The Foundling's War

by Michel Déon

  She took Cyrille out, pretending that there was shopping to be done in the quartier. On her return her trained eye was surprised to see them still sitting apart from each other.

  Alone with Claude, Jean spent his time trying to find out what had happened. Each day he extracted from her a few more words that she uttered with infinite reluctance. She spoke of a night in a cupboard, a blinding light, questions that two men drilled into her, a cold bath into which she had been thrown and where she had fainted, and a man with greying hair who had picked her up and carried her to a car and then in the car to Palfy’s apartment.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t keep asking me. I don’t want to remember. You have to say nothing. They know everything. They know more than I do.’

  The one certainty was that they had not arrested Georges Chaminadze, who had come from London on a special mission and left again by unknown means. It was his second such mission. On the first, despite orders to the contrary, he had spent three days with Claude, without Cyrille for fear that he would talk. The G was him.

  ‘Do you still love him?’ Jean asked.

  ‘No. I love you.’

  So why would she not give herself to him?

  ‘I promised him. On Cyrille’s life.’

  ‘If he extracted that promise from you, it’s because he loves you.’

  ‘No. He doesn’t even love me. I’m not explaining anything. We were to divorce. He was living with another woman. But he didn’t want me to see anyone else.’

  ‘Then why did you let him force you to make that promise?’

  ‘Oh Jean, you’re the one torturing me now … I really don’t know. He’s very convincing. He’s handsome. He was my husband, my only lover. He’s Cyrille’s father … I didn’t know I was going to meet you … I hoped he would come back and that, even if I didn’t love him any more, we’d be able to live together, so that Cyrille would be happy.’

  Piece by piece the picture of Georges Chaminadze became clearer, a very different picture from the photograph glimpsed in Claude’s bedroom of a tall, uncomplicated-looking young man, happy to be alive, racket in hand on a tennis court.

  ‘You have to understand,’ Claude said, ‘he was terribly spoilt. At the age of five he used to have servants kissing his hand. He’s like Vladi, he never wanted to work. And like Vladi he was a natural card player. They often used to team up on international cruises. Both of them spoke Russian, French, German and Spanish almost without an accent. Maman adores him … Nearly as much as Vladi … When I said I’d divorce him if he went on living like that, she said I was wrong.’

  ‘That’s why she hates me.’

  ‘Yes, she’s crazy, but you have to forgive her; she’s lost everything and now Vladi’s a loser too, banned from playing in all sorts of places …’

  On other days Claude did not speak, answering only yes or no, but from a smile or the pressure of her hand, Jean knew she was happy he was there. He was anxious to know how she had lived until now.

  ‘On very little,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t spend very much, which must be a reaction to Maman. If she ever gets a thousand-franc note she’ll go out and buy caviar rather than pay the gas bill. I’ve sold some jewellery. Very cheaply, but in any case I don’t have many needs. And you don’t know it, but you helped me a lot. The first time he came Georges left me some money too. It must have come from the expenses he was given for his French mission. He’s never been very scrupulous. The police searched the apartment. They took my last two rings and the money I had left. Now I’ve got nothing …’

  She held out two open palms.

  Marceline said that if Claude would agree to get dressed she would regain her appetite for living, but by staying in bed in a nightdress or lolling in an armchair in a dressing gown she was wallowing in self-pity. Without admitting it, Marceline had discovered in herself extraordinary depths of devotion. She protected Claude, cared for her, made sure she ate, refrained from asking her a single question, and unilaterally decided to take charge of Cyrille’s rather random education. Claude listened astonished to this large woman, built like a wardrobe and with the veins in her cheeks flushed a lively red after a bottle of cheap burgundy, delivering her remarkable course in manners. But what was good enough for the girls at the Sirène was also good enough for a small boy. Cyrille drank his glass of water with his little finger crooked, washed his willy morning and evening, and said, ‘Hello, Monsieur Palfy; good evening, Madame Nelly.’ Taken all together, his instruction contained many good things, and there would always be time to go back on certain habits. The main thing was that Cyrille trusted Madame Michette, secret agent and woman of action, in a way that did not rule out being cheeky to her.

