessor. Formerly I didn’t lock my apartment or my car. I didn’t lock up my money; I didn’t cling to what I owned.

To tell the truth, I was a little ashamed to own anything. Didn’t I occasionally, in my social remarks, exclaim with conviction: “Property, gentlemen, is murder!” Not being suf­ficiently big-hearted to share my wealth with a deserving poor man, I left it at the disposal of pos­sible thieves, hoping thus to correct injustice by chance. Today, moreover, I possess nothing. Hence I am not worried about my safety, but about my­self and my presence of mind I am also eager to block the door of the closed little universe of which I am the king, the pope, and the judge.

By the way, will you please open that cup­board? Yes, look at that painting. Don’t you