by Michel Déon
Beneath Pont des Invalides two men were sitting on the river bank, fishing. The other problem was Anna Petrovna. Cyrille would be unhappy with her. But what could he do? Jean had promised to take him to the zoo one day. More generous towards animals than mental patients, the Germans kept the zoo well supplied. When Jean had phoned the previous evening Cyrille had also implored Jean to come and fetch him, and Anna Petrovna had taken back the receiver and might even have smacked Cyrille. Two prison guards were denying him contact with the people he loved.
Coming off Pont de la Concorde to turn in front of the Chamber of Deputies, a bicycle-taxi took the corner too fast and overturned. The cyclist was thrown against the kerb and split his head open. Blood began streaming down his white face, its features drawn with exhaustion. A woman was calling from inside the canvas cabin. She crawled out, revealing her legs as far as her stocking tops. Passers-by ran to the scene. They sat the man on the pavement. He gestured to say he was not hurt then, wiping his hand across his forehead, brought it away covered in blood and sat still with his mouth open, staring at the young woman who was weeping with rage and pointing to her stocking, torn above her knee. She was young and pretty and held a crocodile handbag tightly to her side, repeating, ‘What about my silk stockings, what about my silk stockings, who’ll pay for them?’ People looked at her pretty legs, exposed by her rucked-up skirt. Jean swore to himself that he would never travel in a bicycle-taxi. Being propelled by another human being offended the idea of basic dignity he continued to maintain. At a pavement table at the Café du Flore he noticed Picasso, his wide eyes gleaming with mischief, and in front of the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés saw Sartre shuffling along, his nose red, a thick scarf around his neck, huddled up in a coat two sizes too big for him. Nelly had read The Flies, which was in rehearsal at the Théâtre Sarah-Bernhardt (now Aryanised as the Théâtre de la Cité).
‘For an intellectual,’ she had said, ‘it’s not bad to have written a play like that.’
In Rue des Canettes he bought their bread ration and two slices of pâté without coupons, and at the wine merchant’s a bottle of vintage Bordeaux over the counter that cost four times the price of vin ordinaire and was not worth it. Nelly’s mother sent confit d’oie, pâté de foie and truffles from the south-west by means of a network of railway workers that ended at Gare d’Austerlitz, where Jean collected the parcels. Her daughter was exasperated rather than grateful.
‘What’s she thinking of? I could get that from any of my admirers if I asked for it. What I need is steak and chips. There’s no steak, no potatoes, no fried food. What are we going to eat her truffles with? Swede?’
Unusually Nelly was waiting for Jean at her studio, when she should have been at the Français.27 Wrapped up in woollies, she was drinking a hot toddy.
‘Jules-who, you are making yourself desirable. When you’re not here it doesn’t suit me at all. I get impatient. When you’re here too, unfortunately. I have to conclude that sometimes, only sometimes, I love you. A bit. Where were you? I nearly died. You wouldn’t even have been here to hold my hand.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I might be getting flu.’
‘And you call that “dying”?’
‘What about my voice?’
He had not thought of that. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Oh lovely, you’ve brought bread and wine. And pâté!’
She tasted it.
‘Utterly disgusting. Let’s dunk our bread in the wine instead.’
‘I prefer it in soup.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot, a peasant boy at heart. Like me. No soup without bread.’
She opened her pretty red mouth wide. Her uvula quivered delicately. She said, ‘Ah, ah … I’ve got a throat infection, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, give it to me.’
He shut her mouth with a kiss.
‘That’s all you think about!’ she said happily.
‘No, but I’d like to—’
‘Here? This minute?’
‘No, I mean, I’d like to think only of that.’ Nelly swallowed her toddy in one.
‘I drink to forget that you’re unfaithful to me. I get drunk with work for the same reason.’
‘Then you’re not so ill.’
‘Listen, settle yourself peacefully in a corner and be quiet. Dear old Michette’s coming to go over my lines with me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Yes, the dear thing’s become passionate about Corneille. She’ll play Stratonice. With her Auvergnat accent she’ll be wonderful. Corneille must have written the part with an Auvergnat girlfriend in mind.’
