"What we reproach you, cultivate it: it is you."
This thought of Cocteau could have been his.
When the progressive bourgeoisie, the fashionable intellectuals, the talkative youth and all in thought held him for a crime, Denis Tillinac never ceased to affirm it: he was on the right.
He proclaimed it with pride and a bit of boast.
His right - if it was not left - was not that of the salons either;
even less that of bankers in three-piece suits.
His was carnal, deeply rooted in history, the French soil.
The rocky accent, the frank manners, playing in Paris with his country air, in Auriac - Corrèze - with his Parisian connections, he drew her like a sword.
It was a straight line of common sense, passion, panache.
Horsewoman, happy, hussar, she gladly took shelter under the cape of the musketeers or the kepi of General de Gaulle.
It invited to surpass oneself, to nobility, to heroism.
She
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