  *

  Nelly appeared occasionally. She came back for a coat, a book, a dress. Claude knew she was living with Jean at Palfy’s. She did not mind. No one was deceiving anyone. Only Duzan wandered lost through the labyrinth, discovering that he needed Nelly more than she needed him. He was like a fly bumping into a pane of glass. He saw Nelly free and called out to her repeatedly, and she did not hear him. He thought of denouncing her and dropped a hint to Julius Kapermeister who would have shown interest had Madeleine, tipped off by Jean, not intervened. She had taken Jean’s side, Nelly’s side, the side of the unknown Claude who had been pointlessly tortured. Every day she sent a chauffeur to Saint-Sulpice with some ‘treats’. Thanks to her companion, Blanche de Rocroy, she had discovered the part played by Rudolf in spiriting Claude out of the hands of the Gestapo’s French auxiliaries: a dangerous role that for the first time had compromised this man of aristocratic demeanour but soft character, who found himself alarmed at the thought of being disciplined and posted to a combat unit for his actions. Goodbye to the black-market restaurants, to his picture-dealing racket and the confiscation of Jewish wealth, not to mention another, even more fruitful business activity, which we shall return to.

  Claude had escaped from the French police but they had not accepted that they were beaten and still hoped she would eventually lead them to Georges Chaminadze. Better informed than the police, we can reveal that Georges had already left French soil, probably on board one of those little Lysanders that landed at twilight or dawn, setting down in open fields men and women who melted into the anonymous crowd and often never reappeared. It may sound as if such missions hardly tally with what we know of Georges’s character, but that would fail to take into account the fact that, as a born gambler, he found in the secret war the same pleasure he found in squeeze plays at bridge or bluffing at poker. Danger amused him. That this time death might be the endgame was an added attraction. In the same lighthearted way he had disobeyed orders and spent three days with his wife, then tried to see her on the Sunday when she had been in the country. The concierge had informed on him and now Quai Saint-Michel was a busted flush, under permanent surveillance. He had made his wife a hostage with a disregard for her safety that reflected his true personality. In London he had been congratulated on his mission’s success, having concealed the fact that by going to Quai Saint-Michel he had been a hair’s breadth from a disaster that could, if he had talked, have led to an entire intelligence network being laid waste.

  There is, therefore, no longer any Claude mystery for Jean. All is clear. The silence she met him with has been broken in a few sentences. Where his entreaties and insistence came up against a brick wall, the brutality of the police succeeded in a single night. Jean is delivered. But life has taken a dangerous turn and Claude, recovered and returned to normal life, may still be forbidden to him. He is simultaneously happy and desperate.

  He would be more desperate than happy if Nelly were not there to entertain him. He discovers her generosity and what she herself calls her volatility. Relieved of Duzan (‘It wasn’t a weakness,’ she explained, ‘but a concession to received ideas: an actress must sleep with “her” producer. Why make yourself conspicuous? It wasn’t my lucky day! I’ve been punished and found out Dudu’s an ass’), relieved of Duza
n, she is returning to the theatre. Jean-Louis Vaudoyer has offered her back her old place at the Comédie Française, and Dullin, director at the Théâtre de la Cité, formerly the Sarah-Bernhardt, is tempting her with a part in Jean-Paul Sartre’s first play, The Flies. But the Comédie Française is promising Corneille. Madame Michette is pushing hard for Corneille. Since she began living at Nelly’s studio, her reading habits have broadened and deepened. She is not so keen on comedies. Tragedies are what she finds really exciting. She longs to see Nelly in the role of Chimène, to hear her speaking Camille’s imprecations and Pauline’s sweet lament. She is discovering the ‘greatness of spirit’ that the life she has led hitherto has rarely given her the chance to encounter. The result is both a shock and an inspiration. She would like to speak in verse, but doesn’t know where to start. There is a lacuna in her education. If only the Blue Sisters of Issoire had not made do with teaching her to read and write, to count and sew and cook! If only they had led her to the heroes of Antiquity! Her life would have been so different. A deep wistfulness wells up in her. The powerful ones of this world have flaws they overcome as an example to us. Now it is we who must follow in their footsteps!

