Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘So so.’

‘The Fritzes all right?’

‘More or less.’

‘Given the choice, I still prefer it here. I’m from the Ardennes.’

Jean got out his cigarettes.

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Do I? They don’t call me the locomotive for nothing.’

He pulled on his cigarette with relish and attempted a smoke ring in the still air. A squirrel crossed the path and bolted up a tree, disappearing immediately in the foliage. A little further on, in a clearing, some young people in battledress khaki were chopping wood and piling it up in a stove.

‘They’ve got a cushy number, those Chantiers de Jeunesse,’31 the private said. ‘Reselling charcoal on the black market. Their mess tins’re always full. And ciggies, you want ’em, they got ’em!’

Jean saw his chance.

‘Do you want the packet?’

‘Do I want it? You bet.’

His hand was already greedily outstretched.

‘Not so fast! Maybe we can come to an agreement.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To get away.’

‘Oh yeah! And I’ll be on a charge. Two weeks, one in solitary. Thanks a lot.’

‘You’re right, that would be shitty of me. Let’s keep going. Is the CP far?’

‘Another two kilometres, on the edge of the forest. Just outside Varennes-sur-Allier.’

Coming towards them rapidly, with a supple stride, was a young man in blue shorts and a short light-coloured jacket and white socks, his beret pulled down over one ear.

‘He’s one of the chiefs,’ the private said. ‘They’re all chiefs there.’

The young man stopped.

‘You’ve just crossed the line! I can tell without asking. Good: we can always use another pair of hands to rebuild France. Are you Chantiers age?’

‘I suspect I may be a bit too old.’

‘In that case it’s the Armée de l’Afrique for you. You’re in luck!’

He shook Jean’s hand and strode away to rejoin his group, who could be heard singing in their clearing.

‘They’re funny, that lot. Roll up their sleeves. Salute the colours. Sing songs: “Avec mes sabots …”, “Maréchal, nous voilà”. Roll on demobilisation! So what about those fags?’

Jean turned round. The young Chantiers leader was disappearing through the trees. The soldier held out his hand. Reluctantly, Jean drew back and punched him on the chin as hard as he could, muttering, ‘Sorry, mate,’ as the private crumpled to his knees, his eyes staring, a trickle of blood flowing from his split lip.

At Varennes-sur-Allier he caught a bus that took him to Clermont-Ferrand, where memories of Claude came flooding back. He felt ill: there was Rue Gounot where she had stood with the sunlight shining through her dress, Place de Jaude where they had met again, thanks to the net cast by the girls at the Sirène. He wanted to cry. He could not stay. At the Sirène Monsieur Michette did not recognise him, but Zizi threw her arms around his neck.

‘Where’s your friend?’

Palfy had left a lasting impression. Zizi no longer ‘went upstairs’. She deputised for the patron and shared his bed. Business was not what it had been, but they could not grumble. Other trades had been worse hit by the restrictions. No, Jean did not need to stay. He was leaving for the Midi, where he planned to spend a few days before returning to the occupied zone. He had brought a letter from the patronne . That afternoon they found him a suitcase and a change of clothes that made him look like an ordinary traveller. A train took him to Lyon and another stopped the next morning at Saint-Raphaël, from where he telephoned Théo.

‘Jean! We hoped you’d find a way to get down here, but we didn’t expect you so soon. Where are you? Saint-Raph? Raining there, is it?’

‘No. Lovely and warm. I feel like diving in the sea.’

‘It’s not the time or the place. Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you.’

Half an hour later Théo was at the station, at the wheel of his wood-gas truck. They thumped each other on the back.

‘It must have caused you a lot of pain,’ Théo said.

And so Jean learnt that Antoine had died the previous day.

‘The doctor was too late. Antoine, he was red, all tensified. It looks like it was a stroke … We sent you a telegram straight away, but you never know nowadays if telegrams get there. It’s a real mess … Poor Antoine, he loved life, his Bugatti, Toinette … Ah my, Toinette, he adored her …’

Jean reflected that he had loved Marie-Dévote too and Théo had refrained from saying so.

‘Just yesterday, before it happened, he was fishing his long line in front of the hotel and brought back two rockfish. We’re having them for lunch. Can’t let ourselves go without, these days. The funeral’s at five o’clock. Have you got a black suit?’

‘No.’

It really was a day for wearing black. Antoine, now stiff and cold, had deserted Jean, and he could not stop the tears welling up in his eyes. He had come to talk to the man who had been his childhood accomplice, and for the first time Antoine had failed to be there. How could you believe in death on the shore of this lovely blue bay bordered by maritime pines under a bright and carefree sky? Antoine must have thought he would never die.

‘It happened so quick Marie-Dévote didn’t understand what was going on. She was sewing in her bedroom. He went up to see her for a chinwag and he suddenly said, “I don’t feel well.” She told him, “Lie down.” She went to get him a glass of water when he went all tense. Then he went red too. And that’s it, he was dead. Completely dead, just like that. He didn’t even say “huh”. All over.’

They buried Antoine that afternoon in the cemetery at Saint-Tropez. Théo had ordered a ‘mausoleum’ that would be ready in a week’s time. Until then a wooden cross, earth and armfuls of wild flowers picked by Toinette in the hills covered the body of this man who had chosen to live as he liked, scorning inherited wealth and the milieu he had been born into. Death had taken possession of him with a swift, neat discretion that was not its habit. Théo’s explanations notwithstanding, Antoine had probably succumbed while making love for the last time to the beautiful, voluptuous Marie-Dévote. A happy ending that mingled the heat of desire and the coldness of death.

Toinette had cried so much before the service that she remained dry-eyed and dignified at the cemetery as the coffin disappeared under the gravediggers’ spadefuls of earth. In her lovely, melancholy profile Jean looked for signs of the du Courseau line, but Marie-Dévote’s Saracen blood and Antoine’s Celtic blood had mingled so well that there were no individual traces left of either. Her grace was cooler than her mother’s, and at the same time it was possible to detect a more highly strung will than her real father’s. Several times during the ceremony Jean gave in to distraction, drawn by her faultless figure in black dress and stockings. He remembered by heart the note he had received in 1939 just after he had enlisted.

Dear godson, I send you my best warm wishes and a muffler. I hope it isn’t dangerous there, where you are. Don’t catch cold. Uncle Antoine sends you a thousand affectionate thoughts. He says you are his only friend. He kisses you, and I shake your hand …

He had been charmed. It would have been a pleasure to answer her if Antoinette du Courseau had not revealed the secret of his birth to him. And some invisible thread had, without question, connected them in the last summer before the war. Words had turned out to be futile. They echoed mournfully, no match for a secret understanding. When Claude had stayed at the hotel Toinette had remained in the background. Nearly indifferent. Spending almost too much time with Cyrille, as if Claude and Jean did not interest her. Now he could contemplate her only as a beautiful image, not without a hint of jealousy, for one day a man would come and carry off this happy creation of chance and pleasure. Selfishly he wished her a mediocre fate, one that would not fill him with envy.