They were dunking their bread in the wine when Marceline Michette rang the bell. The cold had given her ruddy cheeks, making her look more like a lady of good works than the patronne of a brothel. She, like Palfy, was at a turning point in her life, on the brink of a less profound but equally lasting transformation. She had become enthralled by the theatre since meeting Nelly and spending a fortnight in the studio looking after Claude and Cyrille. And she had embarked on another adventure too, a real one and a secret one, outlandish and yet plausible at this time. Yes, Marceline Michette really had become a secret agent. Don’t laugh! There were few more devoted to the task than she was. How had it happened? It is difficult to be sure. Probably thanks to her often mysterious demeanour, someone had noticed her, sounded her out, tested her. And gradually, smoothly, she had begun to work as a messenger for what people were already referring to as the Resistance. She was a good choice: was the patronne of a brothel not a person above suspicion, accustomed to remain as silent as the grave? In churches and Métro stations, booking halls and cinemas, Marceline received and handed on documents the meaning of which she knew nothing. She operated with relaxed courage. In this regard the reader will allow us to admire Palfy, who had only sought to amuse himself with her, who had played his cards randomly and purely on the basis of his fondness for mystification. With Marceline he had turned over an ace. Through her he began to prepare his exit plans. It seemed to be a stroke of genius, though in fact it was unpremeditated and the result of sheer chance. His luck had started to turn at last. The Croix de Guerre Marceline will receive soon after the Liberation will help Palfy to get himself off the hook and return to France after a prudent period of exile. Meanwhile, she was giving Nelly her line:
‘For you Polyeucte feels no end of love …’
Jean fought back his giggles. But in Marceline’s wake came Nelly’s golden voice.
‘An honourable woman can admit without shame
Those surprises of the senses that duty does tame;
It’s only at such assaults that virtue emerges
And one doubts of a heart untested by its urges.’
He heard his own heart beating. He had been put off Corneille in his French class at school but, like Marceline, shivered for Pauline embodied with such grace and fervour by Nelly.
‘I loved him, Stratonice; and he full deserved it.
But what befalls merit when no fortune preserves it?’
When Marceline had left for one of those meetings that now punctuated her days, Jean found himself alone again with Nelly.
‘I wonder if I’m not going to fall in love with you. Hearing you speak those lines is wonderful. You’re someone else.’
‘Oh Jules-who, you are talking codswallop. I’ve warned you before. I can love you, but you mustn’t love me. You’re nowhere near solid enough for someone like me. One day you will be, and then you’ll see that being an actress’s lover isn’t a good idea, not a good idea at all. If you let yourself go with me, I guarantee I’ll break your little romantic, and somewhat divided, heart. Stop it now, darling, and telephone your Claude. I’m unhappy about what’s happened to her too. She’s the love of your life. The only one.’
They made love, and afterwards Jean called the clinic. Madame Chaminadze was sleeping. The supervisor told him she was slightly better. He hung up.
�
��You see,’ Nelly said, ‘I’m useful for something. You couldn’t be on your own. It would be unbearable.’
