The Foundling Boy (13 page)

Jean thought that if Monsieur Le Couec were to say these words in front of Antoinette she would no longer think him a child and would let him take the same liberties with her that she had allowed that swine Gontran. But such a thought stained his soul before communion, and he chased it away. He did his best to serve mass well, and afterwards followed the priest into the sacristy, where he helped him take off his chasuble. One of the ladies who lived next to the church brought them bowls of milky coffee and thick slices of bread and butter that they devoured at the sacristy table.

‘Now it’s time for you to go home, my son. Lips sealed.’

He planted a kiss on both of Jean’s cheeks, kisses that smelt of milk and coffee.

As Jean reached the doorway, the priest called to him.

‘Tell me, these stories about girls that got you such a wigging? There wasn’t anything in them, was there?’

‘Oh no, nothing, father … nothing at all.’

Pedalling home in the glorious morning, Jean told himself that in fact his stories with girls were nothing at all, that real life was the life that men like Yann and Monsieur Carnac led, heroes who moved in the shadows. Everything else was childishness, kids’ games with little hussies. Gontran could indulge himself with Antoinette all he wanted. He wouldn’t be challenging him for her.

At La Sauveté he found Jeanne and Albert at the kitchen table, their bowls of coffee in front of them.

‘At last!’ his mother said.

‘I served mass at six o’clock.’

‘Oh, that is a fine way to start the day!’

Albert grumbled that no priest should be disturbing the good Lord’s rest at such an hour. It was in poor taste.

‘Don’t listen to your father!’ Jeanne said. ‘He served mass more often than his turn and now he’s just talking big.’

‘It’s not about talking big. I’m for freedom of conscience!’ Albert said, with a mouthful of bread and kidney beans.

Perhaps for the first time, Jean realised his father was talking nonsense, and it pained him, in the way it pains us when someone we admire suffers a humiliating defeat. Antoine du Courseau had disappointed him in a similar way: how could you be so removed from life, so distracted? It felt like a sort of resignation, when men like Yann and Monsieur Carnac were living life’s great adventure. One day he, Jean Arnaud, would defy the forces of the law for a noble cause which was yet to reveal itself, but which the grave events announced by Albert would doubtless make sure they brought about.

Jean never discovered the reason why Yann and Monsieur Carnac had been forced into hiding. The secret has stayed well kept. We may nevertheless advance a hypothesis by consulting the newspapers of the period. During the night of 6–7 August, in other words two days before the arrival of Monsieur Carnac at Tôtes, a person or persons unknown had blown up the monument erected at Rennes for the quatercentenary of the union of Brittany and France. This act of vandalism could have been justified on aesthetic grounds: the work of one of those sculptors much cherished by the Third Republic of Doumer and Lebrun, the monument symbolised the triumph of overblown pomposity. It showed Brittany on her knees before the king of France. The clandestine nationalist movement Gwenn ha Du had been determined to demonstrate with maximum impact against the visit of Édouard Herriot,
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who in turn had responded with more modest impact by refusing to attend the mass said at Vannes by Monseigneur Duparc, bishop of Quimper and Léon. Were Yann and Monsieur Carnac numbered among the perpetrators of that act? It is
possible, even probable, but nobody knows any more today than they did then, and we leave the reader entirely at liberty to imagine other hypotheses that justify the attitude – singular for a priest – of the abbé Le Couec. What is certain is that, overnight, Jean Arnaud matured by several years, learning that a priest may also be a plotter, and that without being thieves or murderers men might have to hide from the police because they were defending a noble cause. The world was not built of flawless blocks, of good and bad, of pure and impure. More subtle divisions undermined the picture he had so far been given of morality and duty. For another boy than Jean, this discovery would have been dangerous. It was only useful to him because his innocence kept him out of temptation’s way better than all the lessons he had been taught. He therefore decided, in the days that followed, not to punch Gontran Longuet in the face the next time he saw him, and to forgive Michel du Courseau his spiteful nastiness towards him. What had Gontran really done, apart from make the most of what he was offered and would have been a hero of Spartan self-denial to refuse? And if Michel loathed him, it must be because Michel had guessed a long time ago, with remarkable intuition, that one day Chantal de Malemort would elope with his rival. And if Antoinette found it hard to keep her knickers on, it was a quality she had inherited from her father, about whom there was enough gossip among the locals for Jean to be fairly fully informed. In short, the world was not just full of guilty parties, and if you looked hard enough, you could find an excuse for everything. This philosophy has no technical name. For young Monsieur Arnaud it is called the Arnaud philosophy, for Jean Dupont it is called the Dupont philosophy. Each practitioner shapes it in the way that works for him or her, with personal variations. It was in this state of mind that Jean, with a return ticket from Dieppe to Newhaven in one pocket and a thousand-franc note in another, both given to him by Antoine du Courseau, wheeled his bicycle on board the ferry at the end of August 1932, en route for London. His fingers also frequently felt for the visiting card that Antoine
had given him, to make sure it was still there. It was for Geneviève, Antoine’s daughter, and had these few words written on it: ‘Here is Jean Arnaud, whom I spoke about in my letter. A few days in London will complete his education. Be kind and look after him, and send him back to us at the end of the week. With love from your affectionate father, Antoine.’

