Monsieur le Commandant Read Online Free

fighters, a significant number of bombers and a strong assault command.
    The League of Nations could offer nothing more than token protests to these treaty violations. The French Nation, gangrenous with the corrupting individualism born of that absurd republican theory of human rights, seemed to be mired in staggering apathy. Democratic anarchy, so lucidly denounced by Charles Maurras, had unleashed the four scourges upon us: Jewish, Protestant, Foreigner and Freemason. Disorder was paving the way for the downfall of the Motherland, and I could not fail to register the irreversible debasement of France that had long cost us our rightful place in the world –
first
place.

    All this time, our little Hermione was growing. Tawny, joyful, intelligent. The only faults I found in her were suggestions of frivolity and pridefulness, which are readily forgivable in a child.
    Ilse, barely touched by maternity, was as young, radiant and beautiful as ever, the light that, on each of her visits to Normandy, illuminated my existence.
    Olivier became First Violin of the Paris Symphony Orchestra.
    My son began, with my approval, to enquire into obtaining French nationality for Ilse on the basis of new laws authorising it after one year of marriage to a French citizen and residence on national territory.
    I wrote and wrote, showered with meaningless honours as the Whore Republic wallowed in her filth. The year 1936 brought my ancient Gallo-Roman nation the humiliation of being governed by a Jew, Léon Blum – as cunning as a Talmudic scholar, as perfidious as a scorpion, as grudging as a eunuch and as hate-filled as a viper – a Bulgarian, German, Jewish cross-breed, a prophet of error, a glum-faced Machiavelli grafted onto the head of France. In Paris, radio took on a Yiddish accent. Drawn from the darkest ghettos of the Orient by the news of their racial triumph, the hook-noses and crinkle-hairs were suddenly everywhere. Ashkenazis fleeing the ghettos of Poland and Romania flooded in by the hundred thousand. Members of this rabble succeeded in having themselves stripped of their national rights in order to be shielded from expulsion, while their precarious health landed them in our hospitals in their thousands. And so they came – the misfits, the bloodsuckers, the crippled. France had become the world’s cesspool. Our access roads became sewers, turning our lands into a swamp that grew more swarming and fetid by the day. It was a vast tide of Neapolitan scum, Levantine dregs, dismal Slavic stench, appalling Andalusian destitution, the spawn of Abraham and Judean pitch.
    Under the banner of the right to asylum, political refugees and common-law criminals were allowed in helter-skelter and without the slightest hindrance. All agreed on one point at least: their right to treat us as a conquered country. While some stole the bread out of French workers’ mouths, others continuously insulted our patriotism, and did it, what’s more, in our own newspapers. It was our duty to react. My friends and I took up our pens to demand the immediate closure of our borders. As my colleague Giraudoux, soon to be named commissionerin the Ministry of Information, declared without ambiguity, we were ‘in full agreement with Hitler that politics rises to its highest nature only when it is racial’. 3 Gustave Hervé brought out a revised second edition of his book
C’est Pétain qu’il nous faut
, its cover adorned with a portrait of the Maréchal (then Vice-President of the High War Council). The printing was overseen by Paul Ferdonnet, who would later be French-language programmer for your Radio Stuttgart.
    I saw the red flags – rags drenched in the blood of the innocent victims of successive revolutions – flying over the silkworks and glass factory of Andigny, now occupied by workers tricked and led astray by Moscow’s union activists and agents. In Spain, Bolshevism and anarchy stood in the way of the righteous independence advocated by General