Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘Who is Julius?’

‘Oh, you’ll meet him. You’ll like him instantly. He’s a big manufacturer from Dortmund. The Kommandantur has put him in charge of getting the French textile industry going again.’

‘We could do with that,’ Jean said, having managed with great difficulty to buy himself a suit.

‘Don’t be silly. If there’s anything you need, all you have to do is tell me. In any case tonight you must come for dinner — we’re going to Maxim’s.’

‘Dressed like this? They’ll turn me away at the door.’

‘With Julius? You must be joking. But if you feel uncomfortable, we can go to a bistro at Les Halles.’

‘Listen, Madeleine, I’m going to say no, for a simple reason that Jesús is already aware of. Very simple and stupid: there’s a woman in my life—’

‘Well then, bring her, you goose!’

‘She can’t go out. She has a little boy and there’s no one to look after him in the evening.’

‘You are disappointing. Isn’t he, Jesús?’

Jesús raised his arms to the sky.

‘’E’s in love, Mad’leine, ’e’s in love!’

‘What about you? You could do with getting a move on in that direction.’

‘Never! I love the art. Is the only zing!’

This made Madeleine laugh. She wrote her address and telephone number on a piece of paper.

‘Whenever you feel like seeing me, ring me. And now give me Palfy’s address. I’m going to get him an Ausweis .’

‘A what?’

‘An Ausweis , my little bunny … A travel permit. Do try to keep up a bit. Come down off your cloud. You’re still a good-looking boy. I’m very fond of you, you know.’

Jean wrote down the Michettes’ name, but suddenly could not remember either the name of the street, or the number.

‘It’s at the Sirène, Clermont-Ferrand.’

‘The Sirène? A hotel?’

‘No. A bordello.’

‘Are you saying that he lives in a bordello?’

‘The patronne is a fascinating woman.’

Madeleine looked baffled. She found it difficult to imagine ‘Baron’ Palfy in love with the patronne of a bordello. It was undeniable that in the new world born from defeat, old values had been turned upside down. She, for now, was at the top of the ladder. She supposed that since places were limited, it was natural that some were obliged to take a step or two down.

Jean and Jesús stood at the window, watching Madeleine leave. The soldier opened the car door for her and, standing behind her, made an obscene gesture in the direction of her backside before she turned to sit down.

‘Respect is dead,’ Jean said.

‘You can say that again! And there are even some pricks who says no to dinner at Maxim’s.’

‘With Julius? You must be joking. I know exactly what that would be like.’

‘Madeleine ez an angel.’

‘Steady on. Let’s say she’s all right.’

Thoughtfully Jean watched the car turn round and drive down towards Clichy. He thought how far Madeleine had come. Two years earlier she had been living in that same building and hanging out on the stairs in her dressing gown, with tired skin and breath soured by alcohol. She had led a wretched life until she met Palfy, who had offered her a lifeline before the ship went down. What would have become of her if she hadn’t met him? A new woman had been born out of those chance events. She still had much to learn, of course, and even if her destiny looked rosy she still ran the risk of committing some serious faux pas that would not escape a trained ear. What more reliable audience could she have chosen for her performance than an industrialist from Dortmund? Madeleine’s reappearance and her ascent in society, despite Jean’s efforts to ignore her, were a sign. At the age of twenty-one it is no easy matter to leave the past behind.

He wrote to Antoinette. She answered him in a long letter which we shall quote in full.

Jean darling, what a relief to have your letter. We have all been thinking of you. I ran up- and downstairs, shouting everywhere, ‘Jean’s alive, Jean’s in Paris!’ The only person to greet the news with no emotion was your father — well, I mean Albert, because I don’t know how you think of him any more in your heart. The fact that he isn’t your father isn’t really important in the end, is it? Our parents are the ones who bring us up. To tell you how he is, first of all: still working with the same fortitude and self-sacrifice, despite the arthritis in his hip that hurts him dreadfully. The abbé Le Couec says simply that he’s a saint. A cranky saint because we made him plant cabbages, potatoes and carrots in his borders. Yes, it’s not very pretty, but we have to make do as we can and we suddenly have a lot of new ‘friends’ who happen to drop in on Sundays, always around lunchtime, from Dieppe and Rouen. Maman bought some hens and rabbits and Michel came down from Olympus for long enough to build us a henhouse and some hutches out of wood and chicken wire. Oh yes — Michel’s back. He came back at the end of June, dressed as a farmhand … You know what he’s like: he took one look at our expressions and insisted that he was a gardener, not a farmhand, and quoted St John’s Gospel: ‘And they did not know he was Jesus … thinking he was a gardener.’ We’re no less complicated than before, as you can see. We had some difficulty getting him proper papers. The gendarmes at Grangeville claimed he needed to get himself demobilised at the Kommandantur. In other words, our poor darling looked very much as if he might end up in a stalag. Finally Maman’s brother, Uncle René, who’s something important in Paris in some new political movement, got involved. Now Michel has papers and even a permit to go to Paris when he needs to. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t drop in on you one day soon. He was very interested in your work in the gallery and would like to know if you only sell well-known painters.

Maman is the same as ever. So active she exhausts us all. She cycles down to Dieppe in the afternoon to volunteer as an auxiliary for the Secours National: 9 blankets, powdered milk and medicines for those in need. She’s in her element and her only complaint is that there aren’t enough who need her services.

The abbé Le Couec suffered terrible depression after the defeat. We were worried he would have a complete breakdown, right up until two mysterious friends of his came to visit him. I met them one day and they told me a quite fantastic story, that you would have been shot by the Germans if they hadn’t intervened. You can imagine my panic! The abbé assured me that the Blessed Virgin was protecting you, and perhaps there’s some truth in what he said because no one could possibly believe that it was chance that put the abbé’s two friends in exactly the same place as you at exactly the moment when the Germans were about to shoot you.

The Marquis de Malemort was taken prisoner and is in an oflag somewhere in Silesia. After two terribly worrying months, his family finally got a letter. They’re sending him weekly parcels. He dreams of saucisson, cider and turkey, apparently. It’s all he can think about. Do you want to hear about Chantal or not? If you don’t, cut off this part of my letter and throw it away now.

Chantal has taken over from her father. She found a couple of Percherons from somewhere to replace the tractor and she drives the plough now as if she’s been doing it all her life. You’d never have suspected the energy that lurks inside that frail-looking creature. Living the way she does, in the open air, has given her a … Norman complexion, to put it politely. No more beautifully manicured hands, no more life’s little luxuries. She’s out in her overalls all day long. Gontran Longuet went to see her in a car he’d had fitted with a wood-gas generator. She set the dogs on him. Oh yes, apropos the Longuets: they came back in July. They’ve two German officers living with them, ‘visiting’ the region, taking photos and writing things down. Apparently one of them was asked, ‘Are you here to stop the British from landing?’ and he burst out laughing rather rudely and said, ‘It’s more the other way round.’