Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

*

At four o’clock he could not hold out any longer. He walked down Quai Voltaire and along the Seine. The booksellers were already closing. He hesitated at Place Saint-Michel, then continued as far as Claude’s building. Leaning against the parapet, he was standing motionless, incapable of a decision, when a hand touched his arm.

‘I walked past you three times without being certain, but I see it is you.’

A clean-shaven man, his eyes glittering feverishly, wearing an Eden hat and carrying a cane with an ivory knob, stood in front him. His lips trembled.

‘Do you recognise me?’

‘Yes, you’re Blaise Pascal.’

‘Do you know who just turned the light on?’

‘No.’

‘Her husband. She went back to her husband,’ he said. His words were choked by a sob.

In different circumstances Jean would have happily beaten him to death. But what was the point? He said instead, ‘You’re the lowest of the low. Try to show a bit of dignity at your age.’

‘You can’t teach me a lesson!’

‘I bloody well can. I’m letting you off lightly. Where are your wonderful theories now?’

‘Gone! I’ve been punished. I should never have left my solitude …’

‘You’re disturbing me. I came to say goodbye to an apartment window.’

‘I come here every day.’

‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

Blaise Pascal seized his arm with unexpected force.

‘Listen to me … I know everything you can reproach me for, but listen to me … I have a right to be heard …’

Jean extricated himself without difficulty and started walking towards Place Saint-Michel. The man followed him.

‘I didn’t touch her. I loved her, that’s all. Like an infinitely fragile thing … And I hated you because you came between her and me all the time. Now it’s over: he’s come back. He’s erasing both of us for ever.’

Jean walked more quickly.

‘That’s an end to your little affair.’ Blaise Pascal raised his voice.

‘You don’t want to listen to me … But it’s over, I tell you, over … For both of us …’

Passers-by were turning to stare at them.

‘We’re equal in human misery now!’ Blaise Pascal shouted. ‘You’ll never sleep with her! Never!’

Jean turned round threateningly.

‘Shut up!’

‘There’s only her husband now. Only him: you don’t exist any more. Like me!’ His voice broke. ‘So listen to me, Jean Arnaud. I only want one thing from you: the truth. It’s true isn’t it, that you never touched her?’

Jean felt a sudden, wrenching dizziness that weakened his determination.

‘I was never her lover.’

‘I knew it!’ Blaise Pascal was triumphant. ‘Why don’t we talk about her, the two of us?’

Pushed violently backwards, he almost fell. Jean, running, was already on the opposite pavement as the other man, lifting his cane, shouted again, ‘Let’s talk about her, let’s talk about her!’

Passers-by gathered around him, and slowly a policeman made his way towards the commotion.

On the stairs up to Nelly’s studio Jean met Marceline wearing a sheepskin coat that made her look twice her normal size. She kissed Jean.

‘I nearly missed you,’ she said. ‘Justice exists after all. France recognises her good children. And she needs them now, how she needs them! Obviously anyone can make a mistake. I was telling the minister yesterday morning. He completely agreed, but he can’t be everywhere, poor man.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘One must try to understand.’

‘Oh, I do understand.’

She looked reassured.

‘I’m very partisauntie for reconciliation between all the French. That’s my programme.’

‘People are saying you’re going to stand in the elections?’

Marceline put on a knowing air.

‘“People” have asked me. I have to think about it. There are some good men in the MRP, but their hearts are rather over to the Left, and I’m more to the Right. Well, there’s room for all sorts in the good Lord’s house.’

Her life was taking on a new meaning. She believed in it. A wind of purity was blowing through the corridors of power. Monsieur Michette had had to retire.

‘In my position,’ she said, ‘there would have been too much talk. He’s retired to Carjac. Zizi’s keeping house for him. I’m very understanding. Morals have changed too.’

She had something else to say, and was finding it difficult to say it.

‘I’ve just come back from Switzerland .’

The look that accompanied her words was so knowing that Jean found himself nodding encouragement to her.

‘Yes, I saw “our” friend. He looks very happy with his wife. A very attractive woman. Distinguished too …’

‘Did he say anything to you about me?’

‘Yes. Your transfer to London worried him a lot.’

‘Reassure him. There’s no danger. Tell him Rudolf played the fool, and he’s very good at it.’

‘People are nasty here at the moment. He was seen with the Germans very often. When people question me, I tell them I was seen with them too and that I was worming intelligence out of them. Constantin thinks you shouldn’t stay in France …’

‘That’s exactly what I think.’

‘But he’s wrong! France needs men like you.’

‘I doubt it.’

Marceline was sincerely disappointed.

‘Come, come, you mustn’t get disillusioned so quickly!’

‘I’ve made my decision. Not on Palfy’s advice; he’d like to see me a million miles away. Nothing he says is ever disinterested. But I haven’t forgotten that he saved my bacon. Wish him good luck from me.’

Marceline remained convinced of Palfy’s innocence. He had set her off on her current adventure. Jean did not want to disabuse her.

‘Think about it!’ she said.

‘I’ve thought about it.’

‘What about Nelly?’

‘She’ll find someone to comfort her.’

‘It’ll be like Corneille in real life!’

‘I don’t think so.’

She kissed him again and pulled a bottle of champagne from her coat pocket.

‘I’m losing my marbles! I almost forgot. Wish me well at midnight.’

Jean was sorry to have disappointed a woman of such strong convictions, whose innocence was still intact, and he kept her a few minutes longer, in time for Nelly to appear.

‘Mmm, lovely, Marceline, champagne. You’re an angel! Stay with us, we’re having a party.’

‘In that case I’ll take you to dinner at La Coupole.’

Jean would have preferred not to go out, to savour his newly won freedom in the intimacy of Nelly’s company, but Marceline insisted.

‘I won’t stay late. I know what love is. I’ve seen plenty of men in a hurry.’

Boulevard du Montparnasse was plunged in darkness, but behind La Coupole’s blue-tinted windows the big, brightly lit dining room dazzled them. Jean felt almost dizzy. After a universe measured in square centimetres, the restaurant’s space, the height of its ceilings, the smoke, the heavy smell of sauces from the dishes that the waiters in their aprons passed under their noses no longer seemed real. An absurd reflex held him back, as if he had no right to what, after life in prison, seemed like an insane luxury. A head waiter recognised Nelly and led her to a table in the corner.

‘Here you can see without being seen!’ he said conspiratorially.

He was exaggerating. Jean discovered that in two years Nelly had gone from being a gossiped-about, faintly notorious actress to a full-blown celebrity. Journalists came to talk to her, then some actors who were about to perform in a nearby theatre. There was a flash as a photographer took her picture. He asked for Marceline’s and Jean’s names for the caption.