Michel Déon - The Foundling Boy

‘About Normandy.’

Théo had drunk so much pastis that he began casting glances at his cabin, eager to have a siesta before putting to sea again.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Is that it for this summer? He might apologise, Herr Hitler, for spoiling our lives. Anyway … if it works out again, send me word and I’ll come.’

He yawned and moved towards the bridge. Jean caught Toinette’s eye and she smiled shyly. He leaned towards her and murmured, ‘Tell your uncle that Jean Arnaud sends his very best wishes. Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Théo whipped around anxiously, as though Jean had made the most of his few seconds of inattention to show his daughter his private parts. Their smiles reassured him. At the gangway he said, ‘All the best … bye. The little one’s sweet, isn’t she?’

‘More than sweet. Bye, Théo. I’ll phone you.’

The afternoon was undemanding. He was the only one in the office when the postman arrived with a parcel for him: Toulet’s Counter-rhymes , which Salah had promised him. Two of his colleagues had received their call-up papers. The owner of the agency was wearing a suitably serious expression. He could already see himself walking behind a hearse, having placed a notice in the window: ‘Closed for reasons of general heroism’. At last Palfy appeared, wearing a shantung suit, a blue silk handkerchief spilling out of his breast pocket.

‘Come. I’m taking you out. I’ve found a delicious bistro at Mougins where we shall taste kid aux herbes courtesy of Madame Victoire. A highly indicative name for an era such as ours.’

The Austro-Daimler was outside. Palfy hummed all the way to Mougins. When they were seated he ordered pastis and tomato juice. They seemed to know him, and Madame Victoire kissed him.

‘You are unfaithful to me, Baron.’

‘Me?’ he exclaimed with indignation.

‘Yes, you!’

‘All right, I admit it!’

‘Your cynicism is shocking!’

Jean did not know where to begin. Palfy looked so happy. Did he have any right to curtail the happiness of a man so sure of himself? He let him keep talking, and as Palfy did so he pulled a packet of visiting cards out of his pocket and handed one to Jean.

At Cannes …

Mme Miranda

Tel: 28-32

‘Simple, elegant, discreet. Don’t you think? I adore the name Miranda. Where did Madeleine get the idea to call herself that? Can you see me having her answer the telephone as … Mme Madeleine? But Miranda’s almost a fairytale name for the French, for the English too come to that, they all have a little niece called Miranda, an aunt Miranda, a sister Miranda. Can’t you see the attraction?’

With horror, Jean thought he understood.

‘Constantin, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve become Madeleine’s pimp.’

‘No, you fool. Madeleine’s past all that. Instead I have appointed her the head of a charming, and entirely frivolous, network of pretty girls and women who have difficulty making ends meet. A telephone call, a little disclosure of one’s tastes, and she finds just the right match from her card-file index. Obviously the card files need expanding. We’re recruiting — Madeleine mainly — nice little wives whose husbands are looking the other way. Professionals are out, of course. Somehow they always strike the wrong note. Now, you can help … no no, I beg you … none of your sensitivity … you’re in constant contact with English visitors. Here’s a packet of visiting cards. All you have to do is distribute them intelligently. No need for explanations, clients will understand at once. My system is completely new. A great pity I’m not able to patent it. I’ve already got a name: “Call Girls & Co”. All right?’

Jean hesitated. There were only the two of them in the small restaurant, which in August should have been full to the doors, with customers crushed together at long tables and busy waitresses nagging them. The rats really were leaving the sinking ship. Soon there would be only Palfy and himself left in France to face the coming war.

‘I should hate to think I was forcing you,’ Palfy said, annoyed by his silence.

‘You’re not forcing me, but I’ve got a message for you. I’m afraid that in your scurrilous scheme you‘ve treated the competition much too lightly. Apparently if you hadn’t been my friend you wouldn’t have been given a second chance.’

Palfy put down his glass without flinching. He knew how to take such shocks.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I would be awfully grateful if you would reveal who asked you to convey this message.’

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’

‘Absolutely. If it’s the owner of some crappy little brothel, I am not scared in the slightest. But someone highly placed would definitely worry me.’

Jean did not hesitate. If he failed to reveal Salah’s role, Palfy would treat the matter as a joke. It was far better to really put him on his guard.

‘Salah.’

Palfy picked up his glass and drank its contents in a single gulp. The roast kid was served.

‘I’m not very hungry any more.’

‘Why do you think Salah’s warning is so serious?’

Palfy shrugged.

‘The reason is slightly delicate to explain.’

‘Do tell me.’

‘Your friend, the prince, is a real prince. An Egyptian title, I think, and fairly authentic, at least more so than mine. Clean hands, doubtless transparently so, though I have not seen them. Educated at a French college, then Oxford, has travelled all over the world, high society, considerable fortune. If you haven’t lived such a life, you have no idea how boring it is. So how do you distract yourself? Exploiting the stupidity and vices of men is one temptation. Sex has been an investment of his. Oh, not directly, of course … One must keep one’s hands clean, always! But through the agency of devoted aides. Salah, among others. Even that Longuet fellow from Grangeville. Do you remember telling me how surprised you were that he mentioned his name to you in his car in Rome one evening? The centre of the organisation, and his headquarters, are in Lebanon.’

In Lebanon? That explained everything: the reason for their departure, their destination.

‘How do you know?’ Jean asked.

‘Oh, little by little … In London people talked and, you know … in my free time I keep bad company … The girls sometimes talk … I’ve built up a picture of a very small part of a large network that covers several countries. Unwittingly you helped me. For example, that house in Chelsea is a cover—’

‘Does Geneviève know?’

‘No. Definitely not! But you can see that the facts prove it: the dubious butler, the different chambermaids every morning. They have work permits, “regular” employment. The famous Madame Germaine, who whipped half the masochists in London, worked under their protection. You found Salah there.’

Two American couples came into the restaurant after hesitating at the sight of its interior, which, apart from Jean and Palfy’s table, remained empty. Victoire took possession of them, lit some candles and was translating the menu into irresistible English until one of the men interrupted her in perfect French and pointed out that there was an essential difference between a rock lobster and a lobster and that only dullards would confuse one with the other, and would she please not consider them as such because it irritated them, especially as they were, all four of them, great friends of France.

‘Something of a misjudgement on her part,’ Palfy murmured. ‘A very French error that is the result of your preconceived ideas and lack of curiosity. You’re a whisker away from treating the rest of the world as fools, which is your way of reassuring yourselves about who you are. But what a letdown it will be for you when you lose the war!’