The President

by Georges Simenon

  Who? Not only, who was ferreting among his books and papers, looking for something, but who had set them to it?

  He, too, had been Minister in the Place Beauvau, not for three days but, on several occasions, for months, once for two whole years. So he knew the methods of the Rue des Saussaies as well as he knew the records that were such a temptation to fellows like Chalamont.

  Nearly every evening since making his discovery, he had distributed through the four rooms a number of reference marks, “witnesses,” as he privately termed them, which were sometimes no more than a thread of cotton, a hair, a scarcely visible scrap of paper, sometimes a volume just slightly out of alignment.

  In the mornings he made his round, like a fisherman going to pick up his lobster pots, for he had always forbidden anybody to go into those rooms before he did. The housework was left until he was up, and then done not with a vacuum cleaner, which he hated the noise of, but with broom and feather duster.

  Why had they thought first of all of the memoirs of Saint-Simon? One morning he had found that one of the volumes, which he had pushed in by a quarter of an inch the previous evening, was back in line with the rest. The detectives living at the Bénouville inn could not have guessed that Saint-Simon had been among his favorite bedside books all his life.

  A calf-bound folio of Ovid, whose size would have made it an ideal hiding place, had been handled next, then, a few weeks later, an entire row of illustrated books on art, most of which were bound in boards.

  It had all begun about the time when he had told a foreign journalist that he was writing his memoirs.

  “But you have already published them, Premier, and they were even printed in the biggest magazine in my country.”

  He was in a good humor that day. He liked the journalist. It amused him to give the fellow a scoop, if only to annoy certain other journalists whom he couldn’t stand.

  “My official memoirs have been published,” he retorted. “So you didn’t tell the whole truth in them?”

  “Perhaps not the whole truth.”

  “And you’re going to tell it this time? Really the whole of it?”

  His mind was not made up then. It had all been in the nature of a joke. He had indeed begun, for his own amusement, to write a commentary on the events he had been mixed up with, giving little sidelights that no one else knew about.

  It had become a kind of secret game, and now he was still wondering, with amusement, who would find those notes in the end, and how.

  They were already looking. So far, nobody had looked in the right place.

  Naturally the entire press had printed the information about his “secret notebooks,” as they were called, and the reporters had come to Les Ebergues in greater numbers than ever before, all asking the same questions:

  “Are you going to publish during your lifetime? . . . Will you have them held back until some years after your death, as the Goncourts did? . . . Are you revealing the shady side of twentieth-century politics, foreign as well as domestic? . . . Are you bringing in other world statesmen you’ve known? . . . ”

  He had given evasive replies. The journalists had not been alone in the interest they took in those memoirs, and several important personages, including two generals, whom he hadn’t seen for a number of years, had visited the Normandy coast that summer, as though by chance, and felt impelled to pay their respects to him.

  They were no sooner seated in his study than he began to wonder when the question would come. They’d all taken the same tone, casual, joking.

  “Is it true you’ve written something about me in your private papers?”

  All he would say was:

  “The press reports were very exaggerated. I’ve only just begun to jot down notes, and I don’t know yet whether anything will come of it. . . . ”

  “I know some people who are trembling at the idea.”

  He would reply innocently:

  “Ah!”

  He knew what was being said on the quiet, what two newspapers had had the temerity to say in print: that, piqued at being left in silence, forgotten, he was revenging himself by suspending this undefined threat over the heads of hundreds of the Establishment.

  For a few days he had even wondered whether there might not be a grain of truth in this, and his conscience had been uneasy.

  But if it had been like that he wouldn’t have gone on, and he would in fairness have destroyed the pages he had already written.

  He had reached an age at which a man can no longer fool himself.

  It was actually because of Chalamont, his former secretary, whose name would be mentioned over the radio in a few minutes, that he had decided against drawing back; not that Chalamont was important, but his case was typical.

  As had been more or less announced just now, would not the President of the Republic probably be going to give him the job of forming a government?

  Chalamont would undoubtedly remember that once when his old chief was asked about his prospects of receiving a portfolio, he had replied curtly:

  “He’ll never be Premier as long as I’m alive.”

  After pausing as he always did when he wanted to stress the importance of his pronouncements, he had added:

  “Nor when I’m dead, either.”

  At this very moment, when the storm outside was wrenching at the roof tiles and a shutter was banging, Chalamont would be at the Elysée and the journalists would be in the rain-swept courtyard, waiting for his answer.

  The door of the Rolls opened and closed again. Almost at once, the loud-speaker, standing on the oak table, began to crackle faintly, and the Premier sat down in his Louis-Philippe armchair, folded his hands, closed his eyes, and waited too.

  CHAPTER 3

  FIRST OF ALL CAME THE NEWS AGENCIES’ REPORTS, terse and impersonal:

  “Paris . . . Latest developments in the political situation . . . At five o’clock this afternoon the President of the Republic received Monsieur Philippe Chalamont, leader of the Left Independent Group, at the Elysée and asked him to form a coalition Cabinet. The Deputy for the sixteenth arrondissement postponed his reply until tomorrow morning. At the end of this news bulletin we shall broadcast a short interview with Monsieur Chalamont by our representative, Bertrand Picon. . . .

