Authors: Raymond Queneau
—oooooo—oooooo—
She couldn’t care less, now, whether she saw the door or whether she didn’t see it. She caught the train to town and, getting out at the Gare du Nord, sat down on the terrace of her usual café. She was very weary. She ordered a green menthe, which made the waiter smile; of course, though, she was still wearing her curé’s habit. Well, she’d gone to a lot of trouble for nothing, and it was well and truly over.
Well and truly over, and no more hope. No more hope—nothing. Old Taupe was really poor, poverty-stricken. There was no more treasure than there was butter up your ass. Well, she was going back to her abortions. That was all there was to it. The daily grind was going to start all over again. This was the end of all her great hopes. Of Life with a capital L. Of her great plans. She swigged down her green menthe, getting her fingers all sticky.
She’d’ve started by buying a few dresses, but fabulous ones, and that’d’ve made her look twenty years younger, and then she’d’ve gone off to a beauty parlor, where they’d’ve made her look twenty years younger. Sum total, forty. Which would have left her at fifteen. When you’ve got the cash, what can’t you do! And after that, she’d’ve gone and seen a guy that sells cars. A super one, she’d have said, with a hood as long as that, and nicely upholstered seats. Something that’d look impressive. She’d have hired a lady’s maid and a chauffeur, and en route for Montycarloh. And then she’d’ve bought a villa at Neuilly as well, with water, gas, electricity, elevator, electric kitchen, fridge, central heating, whyliss, and maybe even a bathroom. She’d start off by filling her cellar with champagne. Every day, at every meal, champagne, except for the morning, when she got up, always the same as usual, cold black pudding and strong red wine.
And this was where it had started. The whole thing. The day when Marcel got himself bumped into by his pal’s taxi. It was even the day before, at that, cos it was because of the first guy being reduced to pulp that she’d come back to this caff. What a soppy thing shebeen. Believing a kid, like that! They’re liars, kids are, you never ought to believe a thing they say. The little swine. He’d got Ernestine’s death on his conscience, after all; not her. Though anyway, what did she care about Ernestine’s death. But to have wasted your time, and stuffed your head full of a load of old rubbish, to have imagined a whole lot of tripe. She must’ve been nuts! Ah, shit. When she thought about it, she could bite her ass with rage. No, really, to’ve thought for two months that she was going to end up in the skin of a rich old dame and keep gigolos and little fox terrier doggies, to’ve thought that she could end up, at fifty-five, being able to indulge her every whim, to’ve thought that because a silly cunt of a brat had told her a lot of tripe that didn’t even make sense! Wasn’t anything to be proud of in that. No, really, there wasn’t an all. And she wouldn’t be boasting about it.
She could already see herself arriving at the casino, somewhere where it was sunny, in a place where it was always fine; she could see herself arriving at the casino, with powder thick as that all over her mug, her tits patched up, and dolled up in a three-thousand franc dress, between a couple of well-dressed swells in dinner jackets with their hair oiled down over their noodles; good-looking types, what. And the people’d’ve said: Who’s that, the one with the diamonds big as your fist? Is she Princess Falzar or the Duchess of Frangipani? No, no, they’d have said, the people in the know, that’s Mme. Du Belhôtel, the one that goes in for charitable works and antiasthmatic stamps. She was married to an Indian prince, the people’s say, and thass the explanation of all her bread. In any case, zwun thing she wouldn’t have done, that’d have been play roulette. It’s nuts. You lose as much as you like. No, her lovely money, she wouldn’t have chucked it on the green baize cloth like that, for it to fly away and her never see it any more. No. She wouldn’t have boggled at spending it, that she wouldn’t; when it came to fun and games, she’d have been on, all right. But going and chucking her stash into the coffers of the casino—no, she wouldn’t have done that.
Just take a look at all these half-wits going by. They still take me for a curé, what’s more. Curé! You don’t do much work and yet you get respected. And begging for alms, there’s something in that. No need of any special knowledge to beg for alms. That could bring me in a little on the side, after all.
And to think that she’d let herself be taken in by that idiotic story, that she’d swallowed it and got Ernestine to swallow it. No, it was too awful to think about.
