Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

Me ( aggressive ): What are you doing here?

Him: I belong to a charitable organisation whose members visit prisoners. In reality I shouldn’t have the right to see you. Our charity’s interests lie with common criminals.

Me: Sadly I haven’t killed anyone.

Him: Of course I’m not criticising you for that. Anyway, I was able to play on our possible relationship.

Me: What do you mean, possible? It’s definite.

Him: Not legally. It’s a question of blood.

Me: You don’t say!

Him ( disconcerted ): You don’t need anything?

Me: Nothing. Nelly sends me parcels and my lawyer brings me my post.

Him: I’ve been to see all the friends who could be useful to you.

Me: That can’t have taken long.

Him: The major’s the most likely one. An admirable man, a saint … Jesús is very busy with his next exhibition … La Garenne …

Me: Not that madman.

Him: Don’t be cross with him, he’s having a difficult time. As for Blanche de Rocroy, I didn’t know she was a resistant …

Me: No one did. Not even her.

Him: She speaks quite harshly about you.

Me: That hanger-on? Bugger her.

Him: Jean, you mustn’t become embittered.

Me: I’m not embittered, I just want to get out of here.

Him: That’s understandable, and I came to offer you moral support. It’s impossible to forget our childhood.

Me: You hated me.

Him: I still reproach myself for that.

Me: Tell me about the abbé Le Couec, Antoinette …

Him: The abbé’s in prison with a lot of other Breton separatists. Antoinette’s married. Someone very decent. A widower to whom she has brought a dowry of her very fine qualities …

Me: Are you working on an exhibition?

Him ( embarrassed ): The opening’s tomorrow.

Me: That’s a shame for me.

Him: It’s a very Christian exhibition. Quite painful, in other words.

Me: Well, thanks for the news. I won’t hold you up any longer.

Him: I’ve brought you a book, something to think about in prison: the Confessions of Saint Augustine.

Me: Keep it for a pickpocket. I’ve read it and reread it these last two years.

Him: You’re discouraging.

Me: Then I have good news for you: I have absolutely no wish to see you again.

Him: I’m not offended. I’m just doing my duty.

Me: A great satisfaction, I’m sure. Goodbye, Michel. We have nothing in common and, to be frank, I’ve only put up with you because of Antoine. Since he died I’ve no reason to go on.

Him: That’s it: get it off your chest, insult the people who wish you well, trample the past … Afterwards you’ll feel better and we’ll talk more freely.

Me: We won’t talk. I don’t want to see you. There are lots of people I don’t want to see again. My life is elsewhere. I made it myself and I’m proud of it. Don’t make me say something unpleasant — I’ll regret it later.

Him: I’ll pray for you.

Me: Then ask for my flu to last a bit longer. I’m more comfortable in the infirmary than in a cell for six.

Him: I shan’t say any more. You’ll always find me ready to help you when you need me.

Me: Thank you, dear Michel. Now goodbye.

He left, wrapped in the arrogance of his deep humility. He’s the sort of person who’s permanently sheltered from reality. He deflects it. What’s the point of telling him what I think of his relations with Senzacatso when he feels secure in going up to the altar every day for a perfect communion? It’s obvious that he can only despise someone as decent as the abbé Le Couec. There’s nothing Jansenist about him, in his cassock and wide-brimmed hat, with his huge boots on his feet and the ribbons of his Military Medal and Croix de Guerre on his chest. And now here he is, compromised again, yesterday’s thorn in the side of Vichy, today’s enemy of Gaullism. He’ll never be acceptable. Nor me. So we’ve won, he and I.

On the morning of 31 December, as a result of sensitive judgment by a magistrature eager to have its changes of allegiance forgotten, Jean found himself a free man. His case had been dismissed: a most rare favour. Maître Deschauzé informed him that his release was the fruit of combined efforts by Marceline and the British Embassy, alerted by Salah. From the front line the major found a way to send a congratulatory telegram to Nelly’s apartment. What is there to say about that first morning of freedom? There was no one waiting for him at the prison gates. It was a lovely winter morning, with a pale sun shining over the bare branches of the trees. The deserted streets, the vacant looks of passers-by and women with shopping baskets on their arms, the queues outside the cheese shops, their windows daubed with offers, the pavements strewn with dead leaves, and, pervading everything, a weariness and sad drabness, contrasted with the warm, sunny days of the Liberation. A tramp stepped in front of him, his hand outstretched.

‘I’ve just got out of prison …’

‘So have I,’ Jean said.

The man looked at him, intrigued, then scornful.

‘But you were a filthy collabo.’

And turned his back on him. The Métro had regained its rhythm. It was warm in the tunnels. Under their shabby overcoats men were wearing worn-out suits like his. The cheap rayon fabric creased as soon as you sat down. At Saint-Germain-des-Prés he finally began to feel he was back at the heart of a familiar world.

Nelly was waiting for him.

‘I didn’t dare believe it. Your lawyer called me last night. You don’t look well.’

He looked in the mirror. He had lost weight, his skin was dull, and he had dark rings around his eyes. He had to smile to recognise himself. Behind his shoulder he saw Nelly’s childish features, lit up with pleasure.

‘I’ve made you a breakfast you’ll remember for ever, but don’t imagine it’s like this everywhere. People are dying. There’s still a war on. I’ve got a personal supply. An American colonel came to see me at the Français. His father was my grandfather’s brother. He’s called James Tristan and his pockets are stuffed with chocolate and cigarettes.’

‘Good-looking?’

‘There I really don’t have any luck at all. He’s the only American in Paris who isn’t good-looking.’

Good-looking or not (Jean allowed himself a mild scepticism), he had provided porridge, powdered milk, bacon, coffee and tea.

‘I had no idea I liked good things so much,’ he said.

They spent the morning together. In the afternoon Nelly left for a rehearsal, from which she phoned him three times.

‘Are you all right? Wait for me, I’m coming soon. It’s so annoying here. I want to hear your voice.’

He did not leave the studio, did not even look out into the street. From Nelly’s bedside table he picked up the book she was reading and saw the verses she had underlined in red pencil.

So having watered History with my tears,

I wanted to live a bit more happily;

Far too much to ask, it now appears;

I looked to be talking unintelligibly.

Well then, my heart, I beg you, let it go!

When I think of it, in truthfulness,

A feverish sweating lays me low

That I might slip into uncleanliness.

Jules Laforgue, whom she recited with such sweet sauciness. He would take it with him, to hear Nelly’s voice behind the lines.