Michel Déon - The Foundling Boy

They arrived outside the rectory. Monsieur Le Couec took a large key from his pocket and opened the glazed door. Yann was sitting next to the stove, positioned so that he could not be seen from either the window or the door. He put down a book and Jean read its title: it was an anthology of poets. How could a man who was being hunted by all the police in France be interested in poetry? Yann intercepted his look.

‘Do you sometimes read poems when you’re alone?’

‘No, Monsieur. Only in class, when the teacher recites them to us.’

‘And what does he recite to you?’

‘Jean de La Fontaine, Victor Hugo, Albert Samain.’

‘La Fontaine I understand … some nice lines in Victor Hugo too …

Yesterday from my skylight was a view

That I blinked at with stares like an owl’s,

Of a girl waist-deep in the Marne who

Was washing brilliant white towels

or this, which isn’t bad:

The dreamy angel of the dusk who floats upon its breezes

Mingles, as it bears them off in the flutter of a wingbeat,

The dead’s prayers and the living’s kisses.

But Samain is for idiots.’

Yann had uttered the few lines of poetry in a tone that made Jean shiver, and he stared intently at the handsome giant, who had been suddenly altered as he recited Hugo in his steady, calm voice with a lack of restraint that was almost embarrassing.

‘A fine time for reciting verses,’ the abbé broke in. ‘Time’s getting on. How long will it take you to get to Tôtes, Jean?’

‘Thirty kilometres … at my usual speed I should be there in an hour and a half.’

‘Perfect! Before nightfall. And then you can do the return trip with Monsieur Carnac in the dark.’

Yann began to walk up and down, stroking his chin and looking so distracted that both Jean and the priest watched him for a moment without daring to interrupt.

‘He needs to go!’ Monsieur Le Couec said finally.

‘I know … I’ve just thought of something. There’s still a danger. What if there’s a gendarme there instead of Carnac?’

The abbé sat down hard on a rocking chair that nearly overturned under his weight.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ he exclaimed. ‘That would be the end of everything. My dear Jean, I can’t let you run that risk.’

‘Father, don’t worry, I won’t talk … They won’t get a word out out of me.’

‘No,’ Yann said firmly. ‘On the contrary. I’m not going to send you there unless you undertake to give us away if you find that a policeman has taken Carnac’s place. It’s an order I’m giving you. We’ll exonerate you immediately … Swear it!’

‘I can’t swear something like that.’

Monsieur Le Couec jumped up, his expression threatening.

‘Swear it!’

Jean, who had begun to acquire a certain talent for equivocation, crossed his fingers behind his back and murmured, ‘I swear.’

‘Louder.’

‘I swear.’

‘All right, you can go!’ Yann said.

The priest kissed Jean and then, to conceal his emotion, opened the cupboard and took out the bottle of calvados again to pour himself another glass.

Jean was so happy to have his bicycle back that he set out for Tôtes without a second thought for the importance of his mission. From the moment the abbé had lent his support, he did not even wonder what it was all about. There would be plenty of time for the mystery to be cleared up later. His bike was riding divinely, without a sound, even though he had perhaps very slightly over-tightened the chain. It was a question of adjustment, just as it was for the tyres, hardened by their immobility over the recent weeks. Jean concentrated on regulating his breathing to the speed of his pedals, pacing himself progressively. A decent average demanded good tactics and knowing how to use the road conditions, Georges Speicher had told a reporter from L’Auto . You pedal with your legs but also with your head. It’s pointless to over-stress your heart by racing every time you’re challenged on the flat, otherwise the slightest gradient becomes an ordeal. Jean, his attention fixed on the road ahead, did not allow himself to be distracted by anything, except for the drive leading to the Malemorts’ château, where he slowed down to glance through the open gateway: the marquis, in riding boots, was unsaddling his bay mare, which Chantal was holding it by its bridle. After Malemort he gave himself up to the enjoyment of a series of wild ups and downs in the road, diving with the fields into pretty hollows with brooks at the bottom and then climbing back up to apple orchards and an old church or a farm of red bricks with meadows around it. Just before Tôtes his rhythm was disrupted by potholes, and he had to zigzag his way around the areas where the road was being repaired and occasionally take to the verge, among the loose gravel. The setting sun was softening the landscape’s colours: greens turning to grey, copses darkening as if, suddenly, life was about to stop, to freeze for the night and only awake with the new dawn and the breath of the dew, with colours freshly alive, an opal sky and sheep on their knees nibbling the brilliant grass in their pasture.

As Jean approached the village he caught sight of a Renault Primaquatre belonging to the gendarmerie , which had stopped a car. A sergeant was asking for the driver’s and passengers’ papers. Jean slowed down and cycled past them, sitting up, hands on the flat of his handlebars.

The café called Les Amis de Tôtes sat with its terrace at a crossroads. Jean parked his bike, and ignoring the pinochle players and two pensioners sitting idly outside counting the cars coming from Dieppe and Rouen, went inside. He saw Monsieur Carnac’s carnation instantly, a white fleck on the lapel of a man tucked away reading L’Ouest-Éclair in a corner of the room. He walked over to the table, gave the password, and received the expected answer.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Monsieur Carnac asked.

‘A shandy, please.’

The waitress poured beer and lemonade together and put the glass down in front of Jean, who sipped politely, even though he was very thirsty.

‘How are your parents?’ Monsieur Carnac said.

Jean immediately lost his composure.

‘Do you know them?’

Monsieur Carnac glowered as if the whole world was listening, despite the room being empty. There was only the waitress, wiping a table near the door with a tired and dirty cloth that left spiral-shaped smears on the slate.

‘How are your parents?’ Monsieur Carnac repeated more firmly.

‘Very well, thank you. They’re expecting you tonight.’

‘Drink your beer and we’ll be off.’

‘There are policemen stopping cars on the road out of Tôtes.’

‘I haven’t got a car. I borrowed a bicycle in Rouen.’

‘I’ve got a bike too.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Thirty kilometres.’

Monsieur Carnac frowned.

‘You can take my wheel.’

‘Take your wheel?’

Monsieur Carnac clearly knew nothing about cycling terminology. Jean’s explanation received an incredulous reaction. How could staying glued to the wheel in front help you if you were the unlucky rider pedalling behind?

‘All right,’ Monsieur Carnac said, ‘let’s see how it goes. If I need to rest, we’ll have to stop.’

Jean decided not to explain that to stop, far from helping, was extremely bad for your hamstrings. He was surprised to see Monsieur Carnac pick up a milk can and a small loaf of bread from the chair next to him and remove the carnation from his buttonhole. Jean finished his shandy standing up and followed him outside, where several bicycles including his own were parked.