She pays for her drink and gets up. She goes in the direction of her domicile, which is situated at number ninety-one Paradise Street. She walks; slowly. Her head heavy with thought, she makes her way through the crowd in Lafayette Street. She goes down this street, with bitter regrets restless in her heart. She didn’t feel like laughing, she certainly didn’t. Occasionally, someone in the crowd would turn around and look at this extraordinary curé who seemed so absorbed in his thoughts. Muss be thinking about the good Lord, they were saying to themselves, the clots. It was when she’d got to the lil square opposite the church of St. Vincent d’Paul that a sports car, but a splendiferous one, stopped. It was—obviously anyone who knows his way around’ll already’ve guessed—it was Pierre’s car.
“Hey there,” says he.
And Mme. Cloche goes over.
“Good day, M’sieur the curé,” says he, very seriously.
“Good day, my son,” replied the midwife.
“Got summing to tell you,” says he, “summing dead funny, at that.”
“And wotizit?” asked Mme. Cloche.
“Well, when he went back home, old Taupe found his door wasn’t there.”
“Eh?”
“Yes, the door, the famous door, someone’s swiped it. That’s what I had to say to you. So long.”
And the car, with a roar, drove off.
Yes but what do
I
care? Sall the same to me.
Even so, it
is
odd. But apart from that, if instead of stealing his mysterious door, they’d pinched his front door, old Taupe’d’ve been furious.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Dear Meussieu Marcel and Colleague,
When you receive this letter, you can say farewell to all hope of seizing the riches hidden by M. Gérard Taupe in his hut in Blagny. For, tomorrow morning, at crack of dawn, we are going to steal it, and nothing can stop us accomplishing this exploit. We would be grateful if you would also kindly inform Meussieu Pierre Le Grand of this important occurrence. This will spare you a great deal of unnecessary trouble.
The adventure of the Taupic treasure, then, is coming to an end, and it is ourselves who are going to make it come, this end, and in the manner which we shall consider fitting, in other words, by causing to disappear, for our benefit, the immense fortune of this individual, according to what has been written above.
We dare hope that you will not bear us any ill will for our superiority, for if you were the first to spot this idle money, we shall be the only ones to put it to use; we have no other justification. What is more, we are thus illustrating in a new way the fable of the third robber, and we believe that it was more the desire to participate in this illustration that urged us to this theft than the desire for wealth, ow re sack rough arm s.
{15}
Be that as it may, you look pretty foolish now (long live the foolish! long live the foolish!), and we look pretty rich. So everything’s for the best.
With kind regards.
The magic cordon,
The invisible false note.
P.S. As you see, we’re writing you an anonymous letter.
Saturnin Belhôtel
Narcense.
“What goings-on!” exclaims Bébé Toutout.
“Um well, um well,” goes Théo, not managing to express himself any more lucidly.
“You wouldn’t have thought it of your father, would you?”
“Um well, um well,” Théo goes on
going.
“Your father was trying to commit a theft? When he looked so honest. You’d never have guessed that one, would you, my little lad?”
“He hasn’t stolen anything, since it was Narcense who
...
”
“Yes, but he was going to. And this Saturnin Belhôtel, do you know him?”
“No.”
“There definitely isn’t much to be got out of you, my child. Seal the envelope up again now.”
Théo, staggered by the curious revelation contained in the letter, reseals it with all the care he’s capable of (a lot).
Bébé Toutout supervises him.
“Do your parents come back to lunch?”
“No, I get my own.”
“Right. Then you can cook me a steak and French fries.”
“French fries? But I don’t know how to cook ’em!”
“What a moroon! I’ll teach you. You’ll see, it’s very amusing.”
“R’aren’t any potatoes.”
“You can go and buy some. King Edwards, at forty-five centimes a pound. And for the steak, tell the butcher to choose it carefully—a fillet steak.”
“Haven’t got any money.”
“You surely don’t expect me to give you any? Don’t you realize that I’m your guest?”
“My guest?”
Théo, with a listless eye, looks at the dwarf, who is stroking his white-haired chin.
“You look like an imbecile this morning, my poor boy. It’s the letter that’s done that. Cheer up, you’ll see others like that in your life. Apart from that, your father’s let the other two swindle him, hasn’t he?”
“That doesn’t surprise me!” Théo bursts out. “Can’t even damn well
...
