Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘I didn’t recognise you straight away,’ she exclaimed. ‘Although Monsieur Michette is always telling me I’m a physiognomist. You need that with customers, otherwise you can find people trying it on. Machosists for example. I’ve spotted one or two of those in my time.’

Jean protested that he was not a masochist. Madame Michette exclaimed that he was being very perverse; she hadn’t suspected him of it for a minute. It was just a comparison. She picked up a vol-au-vent and popped it between her plump lips, lightly shadowed by a moustache.

‘It’s just like before the war!’ she winked.

He waited for her to add, ‘and that’s something of ours the Boches will never have’, but she was distracted by having to wipe her thumb and index finger, which she had dipped in the sauce.

‘I hear that Monsieur Michette—’

She winked again and jerked her chin in the direction of Julius Kapermeister, talking to the film actress, who by now was looking extremely tipsy.

‘Yes. Let’s hope he succeeds,’ Jean added.

‘He can do anything. He got us our Ausvesses .’

What fantastic, mad scheme was brewing in Palfy’s mind? What use was he intending to make of this person, straight from a Maupassant story and more real and larger than life than any caricature? It was quite unlike his usual modus operandi not to school her beforehand for some role in his Parisian ambitions; instead, within hours of arriving, he had thrown her into a milieu that, though not quite possessing the refinement she imagined it to have, was far above the world ruled by a provincial madam, whatever her superiority in her field. The reason was — as Jean quickly realised — that whilst Madeleine had been malleable, Madame Michette would always remain exactly what she was. Her turn of phrase, her colourful mispronunciations, the way she dressed, even her moral sense, not to mention her avowed profession, would fast make a Parisian character of her. When Jean finally managed to speak to Palfy his friend’s face lit up.

‘Is she not sublime? And you don’t know the half of her! She’s got ideas about everything. And devoted! You’ll have to see it. To get rid of her yesterday, I sent her on a secret mission. She got on the 6 a.m. train to Vernon and from there took a wood-gas bus to Les Andelys, making sure she wasn’t being followed. From Les Andelys she carried on in the pouring rain, on foot, as far as Château-Gaillard. What a landscape! Do you know it?’

‘No. Then what?’

‘Inside the outer wall, having made sure she was alone, she collected three flat stones, placed them one on top of the other, and slipped a note I’d written in code between stones one and two. Child’s play, obviously. Afterwards she had to get to Rouen. She stopped a truck full of Jerusalem artichokes, and as there were already five people in the driver’s cab she climbed up and sat on the artichokes. At Rouen she went to the main post office where she delivered a sealed letter to a PO box number I’d given her, 109. She was back in Paris that evening, happier than you can possibly imagine. She longs to serve ! She shall be served.’

‘Is it indiscreet to ask whose PO box it was and what was in the letter?’

‘Not a bit, dear boy. I haven’t the faintest idea who the PO box belongs to, and in the envelope I put a piece of paper on which I simply wrote, “I’m a silly cow.”’

Jean spluttered with laughter just as the butler announced, ‘Madame is served.’

‘You see,’ Palfy murmured, ‘everyone is served.’

Cards with the guests’ names had been laid at each place. On his right Julius had a bloodless-looking woman with a stare like a fish in aspic, on his left Madame Michette. Madeleine placed Palfy on her right. Was he not a baron, the evening’s only aristocrat? On her left sat a Frenchman, the husband of the woman with the fish-eyed stare, who, furious at seeing Palfy chosen over him, swallowed his first glass of Graves in a single gulp to get over his humiliation. Jean found himself at the end of the table between the film actress, whose name he finally discovered — Nelly Tristan — and a frail-looking young woman who spoke French with a strong German accent and whose place card read ‘Fräulein Laura Bruckett’. He tried to avoid looking at Madame Michette who, quite at her ease, cut herself a thick slice of foie gras and kept the silver knife instead of putting it back in the ewer of hot water. At a sign from the host a servant brought another knife and went round the table. Madame Michette had already finished her foie gras before the men were served. Julius, with a nod, had the plate brought back to her, and she cut herself another slice.

‘What an appetite that woman’s got!’ Nelly Tristan said to Jean.

‘It’s not very surprising. Yesterday she had a long trip on a pile of Jerusalem artichokes.’

‘Why? Does she sell them?’

‘No, she loves travelling.’

Nelly tasted the foie gras .

‘Not too horrid.’

Julius declared that even if the entire German army were not celebrating New Year with foie gras in a few days’ time, there would nevertheless be cause for festivities along the new frontiers. Only England was now plunged into the throes of war, at the insistence of that lunatic, Churchill. But Germany’s hand was still extended. No one could conceive of a new Europe without the participation of Great Britain, once she had got rid of the bloodthirsty puppets who dominated her politics … A small man, with a black moustache that detracted slightly from his resemblance to a baby-faced intellectual, agreed with unexpected vehemence. The red and yellow ribbons of the Légion d’Honneur and the Médaille Militaire, a little too obvious in his buttonhole, attested to his past. It did not stop him finding Julius Kapermeister more than a little timid. What were the Germans waiting for? The minute the English saw the first German land on their soil, they’d be on their knees. For six centuries England had been playing the European nations off against each other like pawns and compromising all efforts at peace. Was it not England that had declared war on Germany on 3 September? Yes, there she was, the first! Dragging France in six hours later. England really was the mangy dog of Europe …

Madeleine spoke.

‘It’s Julius’s fault. He started it. We promised we wouldn’t talk politics. We’ve got a thousand more interesting things to say to each other.’

‘Madeleine’s very strict,’ Julius said. ‘She’s interested in everything bar politics. She’d like us all to be like her. It’s not easy, you have to admit.’

The small man with the moustache, whose name was Oscar Dulonjé, conceded that politics was not women’s business.

‘What a prick!’ Nelly Tristan murmured in Jean’s ear. ‘Who is he?’

Had Monsieur Dulonjé heard her? He appeared disconcerted and hesitant. He decided to ignore the interruption and Madeleine, keen to salvage the situation, turned to Nelly.

‘My dear Nelly, when are you starting filming?’

‘Tomorrow morning. But if I carry on the way I’m going, there’s a very good chance I may be a teeny bit late at the studio.’

She emptied her whisky glass and then her white wine, and shot the table a charming and innocent smile. Jesús put his fork down noisily.

‘I em never goin’ to get used to foie gras . All this French food is killin’ me. Before the war I live’ on peanuts. Is much more ’ealthy.’

‘Peanuts?’ Julius said. ‘We must be able to find those. Laura, will you make a note?’

Fräulein Bruckett said timidly, ‘I’m afraid it may be impossible.’

Julius came to her rescue.

‘If Laura says it is impossible, she knows better than anyone. She’s a secretary at the Department of Supply. A pity, my dear Jesús, you will have to wait for the war to be over before you can stop being forced to eat foie gras .’