Michel Déon - The Foundling Boy

‘Not quite up to the mark yet, I see,’ he said. ‘My friends thought you were charming.’

‘Charming? Me?’

‘Utterly. They’ve invited you to the country next weekend.’

‘You must be mistaken.’

‘Well, obviously they’re not particularly entertaining hosts, but it will amuse you to experience English country life for yourself.’

‘Constantin, I didn’t come here for that. I’m looking for work. Any work. You have to help me find something, not too mindless if at all possible. I dragged parcels around for nearly a year. I couldn’t go on.’

‘Work? Listen, my fine fellow. I’ve worked very little in my life and have no connections whatever among those who do. It’s no good your relying on me to help you there.’

‘But I can’t just sponge off you, can I?’

‘Why not? I live very well from sponging off other people. Let’s make the most of it. Later on, you’ll do your bit to help me if you get the chance.’

Dog-tired, Jean gave up arguing and went to bed to sleep and dream of Chantal de Malemort who, regarding him sadly, informed him that she knew about his affair with Antoinette and was giving him up.

‘As a good Christian,’ she said, ‘I must sacrifice myself for that sinner’s salvation. She loves you. Do not let her down. She is waiting for you in the barn with the abbé Le Couec, who will bless you.’

‘What about you?’

‘I am going to marry Michel. For his salvation.’

The revelation was so unpleasant that he awoke in the grip of nausea, and only just made it to the bathroom in time.

‘You look positively green!’ Palfy said to him at breakfast.

‘I’m never going to touch another drop of alcohol.’

‘You’re absurd! You just need to get used to it, show your liver what’s what. It’s impossible to exist in society without drinking. Look at my complexion. I’m turning into a lemon, but I drink and I never suffer for it. It’s a question of will.’

Price came in, wheeling a trolley. The poached eggs and bacon were still cooking beneath a silver dome. Jean ate while he listened to Palfy.

‘You interest me, and you have every right to wonder why. First of all I assure you I have not the slightest interest in pinching your bottom. Do not for a moment imagine that I am a poof, even if I’m not all that wild about women. I know they find you attractive, and in time they’ll find you more and more attractive. I noticed it only last night with Jane Ascot. On the way out she asked how she might meet you again.’

Jean looked at the poached eggs on his plate and remembered Mrs Ascot’s gaping neckline.

‘I know, I know,’ Palfy went on, ‘there’s not much meat on her and she’s not a wonderful example, but it’s a sign: you’re good-looking and, as they said in the eighteenth century, you have honesty written all over your face. What an advantage you have over me! Obviously you’re raw material, shapeless, have not the slightest idea of how to keep a boring conversation going and possess none of the tools one needs to navigate one’s way through a world of pretence. In short, it all remains to be done with you — apart from teaching you table manners. There someone has shown you what to do, and I’ve never seen you strike a false or vulgar note at dinner. One day we shall also get to the bottom of the mystery of your birth, though I personally don’t set much store by genetics. You’re the son of the people who brought you up.’

Jean, who had been considering wiping the yolk off his plate with a slice of bread, thought better of it. Price was standing behind him. He already felt badly enough about having let the servant see his striped cotton pyjamas, threadbare shirts and woolly slippers. Price had rummaged vainly in his case for a dressing gown.

‘I am not motivated by fine feelings,’ Palfy continued, ‘if it helps you put away your scruples. My offer of an accelerated education is purely so that we can collaborate. I have big plans.’

‘Aren’t you going to tell me what they are?’

‘No. Later.’

His refusal was terse. The matter was not for discussion. Jean wondered whether it would not be more prudent to leave there and then, the way he had left Mireille’s. But what was he going to do with two thousand francs in his pocket? Get another job as a labourer? Scrub pans, deliver parcels, open doors? Watchful as a cat, Palfy sensed his hesitation.

‘You can say no,’ he said. ‘I shan’t hold it against you. I’ll even drive you back to Newhaven.’

‘I’m staying.’

‘In that case, let’s make a start.’

For a month Jean spent six hours a day following an intensive English course. He realised he had some basic knowledge, some ideas and even a vocabulary, without ever having established the connection between its constituent parts. The suits were finished. Palfy asked for the bill to be sent. The tailor exclaimed that there was all the time in the world. In the evenings Palfy hosted dinners at his club or at home. Never more than two guests, whom he chose carefully and whose background and what they represented he explained to Jean beforehand. Jean understood English better and better and was able to follow a conversation. No one paid much attention to him, and that left him free to observe as much as he wished. The following day Palfy would question him.

‘What do you imagine Jonathan Sandow does for a living?’

‘I’ve no idea, really. He didn’t give a single clue.’

‘For the very good reason that he doesn’t do anything. He has a private income that is diminishing by the year. He’s a complete fool and has a seat in the House of Lords. His wife left him for two years to go and live with a fisherman on Ischia. She came back last Christmas, and Jonathan pointed out to her that she was late for dinner.’

‘I’ll never understand anything about the English!’

Palfy was exultant: it was exactly what he was meant to say. Besides, there was nothing to understand. Jean was progressing by leaps and bounds. Palfy’s own plans, however, remained secret. He regarded questions of money with as much contempt as ever. Suppliers, the garage, restaurants sent their bills to Eaton Square. Someone must have paid from time to time, otherwise Palfy would not have been able to disport himself like a lord for very long. Jean noticed how easily and quickly one picked up the habit of living without cares. He noted in his moleskin notebook,

f) Constantin is a perfect parasite. I should have nothing but contempt for his sort. But how, when I’m a parasite too? We live in a dream. It will be a rude awakening. Unless there is no awakening. In short, the moral is clear: living honestly is the surest way to wear yourself out. Society offers a thousand different solutions to enterprising spirits who want to leave drudgery behind. If I’d stayed at La Vigie, after twenty-five years of hard-working and loyal service I could have looked forward to taking Grosjean’s place. By burning my bridges, taking a risk, I gave myself the chance to escape my misery.

g) Now the second question looms with more and more urgency. Who is Palfy? I’d give almost anything for him to tell me the truth about his financial situation. Am I the only one to know that he’s a fraud?

Palfy declined several invitations to the country.

‘We must think carefully,’ he said to Jean. ‘You’re not quite ready yet. It would be a disaster.’

One day, instead of having lunch, Jean left his English lesson and found his way to the Chelsea street where he thought he might find Salah. The Hispano-Suiza was not in front of the house. He plucked up his courage and pressed the bell. A valet in a striped waistcoat, who was not the strange and obsequious Baptiste, opened the door.