  To return to more down-to-earth matters, Jean was without a job. His ‘resignation’ cheque from Duzan left him enough to live on for a month. Of course the producer was trying every means he knew to take Jean back, hoping he would bring Nelly with him. Even Palfy advised against falling into the trap.

  ‘Ultimately Duzan’s a windbag. All mouth. If Nelly doesn’t want him, he ceases to exist. Even the German co-producers are refusing to help him. Let him go under. You need to travel light. I suggested opening a gallery …’

  ‘Thanks. After my La Garenne experience …’

  ‘La Garenne’s a no-hoper, small fry. I don’t want to hear another word about him. He hasn’t managed to reopen his gallery and works as a broker now, running from one Paris dealer to the next. To half of them he swears he isn’t Jewish, to the other half he swears he is and that the racial laws have ruined him. No, truly, La Garenne no longer exists. I’m suggesting something much more serious, on Avenue Matignon: the Galerie Européenne, a front, an outlet for dealers who can’t work openly any more.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about painting.’

  Palfy, as was his wont, appealed to the heavens.

  ‘I’ve never come across such an idiot! What about the dealers, the critics, the experts? At least you’ve got an excuse, being brought up by a gardener and a housekeeper while they were living in houses stuffed with pictures. I don’t know a thing about it either, but I pretend. Remember London and how I impressed Geneviève … On the subject of Geneviève, I’ve got some news for you. She’s been seen in Switzerland, at Gstaad, where she’s pampering herself. The prince is dead. Apparently Salah has taken over the reins. Why are you making that face?’

  However much he had anticipated the news, Jean was still shocked. He remembered his last meeting with the prince, who had shrunk from the light, ruling over a kingdom of a few files in a luxury hotel suite. The prince had shown him kindness without reason and a generosity that might have given a child a false idea of life. As for his mother, Geneviève, he found it hard to imagine what she would do without that protective shadow.

  ‘Would you like to see your mother again?’ Palfy asked anxiously.

  ‘Now that I know she’s my real mother, I’d say no. A woman brought me up. Her name was Jeanne Arnaud. She was good and not very intelligent. She got over her sorrows with an apple tart or a piece of bread and gooseberry jam. It may sound too simple, but there’s nothing better …’

  Nelly appeared, beaming.

  ‘Jules-who, kiss me passionately and respectfully. I am joining the Comédie Française. Yes, it’s almost a nunnery. I’m giving myself to the great writers for three sous and five centimes. When I want a mink I’ll have it off with a sugar daddy – a proper one, a banker, not an ass like Dudu, who lives by swindling people. Kiss me – you’ll be my true love …’

  True love? It was certainly a more agreeable prospect than being a sugar daddy to someone like Nelly. Palfy assured her that she had done the right thing and that Marceline would be proud of her and buy a season ticket for the classical matinées. They telephoned Madeleine, who was just as thrilled and invited them to drop in at Avenue Foch, where she was expecting a few people that evening.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure who,’ she said. ‘Blanche has got the list. She promises me it’ll be perfect …’

  Blanche had always been a shadow: her parents’ shadow, La Garenne’s shadow, she was now Madeleine’s shadow with the intoxicating bonus that Madeleine listened to her and understood her. With some success she taught her to speak in a sort of sibilant accent, a refined voice in a world without an Oxford or Cambridge to set you apart from the crowd. Madeleine was making noticeable progress. She learnt the names in Who’s Who with childish application and memorised their relations to each other. It would not be long before she was word perfect on titles. She was reading Proust, without always understanding him (‘His story’s a bit muddled,’ she said, ‘but there are some lovely bits’), comparing herself to Madame Verdurin (whose common vanity had so far escaped her) and unsurprised to see her end up as the Princesse de Guermantes, an ascent she found perfectly natural for a woman who has encouraged poets and artists. On the matter of whether certain people were genuinely talented or not, Blanche could scarcely offer guidance. At most, all she could do was assert that such and such an Academician was well brought up, such and such a poet kept his nails clean, and such and such an actor had had the manners of a duke ever since he had played Victor Hugo.