  “Saint-Etienne . . . The fire that broke out last night in an electrical equipment factory . . . ”

  The Premier sat motionless, no longer listening, keeping an eye on a log which was threatening to roll onto the floor. Two or three gusts of wind made it shake and crackle, and finally he got up, squatted down by the hearth, cautiously, for he was not forgetting his leg, took the tongs, and tidied up the fire.

  He would have half an hour to wait. The French radio correspondents were speaking, one after another, from London, New York, Budapest, Moscow, Beirut, Calcutta. Before settling into his armchair again he took several slow turns around the table and regulated the wick of the oil lamp.

  “And now we come to today’s sport. . . . ”

  Another five minutes and it would be Chalamont’s turn.

  When the moment arrived there was a brief interruption while they switched from the live broadcast to the tape, for the interview was a recorded one. That was perceptible from the sound, which had changed, and from the voices, which had a different timbre, so that one could tell that the two speakers had been out of doors.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is a quarter to six and we are in the courtyard of the Elysée, I and a number of newspaper reporters. . . . This wet, windy day is the eighth that has gone by since the government fell, and as usual Paris has been full of gossip.

  “At the present moment the question is: Are we to have a Chalamont government?

  “Just over half an hour ago, Monsieur Philippe Chalamont, summoned by Monsieur Cournot, arrived in his car and strode rapidly past us and up the steps, with no
more than a wave of his hand to indicate that he had nothing to say to us yet.

  “The leader of the Left Independent Group and Deputy for the sixteenth arrondissement, whose photograph has often appeared in the papers, is a vigorous man who looks younger than his sixty years. He is very tall, with a bald forehead, and rather stout. . . .

  “As I said before, it is raining. There is not room for all of us under the porch of the main entrance, where the doorkeepers are indulgently turning a blind eye to our presence, and a charming lady among our number has valiantly opened a red umbrella. . . .

  “Outside the gate, in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, the Municipal Guards are keeping a discreet watch over the small crowd that gathers in little knots and disperses again. . . . Hello! . . . I believe . . . Yes . . . Is that he, Danet? . . . Thanks, old man. . . .

  “Excuse me . . . I’m told that at this very moment Monsieur Chalamont is crossing the immense hall of the Elysée, which is dazzling with light. . . . Yes, as I bend down I can see him myself. . . . He’s just put on his overcoat. . . . He’s taking his gloves and hat from the attendant. Close to us, his chaffeur has opened the door of the car. . . . So in an instant we shall know whether he has taken on the the job of forming a Cabinet. . . . ”

  There was the sound of a bus going past, then some confused noises and a kind of scuffle, with voices in the background:

  “Don’t push . . . ”

  “Let me through, old man . . . ”

  “Monsieur Chalamont . . . ”

  Then again the well-pitched, faintly conceited tones of Bertrand Picon.

  “Minister, I would like you, sir, to tell our listeners . . . ”

  Although Chalamont had only been a Cabinet Minister for three days and, indeed, had spent only a few hours in the office in the Place Beauvau, ushers, journalists, and all habitués of the Palais-Bourbon would address him for the rest of his life as “Minister,” just as others, simply because they had once presided over some vague Parliamentary Committee, were known as “President.”

  “ . . . first of all, for what reason Monsieur Cournot sent for you this afternoon. . . . I am correct, am I not, in thinking that it was in order to ask you to form a coalition Cabinet? . . . ”

  The old man’s fingers whitened as he sat still in his armchair. He heard an embarrassed cough, and then, at last, the voice:

  “—As a matter of fact the President of the Republic has done me the honor . . . ”

  A car hooted, emerging from the confused background noises. What gave the old man at Les Ebergues the impression that Chalamont was peering around, in the wet, gloomy courtyard of the Elysée, as though looking for a ghost? There was a strange note of anxiety in his voice. For the first time, after a lifetime of effort, he had been asked to lead his country’s government, and he knew that someone, somewhere, was listening, he couldn’t possibly fail to think of it, someone who was silently bidding him to refuse.

  Another voice, not Picon’s, probably that of a journalist, broke in:

  “May we tell our readers that you have agreed and that you will begin your interviews this evening?”

  Even over the radio, especially over the radio, which is merciless, one could sense a blank, a hesitation; then came laughter, inexplicable at such a moment, and whispers of mirth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you can hear the press representatives laughing, but I assure you their amusement has no connection with what has been said on either side. A moment ago Monsieur Chalamont suddenly flapped his hand, as though something had touched it unexpectedly, and we noticed that the umbrella of the lady journalist I told you about was dripping on it. . . . Excuse that aside, Minister, but our listeners wouldn’t have understood. . . . Would you please speak into the microphone. . . . You were asked whether . . . ”

  “I thanked the President for the honor he had done me, which I very much appreciate . . . and . . . er . . . I asked him” (a car hooted very close by, in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré) “ . . . to allow me . . . to allow me to think things over and give him my reply in the morning. . . . ”

  “But your group met at three o’clock this afternoon, and it is rumored that you were given a free hand. . . . ”

  “That is the case. . . . ”

  It seemed as though he were trying to get away, to dive into his car, whose door the chaffeur was still holding open.

