Read The Foundling's War Online
Authors: Michel Déon
A few days after his return from London Jean was moved back to a cell with six other prisoners.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ Maître Deschauzé told him. ‘You’re no longer a special prisoner. It’s the first sign of your acquittal. You’re being brought back into society.’
Jean did not care for his return to society. He began to despair. Perhaps he was even afraid. Prison weighed on him. He clung to a letter from Nelly.
Darling Jules-who, I won’t write to you to tell you I miss you and I love you. You know all that. No. This is better. I’m looking after you. Your major came in last night after the performance. He looked as if he’d gone down into hell. Backstage, all those
bare shoulders, all those painted ladies terrified him. He wouldn’t look at them. So why me? To find out who I am and if
I’m worthy of you.
I don’t think I passed the exam very well, even though I didn’t say ‘shit’ or ‘prick’ once. That man loves you like a son. He’s tortured by the thought that you’re mouldering away in prison. I reassured him, told him 200 press-ups every morning isn’t a man who’s mouldering. We were trying to work out who could help you when Marceline turned up. She’s here all the time. I adore her, she’s my nurse. I think if I cheated on you, she’d kill me. The major has the greatest respect for her. Did you know she’s going to stand for the Assembly when the war’s over? As a Christian democrat. At Clermont-Ferrand she knows her clergy and notables inside out, so to speak. While she’s waiting she’s cooking up something at the Justice Ministry. She’s talking about getting the brothels closed. Anyway, she swears she’ll have you out of there for New Year’s Eve. I’ve written to Maman to send us our liberation supper. To cut a long story short, the major was reassured as he left to go back to war. Your lawyer tried to put his hand on my bum. I said no. I’m fed up with the Théâtre Français; I may go back to the cinema when it gets going again. One producer’s no big deal, after all. I saw Jesús at his exhibition. He talks about you very fondly, but I don’t think he’d raise his little finger for you. Laura takes care of him. We didn’t know she was a member of the Communist Party, did we? She’d stand up for you, but party discipline forbids it. She and I have had some bittersweet exchanges. As for your dear friend Palfy, it’s better for him if he doesn’t set foot on French soil for some time. He’s a clever man; he’ll find other places to go. Marceline swears to everyone that he was France’s first ‘resistant’. Some people rather doubt it. That’s all the friends’ news. Darling Jules-who, don’t despair. I’m waiting for you.
The same day Jean wrote in his notebook:
12 December 1944: a heaven-sent bout of flu has seen me off to the infirmary. I’m getting away from the atmosphere of the cell, of the past they keep harping on about endlessly around me, though with a good dollop of mistrust where I’m concerned. We’re all in the same boat, but the guard went and told them about the medal the major brought, so they probably think I’m a grass. Which doesn’t bother me. Yet every favour separates me from them. So: the day before yesterday the guard came to fetch me to meet a prison visitor. ‘Politicals’ aren’t entitled to this treat. I had no desire whatever to go, but to get the others’ backs up I accepted. Surprise, surprise: there was Michel in the visiting room, very soberly dressed, very serious look on his face. The conversation went something like this:
Me (
aggressive
): What are you doing here?
Him: I belong to a charitable organisation whose members visit prisoners. In reality I shouldn’t have the right to see you. Our charity’s interests lie with common criminals.
Me: Sadly I haven’t killed anyone.
Him: Of course I’m not criticising you for that. Anyway, I was able to play on our possible relationship.
Me: What do you mean, possible? It’s definite.
Him: Not legally. It’s a question of blood.
Me: You don’t say!
Him (
disconcerted
): You don’t need anything?
Me: Nothing. Nelly sends me parcels and my lawyer brings me my post.
Him: I’ve been to see all the friends who could be useful to you.
Me: That can’t have taken long.
Him: The major’s the most likely one. An admirable man, a saint … Jesús is very busy with his next exhibition … La
Garenne …
Me: Not that madman.
Him: Don’t be cross with him, he’s having a difficult time. As for Blanche de Rocroy, I didn’t know she was a resistant …
Me: No one did. Not even her.
Him: She speaks quite harshly about you.
Me: That hanger-on? Bugger her.
Him: Jean, you mustn’t become embittered.
Me: I’m not embittered, I just want to get out of here.
Him: That’s understandable, and I came to offer you moral support. It’s impossible to forget our childhood.
Me: You hated me.
Him: I still reproach myself for that.
Me: Tell me about the abbé Le Couec, Antoinette …
Him: The abbé’s in prison with a lot of other Breton separatists. Antoinette’s married. Someone very decent. A widower to whom she has brought a dowry of her very fine qualities …
Me: Are you working on an exhibition?
Him (
embarrassed
): The opening’s tomorrow.
Me: That’s a shame for me.
Him: It’s a very Christian exhibition. Quite painful, in other words.
Me: Well, thanks for the news. I won’t hold you up any longer.
Him: I’ve brought you a book, something to think about in prison: the
Confessions
of Saint Augustine.
Me: Keep it for a pickpocket. I’ve read it and reread it these last two years.
Him: You’re discouraging.
Me: Then I have good news for you: I have absolutely no wish to see you again.
Him: I’m not offended. I’m just doing my duty.
Me: A great satisfaction, I’m sure. Goodbye, Michel. We have nothing in common and, to be frank, I’ve only put up with you
because of Antoine. Since he died I’ve no reason to go on.
Him: That’s it: get it off your chest, insult the people who wish you well, trample the past … Afterwards you’ll feel better and we’ll talk more freely.
Me: We won’t talk.
I don’t want to see you.
There are lots of people I don’t want to see again. My life is elsewhere. I made it myself and I’m proud of it. Don’t make me say something unpleasant – I’ll regret it later.
Him: I’ll pray for you.
Me: Then ask for my flu to last a bit longer. I’m more comfortable in the infirmary than in a cell for six.
Him: I shan’t say any more. You’ll always find me ready to help you when you need me.
Me: Thank you, dear Michel. Now goodbye.
He left, wrapped in the arrogance of his deep humility. He’s the sort of person who’s permanently sheltered from reality. He deflects it. What’s the point of telling him what I think of his relations with Senzacatso when he feels secure in going up to the altar every day for a perfect communion? It’s obvious that he can only despise someone as decent as the abbé Le Couec. There’s nothing Jansenist about him, in his cassock and
wide-brimmed
hat, with his huge boots on his feet and the ribbons of his Military Medal and Croix de Guerre on his chest. And now here he is, compromised again, yesterday’s thorn in the side of Vichy, today’s enemy of Gaullism. He’ll never be acceptable. Nor me. So we’ve won, he and I.
On the morning of 31 December, as a result of sensitive judgment by a magistrature eager to have its changes of allegiance forgotten, Jean found himself a free man. His case had been dismissed: a most rare favour. Maître Deschauzé informed him that his release was
the fruit of combined efforts by Marceline and the British Embassy, alerted by Salah. From the front line the major found a way to send a congratulatory telegram to Nelly’s apartment. What is there to say about that first morning of freedom? There was no one waiting for him at the prison gates. It was a lovely winter morning, with a pale sun shining over the bare branches of the trees. The deserted streets, the vacant looks of passers-by and women with shopping baskets on their arms, the queues outside the cheese shops, their windows daubed with offers, the pavements strewn with dead leaves, and, pervading everything, a weariness and sad drabness, contrasted with the warm, sunny days of the Liberation. A tramp stepped in front of him, his hand outstretched.
‘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!’