  A large part of Blanche’s time was spent in regulating who secured admittance at Avenue Foch and who did not. She had already eliminated Émile Duzan. She did not care for Oscar Dulonjé and only tolerated him because Julius Kapermeister saw in the former socialist a man potentially capable of leading a French political party of the force and importance of Nazism. Of Nelly she said, ‘She’s a titi.23 We need some. Kings had their fools who were allowed to mock them to make them forget all their flatterers and hangers-on.’ Her remarks about Jean were full of gentle innuendo: ‘Illegitimate? Not as illegitimate as all that! There’s a little prince hiding in there.’ Palfy inspired mixed feelings. He might well be a Balkan baron, no one could tell. He had a certain class, that was not in doubt, but his cynicism was disconcerting: worldly people may be obnoxious or scornful, but rarely cynical.

  ‘Cynicism,’ Blanche said categorically, ‘is the sign of a vulgar soul. It should be left to starlets.’

  Madeleine docilely took it all in. The luxury and wealth that surrounded her but did not turn her head was gradually erasing the distrust she had acquired over years of serving men’s more base needs. Blanche was also teaching her to be old-fashioned.

  ‘Only tarts follow fashion too closely,’ her companion declared. ‘Look at Madame du Chaloir. She’s forty-five. She’s been wearing the same turban for six years, and she’s an elegant woman, one of the most elegant in Paris.’

  Madeleine changed her hairdresser and discovered that grey hair suited her, found a new dressmaker, a jeweller and a shoemaker who made thirty pairs of shoes of the same design Madame Chanel had been wearing for the last twenty years. She told Blanche that she wanted to add this new entourage to the guest list at Avenue Foch. Blanche dissuaded her.

  ‘If you like, make a day for them on their own, but don’t mix them with your bishops, generals and politicians, and definitely not with the writers, who are most of them as snobbish as concierges. On the other hand, there’s nothing to stop you asking Madame Michette. Her mistakes in pronunciation are some of the best moments of a dinner.’

  It was true. One evening Marceline was distinctly heard rebuking the Duchesse de Pont-à-Mousson, who was injecting morphine at the table, through her dress to save time.

  ‘Madame, you’ll give yourself an abscess. And not just an abscess, but delirium tray
men’s, and not just men’s but women’s too!’

  The duchess, her gaze swimming in morphine, had stared in astonishment at this mysterious person whose voice appeared to be coming out of a thick fog.

  ‘You are a darling!’

  Marceline, who was unaware of being a darling, nevertheless realised that her sudden sally had delighted the other diners. Very quickly Paris learnt that there was fun to be had at Madeleine’s. Some were envious, others jealous, but their spiteful remarks only enhanced the reputation of the soirées at the apartment of those who by now were known as ‘the Kapermeisters’. Julius found life splendid. His private business affairs that, like Rudolf von Rocroy, he took care not to neglect had put him in a very comfortable position, whatever the war’s outcome. He had always liked the French. Now he loved them.

  ‘Their frivolous side,’ he told Palfy, ‘is metaphysical, purely metaphysical, and that’s why the Germans like it so much, not having at all the same approach to life themselves. We’re here to make sure they don’t go too absurdly far on 14 July or the night of 4 August.24 But one’s forced to admit that if the French were not here to distract us, National Socialism would bore us all to death.’

  ‘The French frivolous? My dear Julius, you must be joking. They’re simply looking after number one. And to that extent they deserve better than to be treated as clowns by a German army which is in the process of getting a good hiding.’

  The table went quiet. Guests studied their plates or took a long swallow of vodka or cognac. Julius gave a forced smile. In private he accepted such judgements with humility, though his deference was sometimes feigned. In public he was less flexible, despite wanting to be seen as liberal, fearing that, if he agreed, his words might be repeated in higher quarters.

  ‘Dear Constantin, you go too far and too fast. The Wehrmacht is organising itself with the thoroughness and care for which it is well known, to resume the fighting after the spring thaw. We have taken Ukraine. Without Ukraine Stalin is powerless. I don’t need to remind you that the Ukrainians have come over to our side. They are enlisting en masse in special German units, working in our factories and on our farms.’