by Michel Déon
‘I’ve just got out of prison …’
‘So have I,’ Jean said.
The man looked at him, intrigued, then scornful.
‘But you were a filthy collabo.’
And turned his back on him. The Métro had regained its rhythm. It was warm in the tunnels. Under their shabby overcoats men were wearing worn-out suits like his. The cheap rayon fabric creased as soon as you sat down. At Saint-Germain-des-Prés he finally began to feel he was back at the heart of a familiar world.
Nelly was waiting for him.
‘I didn’t dare believe it. Your lawyer called me last night. You don’t look well.’
He looked in the mirror. He had lost weight, his skin was dull, and he had dark rings around his eyes. He had to smile to recognise himself. Behind his shoulder he saw Nelly’s childish features, lit up with pleasure.
‘I’ve made you a breakfast you’ll remember for ever, but don’t imagine it’s like this everywhere. People are dying. There’s still a war on. I’ve got a personal supply. An American colonel came to see me at the Français. His father was my grandfather’s brother. He’s called James Tristan and his pockets are stuffed with chocolate and cigarettes.’
‘Good-looking?’
‘There I really don’t have any luck at all. He’s the only American in Paris who isn’t good-looking.’
Good-looking or not (Jean allowed himself a mild scepticism), he had provided porridge, powdered milk, bacon, coffee and tea.
‘I had no idea I liked good things so much,’ he said.
They spent the morning together. In the afternoon Nelly left for a rehearsal, from which she phoned him three times.
‘Are you all right? Wait for me, I’m coming soon. It’s so annoying here. I want to hear your voice.’
He did not leave the studio, did not even look out into the street. From Nelly’s bedside table he picked up the book she was reading and saw the verses she had underlined in red pencil.
So having watered History with my tears,
I wanted to live a bit more happily;
Far too much to ask, it now appears;
I looked to be talking unintelligibly.
Well then, my heart, I beg you, let it go!
When I think of it, in truthfulness,
A feverish sweating lays me low
That I might slip into uncleanliness.
Jules Laforgue, whom she recited with such sweet sauciness. He would take it with him, to hear Nelly’s voice behind the lines.
*
At four o’clock he could not hold out any longer. He walked down Quai Voltaire and along the Seine. The booksellers were already closing. He hesitated at Place Saint-Michel, then continued as far as Claude’s building. Leaning against the parapet, he was standing motionless, incapable of a decision, when a hand touched his arm.
‘I walked past you three times without being certain, but I see it is you.’
A clean-shaven man, his eyes glittering feverishly, wearing an Eden hat and carrying a cane with an ivory knob, stood in front him. His lips trembled.
‘Do you recognise me?’
‘Yes, you’re Blaise Pascal.’
‘Do you know who just turned the light on?’
‘No.’
‘Her husband. She went back to her husband,’ he said. His words were choked by a sob.
In different circumstances Jean would have happily beaten him to death. But what was the point? He said instead, ‘You’re the lowest of the low. Try to show a bit of dignity at your age.’
‘You can’t teach me a lesson!’
‘I bloody well can. I’m letting you off lightly. Where are your wonderful theories now?’
‘Gone! I’ve been punished. I should never have left my solitude …’
‘You’re disturbing me. I came to say goodbye to an apartment window.’
‘I come here every day.’
‘Go away. Leave me alone.’
Blaise Pascal seized his arm with unexpected force.
‘Listen to me … I know everything you can reproach me for, but listen to me … I have a right to be heard …’
Jean extricated himself without difficulty and started walking towards Place Saint-Michel. The man followed him.
‘I didn’t touch her. I loved her, that’s all. Like an infinitely fragile thing … And I hated you because you came between her and me all the time. Now it’s over: he’s come back. He’s erasing both of us for ever.’
Jean walked more quickly.
‘That’s an end to your little affair.’ Blaise Pascal raised his voice.
‘You don’t want to listen to me … But it’s over, I tell you, over … For both of us …’
Passers-by were turning to stare at them.
‘We’re equal in human misery now!’ Blaise Pascal shouted. ‘You’ll never sleep with her! Never!’
Jean turned round threateningly.
‘Shut up!’
‘There’s only her husband now. Only him: you don’t exist any more. Like me!’ His voice broke. ‘So listen to me, Jean Arnaud. I only want one thing from you: the truth. It’s true isn’t it, that you never touched her?’
Jean felt a sudden, wrenching dizziness that weakened his determination.
‘I was never her lover.’
‘I knew it!’ Blaise Pascal was triumphant. ‘Why don’t we talk about her, the two of us?’
Pushed violently backwards, he almost fell. Jean, running, was already on the opposite pavement as the other man, lifting his cane, shouted again, ‘Let’s talk about her, let’s talk about her!’
Passers-by gathered around him, and slowly a policeman made his way towards the commotion.
On the stairs up to Nelly’s studio Jean met Marceline wearing a sheepskin coat that made her look twice her normal size. She kissed Jean.
