Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

Claude had escaped from the French police but they had not accepted that they were beaten and still hoped she would eventually lead them to Georges Chaminadze. Better informed than the police, we can reveal that Georges had already left French soil, probably on board one of those little Lysanders that landed at twilight or dawn, setting down in open fields men and women who melted into the anonymous crowd and often never reappeared. It may sound as if such missions hardly tally with what we know of Georges’s character, but that would fail to take into account the fact that, as a born gambler, he found in the secret war the same pleasure he found in squeeze plays at bridge or bluffing at poker. Danger amused him. That this time death might be the endgame was an added attraction. In the same lighthearted way he had disobeyed orders and spent three days with his wife, then tried to see her on the Sunday when she had been in the country. The concierge had informed on him and now Quai Saint-Michel was a busted flush, under permanent surveillance. He had made his wife a hostage with a disregard for her safety that reflected his true personality. In London he had been congratulated on his mission’s success, having concealed the fact that by going to Quai Saint-Michel he had been a hair’s breadth from a disaster that could, if he had talked, have led to an entire intelligence network being laid waste.

There is, therefore, no longer any Claude mystery for Jean. All is clear. The silence she met him with has been broken in a few sentences. Where his entreaties and insistence came up against a brick wall, the brutality of the police succeeded in a single night. Jean is delivered. But life has taken a dangerous turn and Claude, recovered and returned to normal life, may still be forbidden to him. He is simultaneously happy and desperate.

He would be more desperate than happy if Nelly were not there to entertain him. He discovers her generosity and what she herself calls her volatility. Relieved of Duzan (‘It wasn’t a weakness,’ she explained, ‘but a concession to received ideas: an actress must sleep with “her” producer. Why make yourself conspicuous? It wasn’t my lucky day! I’ve been punished and found out Dudu’s an ass’), relieved of Duzan, she is returning to the theatre. Jean-Louis Vaudoyer has offered her back her old place at the Comédie Française, and Dullin, director at the Théâtre de la Cité, formerly the Sarah-Bernhardt, is tempting her with a part in Jean-Paul Sartre’s first play, The Flies . But the Comédie Française is promising Corneille. Madame Michette is pushing hard for Corneille. Since she began living at Nelly’s studio, her reading habits have broadened and deepened. She is not so keen on comedies. Tragedies are what she finds really exciting. She longs to see Nelly in the role of Chimène, to hear her speaking Camille’s imprecations and Pauline’s sweet lament. She is discovering the ‘greatness of spirit’ that the life she has led hitherto has rarely given her the chance to encounter. The result is both a shock and an inspiration. She would like to speak in verse, but doesn’t know where to start. There is a lacuna in her education. If only the Blue Sisters of Issoire had not made do with teaching her to read and write, to count and sew and cook! If only they had led her to the heroes of Antiquity! Her life would have been so different. A deep wistfulness wells up in her. The powerful ones of this world have flaws they overcome as an example to us. Now it is we who must follow in their footsteps!

To return to more down-to-earth matters, Jean was without a job. His ‘resignation’ cheque from Duzan left him enough to live on for a month. Of course the producer was trying every means he knew to take Jean back, hoping he would bring Nelly with him. Even Palfy advised against falling into the trap.

‘Ultimately Duzan’s a windbag. All mouth. If Nelly doesn’t want him, he ceases to exist. Even the German co-producers are refusing to help him. Let him go under. You need to travel light. I suggested opening a gallery …’

‘Thanks. After my La Garenne experience …’

‘La Garenne’s a no-hoper, small fry. I don’t want to hear another word about him. He hasn’t managed to reopen his gallery and works as a broker now, running from one Paris dealer to the next. To half of them he swears he isn’t Jewish, to the other half he swears he is and that the racial laws have ruined him. No, truly, La Garenne no longer exists. I’m suggesting something much more serious, on Avenue Matignon: the Galerie Européenne, a front, an outlet for dealers who can’t work openly any more.’

‘I don’t know anything about painting.’

Palfy, as was his wont, appealed to the heavens.

‘I’ve never come across such an idiot! What about the dealers, the critics, the experts? At least you’ve got an excuse, being brought up by a gardener and a housekeeper while they were living in houses stuffed with pictures. I don’t know a thing about it either, but I pretend. Remember London and how I impressed Geneviève … On the subject of Geneviève, I’ve got some news for you. She’s been seen in Switzerland, at Gstaad, where she’s pampering herself. The prince is dead. Apparently Salah has taken over the reins. Why are you making that face?’

However much he had anticipated the news, Jean was still shocked. He remembered his last meeting with the prince, who had shrunk from the light, ruling over a kingdom of a few files in a luxury hotel suite. The prince had shown him kindness without reason and a generosity that might have given a child a false idea of life. As for his mother, Geneviève, he found it hard to imagine what she would do without that protective shadow.

‘Would you like to see your mother again?’ Palfy asked anxiously.

‘Now that I know she’s my real mother, I’d say no. A woman brought me up. Her name was Jeanne Arnaud. She was good and not very intelligent. She got over her sorrows with an apple tart or a piece of bread and gooseberry jam. It may sound too simple, but there’s nothing better …’

Nelly appeared, beaming.

‘Jules-who, kiss me passionately and respectfully. I am joining the Comédie Française. Yes, it’s almost a nunnery. I’m giving myself to the great writers for three sous and five centimes. When I want a mink I’ll have it off with a sugar daddy — a proper one, a banker, not an ass like Dudu, who lives by swindling people. Kiss me — you’ll be my true love …’

True love? It was certainly a more agreeable prospect than being a sugar daddy to someone like Nelly. Palfy assured her that she had done the right thing and that Marceline would be proud of her and buy a season ticket for the classical matinées. They telephoned Madeleine, who was just as thrilled and invited them to drop in at Avenue Foch, where she was expecting a few people that evening.

‘I’m not entirely sure who,’ she said. ‘Blanche has got the list. She promises me it’ll be perfect …’

Blanche had always been a shadow: her parents’ shadow, La Garenne’s shadow, she was now Madeleine’s shadow with the intoxicating bonus that Madeleine listened to her and understood her. With some success she taught her to speak in a sort of sibilant accent, a refined voice in a world without an Oxford or Cambridge to set you apart from the crowd. Madeleine was making noticeable progress. She learnt the names in Who’s Who with childish application and memorised their relations to each other. It would not be long before she was word perfect on titles. She was reading Proust, without always understanding him (‘His story’s a bit muddled,’ she said, ‘but there are some lovely bits’), comparing herself to Madame Verdurin (whose common vanity had so far escaped her) and unsurprised to see her end up as the Princesse de Guermantes, an ascent she found perfectly natural for a woman who has encouraged poets and artists. On the matter of whether certain people were genuinely talented or not, Blanche could scarcely offer guidance. At most, all she could do was assert that such and such an Academician was well brought up, such and such a poet kept his nails clean, and such and such an actor had had the manners of a duke ever since he had played Victor Hugo.