  The speaker had felt impelled to mention that he was rather stout because that was what struck one at the first glance; he had the portly appearance characteristic of men who were thin for a good deal of their lives and don’t know how to carry off the fat that has accrued to them. His double chin and low-slung belly looked like padding, whereas his nose, for instance, was still sharp and his lips were so thin as to be almost nonexistent.

  “Minister, sir . . . ”

  “With your permission, gentlemen . . . ”

  “One last question. Can you tell us who are the chief people you intend to consult?”

  Another blank. They might have cut out these pauses when they edited the tape. Had they refrained because they, too, realized that there was something unusual and pathetic about such hesitancy? The photographers on the steps must be sending up a barrage of flashlights during the interview, lighting up the driving rain and bringing Chalamont’s face out of the darkness for a second to emphasize its pallor and anxiety.

  “I can’t answer that question yet.”

  “Will you be seeing anyone this evening?”

  “Gentlemen . . . ”

  He was almost suppliant, as he struggled to escape from the cluster of people who were cutting him off from his car.

  Suddenly there came a sharp, piercing voice which might have been that of a little boy, but the Premier recognized it as belonging to a highly esteemed reporter, as it snapped:

  “Aren’t you intending to spend the night on the road?”

  An unintelligible stutter.

  “Gentlemen, I have nothing more to say. . . . Excuse me. . . . ”

  Another pause. The slam of a car door, the sound of an engine, the crunch of gravel, and finally, silence; then Bertrand Picon again, speaking in more measured tones from a different setting, the studio:

  “You have been listening to the interview with Monsieur Philippe Chalamont which was recorded as he left the Elysée. Refusing to make any further comment, the Deputy for the sixteenth arrondissement drove back to his home on the Boulevard Suchet where a group of journalists, undismayed by the bad weather, is mounting guard outside the door. We shall know tomorrow whether France has any immediate prospect of emerging from the deadlock which has now existed for over a week, and whether we are soon to have a government.

  “Paris-Inter calling. . . . That is the end of the news. . . . ”

  Music. The door of the Rolls opened and there came a tap at the window, outside which Emile’s face could be seen as a pale blur. A sign told him that he could turn off the radio, and the noise of the storm grew stronger.

  In the soft light of the oil lamp the old man’s face looked haggard, and his immobility was so striking that when, shortly afterwards, Emile came into the study, bringing with him a little of the cold and damp from outside, he stopped with a frown.

  The Premier kept his eyes closed, and Emile, standing at the entrance of the tunnel, gave a cough.

  “What is it?”

  “I came to ask you whether I’m to leave the Rolls outside until the final news?”

  “You can put it in the garage.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want . . . ?”

  “Quite sure. Is Milleran at table?”

  “She’s having dinner.”

  “And so are Gabrielle and young Marie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Had your supper?”

  “Not yet. . . . ”

  “Then go and get it.”

  “
Thank you, sir.”

  Just as the man was going away, he called him back:

  “Who’s on duty tonight?”

  “Justin, sir.”

  Inspector Justin Aillevard was a fat, melancholy little man. It was no use sending him word to go to bed, or even suggesting that he might come in out of the rain, for he took his orders from the Rue des Saussaies and it was to the Rue des Saussaies that he was responsible. The most that Gabrielle could manage now and again was to invite the policeman on duty to come into the kitchen for a moment and give him a glass of cider or calvados, according to the weather, and perhaps a slice of cake still warm from the oven.

  As the Premier did not say he could go, Emile still waited, and he had to wait a long time before hearing the hesitant words:

  “We may perhaps have a visitor tonight. . . . ”

  “Do you want me to stay up?”

  The chauffeur realized that for some mysterious reason his reactions were being closely watched, and that those eyes, open now, were studying his face more keenly than usual.

  “I don’t know yet . . . ”

  “I’m quite ready to stay up. . . . You know it doesn’t bother me. . . . ”

  In the end he was dismissed, with a touch of impatience:

  “Get along and eat.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  This time he really did go, and a moment later he was straddling the bench to sit down at the kitchen table.

  Could Loubat—the name had just come back to him—the sharp-voiced journalist who’d questioned Chalamont, have information that the Premier didn’t possess? Or had he merely spoken on the off-chance, on the strength of thirty years spent behind the scenes in the Chamber of Deputies and the various Ministries?

  It was twelve years since the two politicians had last come face to face. During the Premier’s last period in Paris they had occasionally been at the same sitting at the Palais-Bourbon, but one was on the government bench and the other with his Parliamentary group, and they had taken care not to meet.