‘I nearly missed you,’ she said. ‘Justice exists after all. France recognises her good children. And she needs them now, how she needs them! Obviously anyone can make a mistake. I was telling the minister yesterday morning. He completely agreed, but he can’t be everywhere, poor man.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘One must try to understand.’
‘Oh, I do understand.’
She looked reassured.
‘I’m very partisauntie for reconciliation between all the French. That’s my programme.’
‘People are saying you’re going to stand in the elections?’
Marceline put on a knowing air.
‘“People” have asked me. I have to think about it. There are some good men in the MRP, but their hearts are rather over to the Left, and I’m more to the Right. Well, there’s room for all sorts in the good Lord’s house.’
Her life was taking on a new meaning. She believed in it. A wind of purity was blowing through the corridors of power. Monsieur Michette had had to retire.
‘In my position,’ she said, ‘there would have been too much talk. He’s retired to Carjac. Zizi’s keeping house for him. I’m very understanding. Morals have changed too.’
She had something else to say, and was finding it difficult to say it.
‘I’ve just come back from Switzerland.’
The look that accompanied her words was so knowing that Jean found himself nodding encouragement to her.
‘Yes, I saw “our” friend. He looks very happy with his wife. A very attractive woman. Distinguished too …’
‘Did he say anything to you about me?’
‘Yes. Your transfer to London worried him a lot.’
‘Reassure him. There’s no danger. Tell him Rudolf played the fool, and he’s very good at it.’
‘People are nasty here at the moment. He was seen with the Germans very often. When people question me, I tell them I was seen with them too and that I was worming intelligence out of them. Constantin thinks you shouldn’t stay in France …’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
‘But he’s wrong! France needs men like you.’
‘I doubt it.’
Marceline was sincerely disappointed.
‘Come, come, you mustn’t get disillusioned so quickly!’
‘I’ve made my decision. Not on Palfy’s advice; he’d like to see me a million miles away. Nothing he says is ever disinterested. But I haven’t forgotten that he saved my bacon. Wish him good luck from me.’
Marceline remained convinced of Palfy’s innocence. He had set her off on her current adventure. Jean did not want to disabuse her.
‘Think about it!’ she said.
‘I’ve thought about it.’
‘What about Nelly?’
‘She’ll find someone to comfort her.’
‘It’ll be like Corneille in real life!’
‘I don’t think so.’
She kissed him again and pulled a bottle of champagne from her coat pocket.
‘I’m losing my marbles! I almost forgot. Wish me well at midnight.’
Jean was sorry to have disappointed a woman of such strong convictions, whose innocence was still intact, and he kept her a few minutes longer, in time for Nelly to appear.
‘Mmm, lovely, Marceline, champagne. You’re an angel! Stay with us, we’re having a party.’
‘In that case I’ll take you to dinner at La Coupole.’
Jean would have preferred not to go out, to savour his newly won freedom in the intimacy of Nelly’s company, but Marceline insisted.
‘I won’t stay late. I know what love is. I’ve seen plenty of men in a hurry.’
Boulevard du Montparnasse was plunged in darkness, but behind La Coupole’s blue-tinted windows the big, brightly lit dining room dazzled them. Jean felt almost dizzy. After a universe measured in square centimetres, the restaurant’s space, the height of its ceilings, the smoke, the heavy smell of sauces from the dishes that the waiters in their aprons passed under their noses no longer seemed real. An absurd reflex held him back, as if he had no right to what, after life in prison, seemed like an insane luxury. A head waiter recognised Nelly and led her to a table in the corner.
‘Here you can see without being seen!’ he said conspiratorially.
He was exaggerating. Jean discovered that in two years Nelly had gone from being a gossiped-about, faintly notorious actress to a full-blown celebrity. Journalists came to talk to her, then some actors who were about to perform in a nearby theatre. There was a flash as a photographer took her picture. He asked for Marceline’s and Jean’s names for the caption.
‘She’s my confidante,’ Nelly said. ‘And he, oh, well, yes, darling, ta-da! This is my lover, Jules-who.’
When the photo duly appeared the next day, Jean Arnaud found out that from now on his name, as far as gossip columnists were concerned, was Joolzoo. Marceline, beside herself with happiness, radiant with wine and a glass of chartreuse, beckoned a short man in a cape who was going from table to table offering to draw caricatures. Looking up, Jean recognised La Garenne at the same time as he recognised Jean. He paled and, spinning round, turned his back on them and dashed for the exit, as if pursued by some terrible danger. Stripped of the treasures he had collected in his garret in Rue de la Gaîté, he had returned to his old trade as Léonard Twenty-Sous. The head waiter, who had seen what had happened, leant towards them.
‘You must tell me what you said to get rid of him so fast, our Léonard Twenty-Sous. He usually sticks like glue, that one. We put up with him out of sheer weakness.’
*
Finally alone in the studio at Saint-Sulpice, Jean and Nelly fell into each other’s arms.
‘It can’t be true!’ she said, stroking his hair.
‘But it is true!’
They opened Marceline’s bottle and lit a fire. At a minute past midnight Maître Deschauzé telephoned.
