Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘What? She’s still alive! She must be a hundred if she’s a day. Everyone thinks she’s dead. She wasn’t exactly a spring chicken when Edward VII had his way with her, just after Félix Faure. Don’t you realise? Mercedes del Loreto is a truly historic figure! Historic!’

She had modelled for Toulouse-Lautrec (Albi museum still had his portrait of her) and been both high-class courtesan and variously lover and fleeting mistress to a wide circle of rich men. If she owned an art gallery, it raised questions. Palfy set Madame Michette on the trail. Staking out Rue de la Gaîté, she soon discovered La Garenne’s hideout, the den to which he disappeared at night and certain hours of the day: an apartment under the rafters, opposite the Bobino music hall. Allow me to romanticise Madame Michette’s somewhat dry reports a little, while not failing to do justice to their key points.

A dark and sticky staircase filled with choice odours from the toilets on each floor led to the top landing and a single door fitted with security locks. There was not even a concierge to provide the smallest titbit of gossip! The postman left the mail in zinc letterboxes. One of these bore, handwritten, the grandiose name of Mercedes del Loreto. After two days of watching, Madame Michette had initiated a conversation with a little old lady stepping downstairs with her shopping bag in one hand and a cigarette between her lips, her face whitened with powder and grey hair curled with tongs.

‘Ah, Mercedes del Loreto!’ the old lady had said. ‘Of course I know her. It must be fifteen years since I saw her in the building. But she’s still up there, still with us. Only yesterday I heard her shrieking. As if there was a sea lion up there … You know’ — she waved her arms and blew out her cheeks — ‘ arrh, arrh … oowowoowow … What would you say to a quick glass of white at the tabac on the corner? You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you? A proper one! I say, things are looking up. Oh, they’re German. You won’t find the black market flooded with those. The Fritzes keep an eye on things. Plays by the rules, their army.’

They walked to the nearest bistro and stood at the counter.

‘Two medium-dry whites, Amédée. Anjou, please.’

The barman raised his eyebrows.

‘Madame Berthe, I don’t know if you’ve noticed … there’s a war on. Shortages. Anjou is hard to get hold of.’

‘Oh, do stop pretending. Get the bottle out. She’s a friend.’

The Anjou appeared. Madame Berthe sipped and clucked with her tongue.

‘She moved in in 1920. I know because I was a diseuse at the Bobino then. Did you see me?’

‘No,’ Madame Michette said, ‘I wasn’t living in Paris. You can’t be everywhere.’

‘I quit in 1925. Went to Gaston Baty. Do you know him?’

‘Gaston who?’

‘Baty. Théâtre Montparnasse, you know.’

‘And you’re a diseuse ?’ Madame Michette repeated worriedly, a provincial who had no idea what a diseuse was.

‘No, I’m a dresser now. Marguerite Jamois, I dressed her. I did. Oh, there were plenty of actors who couldn’t do without me: Lucien Nat, Georges Vitray. There wasn’t a button out of place in Maya , in Simoom , in The Shadow of Evil . That was great theatre, Madame. What’s your name?’

‘Marceline, Marceline Michette.’

‘If you told me you were from the Auvergne it wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘I am.’

‘Like him. Monsieur Baty’s from Pélussin. Do you know it?’

‘No, I’m more from Montaigut-le-Blanc.’

‘Don’t know it. Anyway, it can’t be far. What do you want from old Mercedes?’

‘It’s for a newspaper.’

‘Journalists, I’m used to them. Always hanging round me, waiting for gossip. I suppose everyone’s got to live.’

Madame Michette ignored the jibe. What would this stupid old woman have said if she had found out she was talking to a secret agent?

‘Mercedes has paid the price for her adventures. Hasn’t gone out since 1925. In the beginning you’d hear her walking on her peg leg: knock, knock, knock … Just like Sarah Bernhardt. She was at Saint-Gervais when Bertha sent over one of her big ones.15 Bang … no more leg. A terrible thing for a lady who liked to lead the men a merry dance,’ she giggled, knocking back her white wine, ‘and then she took to her bed. Been there for fifteen years. There’s a chap who lives with her. Some say he’s her last husband, others that he’s her son. As disreputable as they come, I can tell you. One evening I found him pissing on the stairs; it was running all the way down. He looked very sheepish. Don’t say anything, don’t say a word, he begged me. He was afraid I’d tell the old girl, his old girl … I don’t know. He goes up to feed her every night and every lunchtime, and if he’s late she starts shrieking: arrh, arrh … oowowoowow …’

The barman, washing glasses behind the counter, grinned.

‘All right, Madame Berthe, still doing your impressions?’

‘My dear Amédée,’ the dresser said, ‘you’re such a peasant. I’m not doing an impression. I am Mercedes del Loreto; I do her better than she does. By the way, your wine is watered down.’

She had drunk her half-glass in a single gulp. Madame Michette bought her another. At the end of each mission she provided Palfy with a list of her expenses, which he signed and passed on to higher quarters. When peace was declared she would be reimbursed.

‘They haven’t got any facilities up there,’ Madame Berthe went on, ‘so he empties the chamber pots. He does it very discreetly, but I’ve seen him. He’s devoted to her. He’s not a bad lad, deep down. People aren’t all good or all bad, generally. There’s degrees. What did you say your paper’s name was?’

‘It’s published in the unoccupied zone.’

‘Oh, down in the free! Some folk think they’re clever, but it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other wherever you go. We’re free here too. We’re chatting, aren’t we?’

‘We are,’ Madame Michette said.

‘So that Mercedes del Loreto, she had a fine old time, I’ll say. Bankers and princes. All right, fine … but in the end we’re all the same … same pussy, up and down, not side to side … even the Chinese. Then one day a wooden overcoat … That chap who lives with the old girl, there’s one or two who knew him around here. Before the war — I mean the 14–18, not the last one; that was a joke. Yes, he used to hang around the cafés at Montparnasse. Did caricatures. Went from table to table with a sketch pad and pencil. Portrait? he’d say. People let him get on with it. They called him Léonard Twenty-Sous. That’s all I know.’

So La Garenne ceased to be a mystery. He was Mercedes del Loreto’s son, and at one time in his life had felt he was an artist. All that was left of his ambition was the way he dressed and an unrelenting meanness from his hungry years. Jean told Jesús. He was unexpectedly moved. La Garenne a failure? The old shit had at last won his sympathy. Jesús vowed not to insult him quite so coarsely in future. Palfy also appeared to be touched.

‘The thought of him emptying his mother’s chamber pots makes me want to cry. I wouldn’t have done as much for mine. Let’s leave him to his little rackets. He’ll never hit the big time. But you, my dear Jean, it’s about time you stood on your own two feet. In the space of a few months you’ve learnt most of the tricks of the most crooked trade in Paris. You should open a gallery.’

‘What with? I don’t have a sou.’

‘Our dear Marceline will provide for you. She’s from the Auvergne. A saver.’

‘Precisely. She’s from the Auvergne, so she’s not stupid.’