It seemed to Jean that Julius was welcoming him more warmly than usual, which made his earlier reticence all the more expressive. Thanks to his elocution lessons, Julius now speaks practically without an accent. He has Frenchified himself far more by taste than necessity for the milieu in which he moves. Madeleine, meanwhile, continues to benefit from Blanche de Rocroy’s social skills. She can no longer be confused by those little details that tripped her up a year ago. She is in a period of transition nonetheless, and, conscious of what she still lacks, has lost her early assurance and not yet acquired the self-confidence she will be recognised for later. To put it another way, she is going through a timid phase, wholly understandable given the task she faces: to consign to oblivion the weary, pessimistic prostitute who would have foundered without the encounter with Julius. Julius adores her. Does he know where she comes from? Palfy thinks not. As foreigners do, Julius has accepted what he is offered at face value. He brims with that German generosity that finds everything good. When a German sets about being good, it’s enough to make a cat cry. Julius, in the grip of love, has transfigured Madeleine. He never noticed her suburban accent, and her newly refined speech has only just struck his ear. He marvels at her distinction and finds nothing too good for her. He has put in Madeleine’s name the property he bought recently at Montfort-l’Amaury, a ravishing little village which is not yet fashionable but whose fame Madeleine will contribute greatly to after the war. In reality, Julius is a man of simple tastes: all he wants is to live in France, in the country, in a reasonable house within striking distance of Paris so that they can come up to the theatre in the evening or to meet friends. In his eyes the outcome of the war has little to do with these plans. Should Germany win, its union with France will become closer, leading on to a golden age. Should it lose, France will find itself as it was before, immersed once again in easy living. Julius has done enough favours for those around him to hope that after a brief period in purgatory he will be welcomed back with open arms. He loves Paris, its theatres and concerts, French fashion, the outrageous, superficial and amusing conversation at grand dinner parties. And how can one live without going to Maxim’s two or three times a week? The mirrors, the rococo decor, the service from Albert, a head waiter one might think had come straight out of a play by Édouard Bourdet,28 those tables where everyone knows everyone else, exchanging kisses and secret phrases, have little by little become a second home to this man overflowing with human warmth. So it’s here that he deals with his increasingly important personal affairs. What else would such a perennial optimist be doing but preparing for life after the war?
In this happy atmosphere, this oasis of luxury and gourmandise, Jean found out what was expected of him, which was simple and required only his discretion, complete discretion. Little by little we shall find out, as he does, exactly what that means, and to be honest it hardly matters: needs must when the devil drives. Each week he has to pay the bill at the clinic, which is predictably exploiting him like a character in a Victor Hugo novel. It is a wretched business, though we can be reassured: Jean will not be forced to sell his teeth and hair, as Cosette’s mother is, to pay for Claude’s keep. Yet again in his short and already colourful life, he is facing temptation. We shan’t claim, hypocritically, that he succumbs to it. He grabs it by the scruff of the neck. Julius is blissful. Madeleine has not understood, or pretends not to understand. She nods, and the sommelier, quick to turn the slightest sign into an order, brings another magnum of champagne. Julius draws attention to the date: 1929. An exceptional year, and a good idea to drink it rapidly, before the army’s technicians get the idea of transforming this sublime liquid into a fuel substitute for their tanks.
‘Talking of the German army,’ Julius adds, immediately regretting his subversive sally, ‘the front has stabilised. All necessary matériel is being delivered to the lines in preparation for the spring offensive …’
Palfy is in a good mood. He does not contradict him. Why should he? The battle grinding on in that icy hell does not concern them. Julius believes himself as safe as he can be, having reconciled politics, the war and his own affairs. Everything is in place … So which was Liane de Pougy’s table? Ah yes, that one opposite. And Boni de Castellane’s? In the room at the end. Julius is not one of those superficial Parisians who don’t know their ‘little history’. He would have liked to live at the time of Toulouse-Lautrec, Jane Avril and Chocolat. He drops their names the way one might drop illustrious titles of the nobility. Madeleine, who has only known the Moulin Rouge as a dance hall where girls found themselves lonely and impecunious lovers, refrains from joining in the conversation. She has discreetly passed Jean a packet of sweets for Cyrille and two pairs of stockings for Claude. She adds in his ear, ‘If you’re going to open that gallery for Palfy, you should see Louis-Edmond. He has contacts, but he’s going through a bad time at the moment. You have to help him.’
‘Was it Blanche who told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does she still see him?’
‘She more or less has to. He pursues her, rings her constantly, weeps down the phone at her, begs her for money, disappears for ten days and then starts all over again. Do something!’
And she slips him a piece of paper with a telephone number at which La Garenne can be reached, at the apartment of a painter he is looking after.