When Marie-Thérèse du Courseau heard the news of Jean’s departure, she displayed all the symptoms of an attack of nerves, but she was also one of those intrepid, dauntless souls who, in the face of catastrophe, find the means to triumph over circumstances yet again with their composure and coolness.

No, no, I have not forgotten Mireille Cece, Marie-Dévote, or Toinette, Théo or Charles along the way. Before I recount Jean Arnaud’s London expedition, it may indeed be a good thing – so as not to displease readers who might be interested in what happens to them – to pass on news of them, even if only in a few sentences. They are still there, although removed from the theatre of our action – Jean’s adolescence – as that becomes clearer; for they belong to Antoine du Courseau’s secret existence, which is a secret we can only draw out by following Antoine south to the Midi. Jean may have left for London, but Antoine will not leave La Sauveté at the end of August 1932. The heat, the crowds on the beach, the packed roads are not to his taste. He no longer recognises the pretty, quiet port where he discovered a little café at the edge of a sandy beach. Hotels have sprung up, the fishermen no longer fish, and everyone hams up their southern accent to charm the tourists, to the point where one might imagine one was listening to some northerners acting in a play by Pagnol. At Marie-Dévote’s hotel, big changes are afoot. She no longer serves in bare feet, nor is she even to be seen at the reception desk, where she has taken on a Swiss clerk to attend to the details. She has instead an office, on the door of which is written ‘Manager’. There are eighty beds in the hotel, a car park, and the beach is more or less for guests’ use only. A lifeguard is on duty, a handsome fellow who rolls his shoulders and whose wandering hands make the more mature ladies coo. The hotel does not interest Théo, who has bought his ‘yacht’, a former submarine hunter with two powerful diesel engines, and from early June to early September he is available for charter. His secret pleasure is his collection of naval caps: caps from
every country, with gold insignia he has no right to wear, but he does not care, he is happy. Toinette is eight years old, and we shall have more to say especially about her in 1939. One more thing to add: on the walls of her office Marie-Dévote, now well and truly overtaken by middle-aged spread, has a Picasso and a Matisse. Chez Antoine is featured in the guidebooks for its collection of paintings. Antoine’s early purchases have been added to with work by the Surrealists: Dalí, Tanguy, Magritte, De Chirico, Max Ernst. Antoine still knows nothing about art, but he is a lucky buyer, and has a gallery in Paris to advise him so that he scarcely puts a foot wrong. All of it is in Marie-Dévote’s name.

At Roquebrune things are no longer quite as they were, and Antoine has given up stopping there since the day when he arrived unannounced and found Mireille in bed with a customs officer. Throwing herself at him, she cried, ‘Why didn’t you come sooner? He seduced me. He hits me. Defend me.’

The customs officer (his trousers meticulously folded on a chair and his képi hung on a coat hook) opened his eyes wide. He could have sworn that it was the other way around, and thus did he become rudely acquainted with Mireille’s impressive impudence. Antoine sighed: it is always unpleasant to be on the receiving end of infidelity, but with Théo he had got used to it and it no longer wounded him so much. As the naked Mireille, still clinging to his neck, continued to sob, and the customs officer retrieved his long underpants from the floor, a ruthless calculation surfaced in Antoine’s mind. To break it off would have several advantages, chief among them that he would save a good deal of money, and then there were also Mireille’s amorous demands, which were beginning to exhaust him. At fifty-eight, well, he was no longer a young man. He thus assumed a dignified and offended air, held up his hand to the customs officer, who was
pulling on his braces, and begged him to stay as he was. Mireille flew into a terrible fit of temper, but Antoine was immovable and, having forcibly detached her, he walked out, slamming the door behind him, through the restaurant full of diners finishing their lunch. A Parisian designer had transformed the bistro into a country restaurant that was more Provençal than Provence. Poor Léon would have found it unrecognisable. He had done the right thing by dying.

As for Charles, he is the agent for an important car manufacturer, running his own garage, and has launched a political career: for the moment he is merely a radical-socialist departmental councillor, but the future is bright, or at least he believes it is.