‘I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy New Year. It’s all over. All that’s left is for you to start again on the right foot. I have a message for you. Monsieur Urbano de Mello hopes very much you’ll visit him in Lisbon. He’ll support your request for a visa at the Portuguese consulate, if you so wish … I’d like to talk to you about it. I’m not far from you. I can pop over.’
Nelly, listening on the second receiver, signalled no.
‘I’d prefer tomorrow or the day after,’ Jean said.
‘The problem is I have to go to the country tomorrow.’
‘Well, I’ll wait for you to come back. There’s no hurry.’
‘I promise it wouldn’t inconvenience me at all to drop in on you and your charming lady friend now.’
‘No, no, you mustn’t put yourself to any trouble. We’ll talk about it later. Good night and thanks.’
Nelly giggled.
‘Talk about obvious! I’ll admit he’s not bad physically.’
Jean looked at her. He was very fond of her. They had had fun together and would never forget each other. But you didn’t keep a girl like Nelly, and besides he had no desire to keep anyone. No one could know just how much he had been freed earlier that day. A few days more and it would all have faded, down to the last traces of prison smell.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Nelly demanded.
‘That you’re going to make a wonderful career in the theatre and cinema, and I’m going to feel a little pang in my heart every time I see your name in lights.’
They were sitting in front of the fire, the champagne bottle between them.
‘Do you remember?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’ve thought about it often. And then Claude’s arrival.’
‘Have you forgotten her?’
‘I don’t forget anything.’
‘Jules-who, you’ve learnt a lot of things. Now you have to make the most of them.’
‘That’s certainly my intention.’
She smiled sadly and started to undress.
‘When are you leaving?’
‘As soon as I can.’
‘Are you going far?’
‘As far as possible.’
‘Tierra del Fuego?’
‘Perhaps.’
She took his face in her hands and came closer to kiss him on the lips.
‘I just can’t believe I love you as much as I do,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to leave the theatre for you?’
‘In six months you’d be bitterly criticising me for it.’
‘Ohh! You’re right, you’re so right, my scrumptious boy! I’ll never have another lover like you.’
Her eyes glistened with tears. Jean knew he would never have another woman like her either, and that to have known her was an infinite stroke of luck. He was suddenly overwhelmed with cheerfulness.
‘We’re not going to get soppy, are we?’
‘Oh no!’
‘We’re winners.’
‘Yes, both winners.’
‘And we’ll show them we’re better than everyone, and less idiotic.’
‘And less idiotic.’
They stretched out next to each other on the rug, their feet warmed by the fire, holding hands.
He turned his head to look at Nelly’s fine profile, her pretty nose, her red mouth in her pale face. She lay completely still and her bare breasts hardly rose and fell. She looked like a young boy.
‘I don’t know if I dare ask you to promise me something, darling Jules-who.’
‘Say it.’
‘You’ll think I’m ridiculous.’
‘I bet I won’t.’
‘All right. I’m the daughter of terribly bourgeois parents and I still have their values … well, it would just make me awfully sad if I heard you’d turned into a reprobate like your friend Palfy.’
‘I don’t have his skill. Look: he’s sitting tight in Switzerland, having married my mother, who, when they first met, pretended she could never remember his name, while I’ve been spending my time in prison. Logically I should be taking him as my role model, but some tiny thing has always stopped me.’
‘Yes, I know.’
She looked reassured and squeezed his hand.
‘That’s the only thing you could say to me that matters, and I shan’t forget it. There’s you and the major, which is extremely strange, because the two of you couldn’t be more different … How serious we’re being!’
‘Once in a while it’s all right.’
‘Not too often.’
‘Oh no, not too often,’ Nelly said. ‘Life would be unbearable.’
‘I’ve learnt that too.’
‘You’re not unhappy?’
‘Not in the slightest, now I know that you believe in me. I don’t think anyone has ever actually said it to me, and it makes me feel … how can I explain? … elated, yes, as though it’s made me forget these four wasted years. I feel as if I’m finally not a little boy any more.’
‘And you don’t feel glum about getting older?’
‘No, at my age it’s marvellous. Later on, well, we’ll see …’
Notes:
1. The Garde Nationale Mobile was the forerunner of the French territorial infantry, also known as les Territoriaux or les Pépères, a sort of Dad’s Army for those between the ages of 34 and 49, although it also remained a separate auxiliary force for domestic defence, and after the French armistice in 1940 regained some importance.
2. A mich (slang) is a man who pays a prostitute.
3. De l’amour by Stendhal (1822).
4. The line separating French territory into an occupied zone and a free zone in the armistice of 22 June 1940 was referred to as the Demarkationslinie or ‘demarcation line’.
5. Eugène de Rastignac’s words addressed to the city of Paris at the end of Honoré de Balzac’s novel Le Père Goriot.
6. Baron Frédéric de Nucingen is another character in Balzac’s La Comédie humaine, a fabulously wealthy Parisian banker, who first appears in Le Père Goriot and later in other novels in the series, notably La Maison Nucingen.