‘La Garenne’s never looked after a painter in his life. He’s always exploited them.’
‘No, I assure you. Blanche is positive that he’s taking care of this Michel Courtot … or du Courtot admirably …’
‘Michel du Courseau.’
Madeleine is briefly embarrassed. Everything would be all right if she didn’t mangle people’s names. With ordinary people it didn’t matter, or was all to the good, but if it was an aristocratic name an error became a faux pas, and a faux pas made her look silly. It would be less embarrassing if she made Madame Michette’s sort of howlers. Everyone expected them and was unspitefully amused. They had become an essential part of the dinners Marceline was invited to, even if she was unaware that she was singing for her supper. Jean perceives Madeleine’s discomfort.
‘Anyone could mix the two up. I just happen to have known Michel since he was a child.’
‘Is he famous?’
‘No, not yet. One day perhaps … When I say I know him, he’s my uncle … I mean he’s my mother’s brother.’
He explains. Madeleine is delighted. Nothing pleases her more than discovering who is related to whom and adding them to her collection.
‘La Garenne sold me one of Michel du Courseau’s paintings. I haven’t put it up yet. I’m waiting to hear what you think.’
Jean reassures her: Michel has talent, a great talent even, though he is prickly and difficult.
‘You should invite him to dinner,’ Julius says.
‘I thought of it, but La Garenne assures me he doesn’t go out.’
‘What does one do with people who refuse to have dinner! They’re savages,’ Palfy says.
Madeleine does not know the answer. By issuing invitations to dinner, she has cultivated a circle of friends. Without these gatherings she would be merely Julius’s mistress. At least Rudolf von Rocroy is a man who dines.
‘I fear he’s doing penance at this moment,’ Julius observes. ‘I doubt Dr Schacht has summoned him to eat foie gras and sip champagne …’
And so Jean learns that Rocroy is involved, and that he has been unwise. The Finance Minister of the Third Reich is not the joking kind, and if he agreed to turn a blind eye to the smuggling of Reichsleiter Reinhard Heydrich, it was strictly on condition that no scandal resulted. Rocroy has made the mistake of drawing attention to himself … General Danke makes his entrance into Maxim’s. He has left his heavy overcoat in the cloakroom and appears squeezed into a uniform designed for officers kept trim by battle. General Danke eats and drinks too much.
It is part of his duties. He dazzles and reassures. The prefect whom he has invited today is at Maxim’s for the first time, a special day in his life. By the time dessert is served, he will agree to whatever is asked of him. Danke greets Julius with a discreet hand gesture; Julius, though in mufti, straightens and nods formally. Jean suppresses a surge of hatred, which is unjustified as Danke has no police powers and it would be stupid to hold him responsible for Claude’s torture. He is, Palfy has assured Jean, an enlightened man and a friend of France. The only question to be asked is why all these great friends of France seem incapable of procuring peace for it.
‘Jean,’ Madeleine says in a low voice, ‘you look uneasy. Do you still dislike the Germans?’
He shrugs.
‘Madeleine, that’s not a proper subject of conversation.’
Michel du Courseau was renting an apartment on the floor below Alberto Senzacatso, the photographer fascinated by Mannerism. After a short spell in prison Alberto had regained his freedom, for which he continued to pay with occasional pieces of information to the vice police. In his studio Michel was working on a four-metre by two-metre canvas of Christ surrounded by children. Alberto – whom he had given up the idea of informing on – provided him with models. The canvas, which was to cost him a year of gruelling work, was destroyed on the eve of the Liberation by Michel himself in the course of an acute attack of mysticism. He has spoken so many times in interviews since then about the painting’s destruction that it is unnecessary to revisit it. Spiteful tongues insist that the devastation was an essential sacrifice to a reputation that Michel wanted to be immaculate. Jean followed the work’s evolution without being able to show the enthusiasm Michel sought from his infrequent visitors, but was nevertheless struck by the anxious tone in which the painter said to him one day, ‘I’m worried that I’m taking too much pleasure in it.’