Such was the situation as Jean boarded the ferry at the end of August 1932, his pockets full with his thousand-franc note, return ticket, Mademoiselle Geneviève’s address and another that Monsieur Cliquet had given him of a friend of his, a retired employee of one of the British railway companies. Captain Duclou had likewise showered him with introductions for the crossing, which, though it lasted barely six hours, would without the shadow of a doubt awaken Jean’s vocation as a sailor. The ferry captain was a former officer of Uncle Duclou, and when Jean had stowed his bicycle in steerage, a sailor led him to the bridge, where the captain, having looked him up and down with a great pretence at severity, pointed to a place next to the helmsman that he was not to leave at any price. It was from there, with a beating heart, that Jean followed the difficult manoeuvre of the ferry as it left the quayside and turned into the channel leading to the harbour mouth. The boat hardly seemed to move, although he could feel the vibrations of its engines, whose speed the captain held back by spluttering into a sort of large tube fixed to the deck of the bridge. They had scarcely inched past the harbour mouth when he ordered the engines full speed ahead. Jean had the impression that the ferry was sitting down in the swell, then hurling itself forward at the long green waves. I am sorry, for the sake of the story, to have to report that the crossing was perhaps the most uneventful
of the year. After departing at ten in the morning, the ferry was at the quayside at Newhaven at six that evening. Not once did anyone shout, ‘Man overboard!’, and there was no mustering of passengers on deck to sing ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee’ as the ship sank. Jean had lunch at the captain’s table. The fat, rotund man with pink cheeks disappointed him a little. There was nothing of the master mariner about him, and it was difficult to imagine him as a young lieutenant rounding Cape Horn in a gale aboard a mixed cargo of the Messageries Maritimes, as Uncle Duclou had related. Did he even remember those days? Jean told himself that the monotonous Dieppe–Newhaven crossings through the Channel shipping lanes, jammed with traffic, had gradually erased all spirit of adventure in this man, who kept two canaries in his cabin and talked about the flowers in his garden. At Newhaven the captain entrusted Jean to one of the ferry’s officers, who led him to a bungalow with a sign outside saying ‘Bed and Breakfast’. An old lady with curly grey hair opened the door, letting out a smell of Brussels sprouts. Yes, she had a room, and tomorrow morning she would serve him a nice big breakfast before setting him on his way to London. Jean thanked the officer and stepped into the smell of Brussels sprouts. The few words of English he had remembered from the lycée were enough for him to be able to ask questions the answers to which he did not understand. In any case the lady had a slight pronunciation defect as a result of her loose dentures clicking as she spoke. Whenever she moved, she gave off a smell of cheap face powder that quickly became nauseating. Jean’s small but pretty bedroom at La Sauveté made this one look hideous. Everything in it smelt of cold sprouts. The sash window looked out onto a yard full of rotting horse-carts. As the sun set, lights began to go on in the houses that backed on to his bungalow, and Jean caught sight of mothers and children gathered around tables laid with teapots and plates of sandwiches. A radio, louder than the others, broadcast a stream of unintelligible words into the yard. It was a funny country, this England, with its
low houses built of brick and its sky blackened by the smoke of ships entering and leaving port. It didn’t look anything like what he had read about it in class. He consoled himself: he had not seen anything yet. The old lady knocked and walked straight in without waiting for him to answer, and started gibbering. He understood that she was saying ‘tea’ and followed her. In a living room decorated in flowery cretonne, she had laid a low table with a light meal of sandwiches, tea and chocolates. She smiled, delighted to have this young guest to banish her solitude temporarily. Lipstick had run into the wrinkles around her thin lips. Jean still understood nothing, fascinated by the movement of her dentures in her mouth and the fantastic feet in front of his own, wearing patent leather shoes with buckles. She showed him a photograph in an oval frame of a soldier with tapering whiskers, wearing a beret with ribbons. Was it her husband, her father, her son? Thinking what would be best, he said, ‘Husband?’

She nodded her head and tears rolled down her cheeks, creating two channels in her make-up. When he had finished eating, she disappeared for a moment into the kitchen, to return wearing an irresistible three-cornered hat and carrying a small handbag in green needlepoint. She smiled and pointed at the door. Jean was alarmed. Was she going to leave him alone amidst the flowery cretonne, watched over by a soldier who had met death on the battlefield?

‘I come!’ he said.