”
“Sh! don’t insult your father, even if he isn’t, and go and do the shopping. It’s already ’A past 11.”
“What about the money?”
“Use your wits. Tell the butcher he’ll be paid tomorrow. And stop looking so gormless.”
“By the way—are you reckoning on staying here long?”
“All winter.”
“Sounds promising.”
Then the child and the dwarf contemplate the boiling of the oil in which the French fries are frying.
“Don’t you think cooking is amusing?”
“No; sa goddamn bore.”
“You’ll have to do it every day, though, at lunchtime. I don’t want to eat tacks, do I now?”
Théo doen’t condescend to reply.
“I wouldn’t mind betting you write poetry?”
“I started this summer,” Théo replies, blushing. “But I’ve only written one line, so far.”
“Which is?”
“
Mon âme a son mystère, ma vie a son secret.”
Bébé Toutout counts on his fingers.
“But your one line’s defective, my little lad.”
“So what? I can’t help it. It’s a line that’ll just have to have thirteen feet, that’s all. Why should lines only have twelve feet? It’s crazy. My line, I give it an extra foot. Znothing to stop me.”
“Let the French fries drain, now.”
“There yah.”
“Will you remember how to do them, the next time?”
“Course I will, I’m not so stupid I can’t fry a few spuds. No!”
“Tell me, Théo, how old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“If anyone asks you, you must tell them you don’t know anything about it.”
“Théo, you are forgetting the respect you owe me. Look: a white beard, eh! Get it? Well then, give me a serious answer. Have you ever been in love?
Théo sniffs twice and a half to self-possess himself, and:
“I’ve already run away with a married woman,” he boasts.
—oooooo—oooooo—
“Clovis, come here.”
Thus spake Dominique Belhôtel, and Clovis came here.
“So you’re nothing but a rotten little liar, hm?”
And Clovis, who was a good, serious-minded, hard-working child, and who loved his father and mother, burst into tears.
“Daddy, Daddy,” he sobbed.
And really, only a heart of stone would have remained untouched.
“Come on, don’t cry like that. Tell me all about it.”
“I wasn’t lying. I heard them
...
”
And Clovis, once again, gave free rein to his tears, as respectable citizens say. Dominique, deeply moved, choked back his sobs; this was his only son, forsooth—his, Dodo’s only son, Cloclo.
“Come on, come on, don’t cry like that. You know that your aunt’s very cross with you. Not at all pleased, old Cloche isn’t. You muss understand that. You’d put it into her head that she was going to win in that lottery. And now that she’s lost, she’s furious. I can understand that. So can you, can’t you, me boy?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“All right, I forgive you. Come to my arms.”
Father and son sob on each other’s shoulder; the noblest sentiments wail in the depths of their breasts; well, isn’t this touching, each thinks to himself.
“Right; now you’re forgiven, tell me all about it, once and for all.”
“Znothing to tell. I thought they said what I told Aunt Cloche, they’d said, maybe I didn’t hear right. But I was telling the truth, Dad.”
“Ah! wharra beautiful thing Truth is! Always tell the truth, Clovis.”
“Yes Dad. And Aunt Cloche, will she forgive me?”
“Yes, Clovis.”
Another relapse into lachrymation. Belhôtel still has one more question to ask.
“And at X
...
, why did you want to come back?”
“I was frightened, Dad.”
“You shouldn’t’ve been.”
“But Dad, I thought they were wicked ganggang, wicked gangsters that were trying to kill me. It was Aunt Cloche that’d written to me that they were dangerous. So I was frightened, Dad.”
“Snot worthy of a Belhôtel, to be scared! Got it, Clovis?”
“Yes, Dad. Now and under all circumstances, I promise my dear dad, here present, to be of surpassing courage in any ordeal.”
“That’s right, Clovis. Come into my arms, you are definitely forgiven.”
Third and last demonstration of paternal clemency. When Clovis finally escapes from that moist extinguisher that the Dominical waistcoat has become, he too has some questions to ask.
“Is that right, Dad—I’m going to be an engineer?”
“Yes, Clovis, you’re going to be an engineer. I promised you you would. I keep my promises.”
“Oh, thank you, Dad. Then I’ll be going to the lycée this year?
“Yes, Clovis.”