Michel Déon - The Foundling Boy

‘No, thank you.’

‘Ah, I see … keeping fit. I could have sworn you were a sportsman.’

He pulled a pipe out of his pocket, skilfully filled it with one hand, keeping his eye on the road, then held out a lighter to Jean.

‘Get me going, will you?’

A delicious scent of tobacco filled the car that was nothing like the strong, sour smell of the caporal that Albert smoked.

‘What is that?’ Jean asked.

‘My tobacco? Oh, a blend. I can give you the address: a little place in the City, behind the Stock Exchange. Ask for John Mulligan and tell him you’re a friend of mine and you’d like my tobacco. It has a number, the 253.’

‘You get your tobacco from London?’

‘Why not?’

At the slightest gradient the Mathis panted and laboured. Jean wondered if they would reach Montélimar. The priest seemed entirely confident, laughing when he was overtaken.

‘Mad! All quite mad! When we have our whole lives in front of us. How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘I’m thirty. My name’s Constantin Palfy.’

‘Jean Arnaud.’

The Mathis coughed, then sneezed. It sounded as if it really couldn’t last much longer, but the priest took his foot off the accelerator, it cleared its carburettors with a series of misfires, and resumed its sedate progress.

‘Admirable, don’t you think?’ Father Palfy said. ‘The courage of the meek: do or die. She won’t give up until she can’t go any further. When she stops, it will be to lay down her bones for the last time. She will have earned her absolution.’

They thought she was about to earn it for certain when, a kilometre outside Pont-Saint-Esprit, she hiccuped and came to a halt at the roadside. The priest refused to be disheartened, however, and pulling a long, roughly calibrated stick from the boot, he lowered it into the petrol tank.

‘Not a drop left! My father was right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The English say, “ Cherchez la femme. ” My father said, “ Cherchez l’essence. ” We shall push her to Pont-Saint-Esprit.’

Fortunately the Mathis was light, and in less than a quarter of an hour they were at a petrol pump.

‘Fill her up, please, my friend, while I go and rapidly pray to Saint Christopher, because we still have a long road ahead of us.’

He disappeared into the church opposite, while the attendant filled the tank with an expression of disgust on his face. The abbé returned almost immediately, smiling broadly.

‘Do you mind very much if I pay you in petty cash?’

‘We always need change.’

They lined up the money on the counter in piles of centimes that had to be recounted several times.

‘Is shrapnel all you’ve got?’ the exasperated attendant said.

‘My friend, it will be useful next time you go to mass.’

‘The priest doesn’t see me at mass a lot.’

‘It’ll come back, dear sir, it’ll come back. The strongest of us turn to the Church’s shelter when the time comes to shuffle off our mortal coil.’

‘You’re a barrel of laughs, Father, I must say.’

‘Too true! There’s no man more joyful than a priest. Goodbye, dear sir. If you ever feel in need of spiritual succour, don’t hesitate to call on me.’

It was seven o’clock when they drove into Montélimar. As Jean was beginning to ask himself whether it was time to leave the ancient Mathis and its driver behind and wait for a truck, Father Palfy was rhapsodising over the distance they had covered.

‘A hundred and thirty-five kilometres in five hours! Think how long it would have taken you to cover that distance on foot! Our civilisation’s progress is meteoric. And one does work up an appetite on the road. Let’s stop for dinner.’

‘You must be my guest, Father.’

At dinner Father Palfy ate ravenously and drank without stopping talking. Jean wondered anxiously what the bill would amount to. A month’s work had earned him enough to dress himself and buy a watch and a knapsack. What was left would not last him for several days’ driving at an average of twenty-five kilometres an hour. Having said which, the priest took his mind off the gnawing memory of Mireille. He had thought less about her since leaving Aix, but now he was dreading the night to come, a second night without her. Wouldn’t it be better to continue on foot, to exhaust himself physically, so that he could fall into a dreamless sleep?

‘You’re preoccupied, my boy,’ the priest said, sensing that his audience was less attentive.

‘A bit. It’ll pass.’

‘Was she good-looking?’

Father Palfy was on his fifth cognac, but his complexion was as yellowish as ever, unlike Monsieur Le Couec whose face reddened after a single calvados. The priest’s extraordinary capacity could not be something he had acquired at the seminary. He was captivating and unsettling at the same time, without Jean being able to put his finger on exactly why. It was not just because his cassock went rather awkwardly with his relaxed and earthy way of expressing himself.

Jean did not answer his question, but merely looked down.

‘I hope it’s only about sex, my boy, not love!’

‘Only sex, Father.’

‘Oh, no more “Father”, please. It’s much too solemn. Call me Constantin. So you were stuck on this girl, and she left you?’

‘I left her.’

‘But that changes everything, my dear man. I was rather afraid that you were in love.’

‘I am, but not with Mireille.’

‘So she’s called Mireille. Well, I know a Mireille who will be crying her eyes out tonight. It was good while it lasted, at least?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, don’t worry! I shan’t say it again. All right. No need to panic. One gets better. Have a little cognac.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Impossible. Tell me … a wild guess … you’re a sportsman, aren’t you? You wouldn’t have left this Mireille because she was ruining your fitness?’

Jean opened his eyes wide.

‘How do you know?’

‘Instinct! I know everything. What’s your game?’

‘Rowing. I belong to Dieppe Rowing Club.’

‘I’ll give your problem some thought. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow. In the meantime let’s find a couple of beds.’

He called the waitress, a large blonde woman who smelt of face powder and cooking oil.

‘Tell me, pretty one. There wouldn’t be a cheap little hotel in the vicinity that’s as comfortable as a palace, would there?’

‘The patron has rooms. Do you need two beds?’

‘What do you think we are, a couple of queers?’

‘Oh, Father, the thought never crossed my mind!’

She giggled and shook, hiding her laughter behind a hand with chipped red nails.

‘Just because I wear a skirt,’ Constantin Palfy assured her, ‘doesn’t mean that I’ll let myself be insulted.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of that at all, Father!’ the waitress said, getting frightened.

‘In any case, the ecclesiastical estate is holy … Bring me another cognac. One for the road, or as our English friends have it, a nightcap. Go on, my girl. May God bless you …’

She walked away, wiggling her hips, and the priest murmured to Jean, ‘You’ll have noticed with what delicacy I omitted to add the ritual formula “… and make your hooter as big as my posterior”.’

‘I noticed,’ Jean said.

They were shown to a room on the first floor that smelt of beeswax and lavender. Its amenities — a couple of pitchers of water and a bowl — were not worthy of a palace, but its two deep beds welcomed the weary men without a squeak. In the twinkling of an eye the abbé had stepped out of his cassock and revealed himself in vest and underpants. Almost as soon as he lay down he was asleep, and Jean struggled for no more than a few moments longer before he had also surrendered to a dreamless sleep.