The handbag twirled with pleasure on the old lady’s arm. She knew exactly where she was going, and forged ahead between indifferent passers-by along pavements lined with identical houses of red brick. The weather was exceptionally mild, and men in shirtsleeves were trimming their box hedges in their minuscule gardens and mowing their meagre lawns. Jean was finding it hard to keep up, and wondered where she was leading him with such lightness of mood and a mysterious smile at the lipstick-smudged corners of her mouth. No one at home having apprised him of the bizarre customs of this exotic people, he felt no anxiety and concluded
that his landlady’s athletic strides must be her preferred form of exercise before going to bed. Night was falling and everything looked darker. A succession of enormous protuberant eyes peered out at the edge of the street, the bow windows whose yellowish glow was reflected on the road surface, and he felt as if he was walking between the tentacles of an enormous slumbering octopus in a town that was being crushed in the darkness. After more than ten minutes of this brisk walk, the old lady turned into a street that was better lit, with illuminated signs and shop windows. Jean just managed to dash in behind her as she entered a smoke-filled pub, in which all he could initially make out was the men squeezed together around the bar, each holding out a hand full of change. Behind the counter a barman in a striped waistcoat, bald but with a face embellished by a fine waxed moustache, lowered and raised steel levers, handed out large glasses of beer, and took the money immediately, without a smile or a word. The old lady did not seem in the least frightened by the bustle and unselfconsciously elbowed her way through to the holy of holies, from which she returned with a glass of cider for Jean and a whisky for herself. They drank standing up, resting against a pillar and exchanging smiles. When he refused the third glass of cider she seemed to think he needed a ‘just so you know’, because she led him towards a swing door marked ‘Gents’. A constant flow of men was emerging, buttoning their flies as they did so. Out of politeness Jean followed suit. The old lady meanwhile had moved on to drinking beer and brandy alternately, a swig of one followed by a swig of the other. Everyone seemed to know her. They greeted her good-humouredly, without the slightest mockery. Jean learned her name: ‘Eliza’ or sometimes ‘Mrs Pickett’. At the rate she was going, it was evident that she would soon be completely drunk, but she bore up very well, if a little red-faced beneath her make-up, which was beginning to crack in the heat of the room. An unintentional elbow nudged her hat. Thinking she was putting it straight, she replaced it completely askew without losing any of her dignity. At about eleven
o’clock the barman stopped serving drinks, and Mrs Pickett gestured to Jean that it was time they went back. She had spoken to him several times without his being able to say anything in response apart from ‘yes’, which was about the only word in English he felt more or less sure of. He told himself that in any case she wasn’t listening. When she left the support of the pillar, which had held her up since the beginning of the evening after each of her sorties to the bar, the pub spun in front of her and she had to grip onto Jean’s arm. They set out down the street, but she could hardly place one foot in front of the other. Repeatedly tripping over herself, she finally stopped, pulled off her buckled pumps, handed them to her companion and walked a little more steadily in her cotton stockings. Jean saw her swaying more and more and offered her his arm. For the last five hundred metres he had to half-carry her. She weighed nothing, a little package of mummified skin and bones. Thanks to Jean the key was turned in the lock. Mrs Pickett tossed her three-cornered hat onto a coat hook, did a little dance, and sat down heavily on the ground, where she began to laugh madly. Jean picked her up, without force, and laid her, still cackling, on the living-room sofa and piled some cushions on top of her. Eliza Pickett shut her eyes immediately, but as he was about to turn out the light and go to his room, she sat up and said in French, ‘Would you give me a glass of water, my dear?’

Jean fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and brought it to Eliza’s lips. She grimaced with disgust.

‘Oh no, not like that! This water stinks!’

With her thumb and index finger she took out her dentures, dropped them in the water and closed her eyes again.

‘Put it on the floor!’ she said. ‘And now goodnight.’

She was already asleep. Jean left on tiptoe and went to his room. He had landed in a strange world, where old ladies got shamelessly drunk. What would Chantal de Malemort think about it? Late as it was, in the darkness the image of Chantal, so fragile and lovely,
would not leave him. How he would have loved her to admire him, all in one day crossing the Channel, setting foot on British soil, and spending his evening in a pub! He felt capable of astonishing her with even greater feats than this, of crossing vaster seas, of discovering unknown lands, and being as much at ease among the Kanaks as the old ladies of Newhaven. He had made up his mind. He would travel far away to win Chantal and her parents’ respect, and come back to her loaded with knowledge, or perhaps he would even take her away with him, a long way from her château and from her family who stifled her, from the covetousness of Marie-Thérèse du Courseau. You are not truly a man until you have, there in front of you, a woman’s happiness to complete, an immense task with which to fill your heart with joys and anxieties. Jean swore to himself to be worthy, to yield no longer to any weaknesses, to disregard Antoinette and her cheap ways. Love demanded purity. Antoinette confused his vision of love with her delicious whiff of sin, her plump thighs and her pretty pink breasts. Yes, they were very pretty, Antoinette’s breasts, soft when his fingers squeezed them, her skin of a tenderness that inspired respect. He must not think about them any more; but at night when sleep was slow to come, her ‘girlish’ games unsettled the sternest of resolutions. What if Antoinette was actually the devil? After several false starts Jean finally fell into a sleep that mingled Chantal’s pale blue eyes, sweet almond smell and white skin with the softness and perfume of Antoinette du Courseau’s silky down.