Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

She never invited anyone, not out of stinginess but out of politeness, feeling that people were always happier at home than with others and that invitations embarrassed their recipients, who did not know how to refuse them without giving offence. It was Théo’s job to maintain external relations. He brought back, on his own, all the excitement and noise she needed. She would say to him, ‘Théo, when the war’s over, let me know at once, so that I can get the rooms ready and do a bit of cleaning. I’ll ask the Swiss boy to come back and run the reception again. Poor boy, in his snowy mountains he must be very cold and lonely.’

Théo shook his head and feigned despair.

‘There’s millions of men dying, a worldwide cataclysm, towns burning; we could die of hunger—’

‘Don’t exaggerate!’

‘Well, maybe not, thanks to me, because I take care of things, but what about the others? The poor, the unemployed, the pensioners, the invalids? … You don’t know, do you? They can all cop it, and all you think of is reopening your hotel.’

‘When they’re dead, we’ll have to make peace.’

‘You’ve got no heart.’

‘Yes, I have. Just not for everybody.’

Marie-Dévote reduced the world, the war, the future, the peace to simple problems. She represented vitality and harmony and the selfishness without which, in the midst of tumult and strife, nothing would survive. Jean, being Antoine’s grandson, belonged to this selfish family circle. With Claude it was possible to see Marie-Dévote being more circumspect — ‘Who is this stranger who’s not from around here?’ — but she acknowledged her qualities as an attentive mother, a good cook, serious, and inspiring Toinette’s admiration. Cyrille’s presence incited no such reservations. Cured of his cough, he was turning brown under the Midi sun, and his gaiety and laughter enlivened an atmosphere that might otherwise have been too staid.

In mid-July Claude received a postcard from her mother, asking her to return. Was it a summons, or merely a request? It was hard to say, with the dryness of the printed card which left room for only single words in response to pre-prepared questions, expressing little. At the same time Jean had a telephone call from Saint-Raphaël.

‘Hello! It’s Marceline …’

For a moment the name meant nothing to him, nor the husky accent.

‘… I’d like to see you. I have a message from the baron for you.’

The baron? He remembered the title Palfy had adopted almost by accident and now used shamelessly. Madame Michette! He should have recognised her from her mysterious tone.

‘Can you hear me?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes, yes, I can hear you.’

‘We need to meet.’

‘Well, come to Saint-Tropez.’

‘It’s not easy.’

He remembered that she had not been averse to travelling on top of a truckful of Jerusalem artichokes. Théo, who was going to Grasse that afternoon, could pick her up on the way back. They agreed a meeting place. She would be outside the station, carrying a copy of Paris-Soir , in a grey suit.

‘A suit? In this heat?’

‘I’ve come straight from Paris.’

At four o’clock that afternoon they saw her walking up and down, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, brandishing her newspaper.

Théo had been briefed by Jean.

‘So, Madame Michette, you’re one of those who hug the walls and dress in grey …’

Put out by this newcomer broadcasting her secret, she stared quickly around her. No one was watching.

‘Don’t talk so loudly, please! Enemy eyes are listening.’

‘Ah well, that’s all right then. Jump in!’

She sat between Jean and Théo and they headed for Sainte-Maxime. She stared hungrily out of the window.

‘It’s pretty here!’

‘Haven’t you been before?’ Théo said.

‘I always spend holidays with my family. And my family’s from the Auvergne.’

The new life Palfy had conjured out of the air for Madame Michette had not changed her. Jean reflected that if she went back to her former profession, she would still lead her girls to the Bastille Day celebrations or to confession with the same authority. She accepted her humble clandestine missions from a sense of duty. ‘I’m doing my bit,’ she said. Her arrival was impatiently awaited at the hotel, as if everyone wanted to be part of Palfy’s huge practical joke. Marie-Dévote offered her ‘herbal tea’ which she tasted cautiously, her little finger crooked, after dissolving a saccharine tablet in her cup.

‘It’s better for your mood than sugar,’ she said. ‘Sugar gives you choler sterol .’

Eventually she asked Jean to step onto the terrace, where she gave him a sealed letter.

Dear Jean,

Between men such as ourselves one doesn’t use the post, one uses a messenger. The divine Marceline is perfect for our purpose. She hides her messages in her bra, where of course no one’s going to go looking. Actually, I’ve got nothing to tell you except that things are going well, so well in fact that I’m rather annoyed you’re not here to be part of it. You’re dozing down there … Wake up. Now’s not the time to be bleating about love. Come back before the war is over. There are opportunities here for the taking. Tomorrow it’ll be too late. Give our heroine a note and let me know the day of your arrival. I’ll pick you up at Gare de Lyon. I have a car and driver. And that’s just the start. Tibi, Constantin

Jean went inside to write his reply. Palfy was right; he had to go back. When he returned he found Madame Michette talking to Antoine.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘Monsieur sold his house to someone I know. Monsieur Longuet. It’s such a coincidence. Madame Longuet is an absolute saint.’

‘So our priest says.’

‘What a small world.’

Antoine agreed without protest. Madame Michette drank a large glass of grappa, which reddened her cheeks without distracting her for a moment from her mission.

‘I must go!’ she announced.

‘How?’

‘By train.’

‘You ought to rest,’ Marie-Dévote said, unsettled by this obsession with travelling.

‘Later! I’ll rest later.’

‘“Later” never comes. Life’s for living now.’

Madame Michette disagreed. Our lives did not belong to us. Superior forces allowed us a few years, provided that we returned them one day, in good condition and with the interest due. The tone of the discussion rose. Madame Michette believed in destiny. Marie-Dévote did not know what it was.

Théo drove her back to Saint-Raphaël where she caught the evening train. Jean felt sorry for her and found himself thinking: why did Palfy play his pranks? So that the august figure of Madame Michette, who had lived behind closed shutters for so long, discovered a meaning to life? But Palfy was right: he had to get back to Paris. He’d had more than one reminder that his too-happy existence rested on fragile foundations. That night he found his grandfather in the Bugatti. They had run out of grappa, so they drank champagne.

‘Not marvellous!’ Antoine said at the first mouthful. ‘I’ve never quite managed to educate Marie-Dévote on the subject of champagne. She used to order hers from passing salesmen who’d palm her off with the vintages they couldn’t sell to anyone else. They’re back now, but they’re not selling any more; they want to buy up our reserve instead. I soon put a stop to that!’

‘I’m not as fussy as you. Anyway, being here’s what counts.’

They had left the door of the shed open, and through the windscreen they could make out the sea and its swell silvered by the moonlight.

‘Let’s give ourselves a treat,’ Antoine said. ‘I’ll turn the headlights on, and we’ll hope the gendarmes don’t jump out of the bushes and nab us.’