The Foundling Boy (42 page)

‘Oh. Okay … Listen, I need to see him, the sooner the better. Tell him, will you?’

‘Mm. Jean … do you think he’s really a baron?’

‘He’s as much a baron as I am.’

‘You’re a baron too! I thought so.’

He did not have the heart to disillusion her. That evening, before
dinner, he went for a walk by the port. A new liner was waiting out to sea, and launches were leaving, loaded with passengers. The exodus was under way, still hardly perceptible but clear enough for it to be unmistakable nevertheless. Jean mingled with the other onlookers and friends of travellers gathering on the quay. The yellow Hispano-Suiza appeared, driven by a white chauffeur with Salah seated beside him. It stopped in front of the customs building. A nurse came forwards, pushing a wheelchair. Salah and the chauffeur sat the prince carefully in it. Geneviève followed, wearing a light-coloured dress and a beret, with a travelling coat over one arm and a jewellery bag in her other hand. Jean had time to register her lightly
made-up
face and see its sadness and disarray. How would she survive so far from London and her friends? The group moved towards the police and customs building. They emerged again on the other side of the barrier, and two porters lifted the chair into a launch at whose bow there stood a black sailor in a white turban and uniform. Geneviève turned round to look at the crowd gathered on the quay. If she had known he was there, she would have been able to make him out among the other anxious and curious faces. The launch cast off and pushed back, helped by the sailor at the bow with his gaff. Salah stood next to the prince, one hand resting on the back of the wheelchair, contemplating the diminishing quay, the town switching on its first lights, France and Europe in their last days of peace.

‘The rats are leaving the sinking ship,’ someone said behind Jean.

Other cars were arriving, bringing their passengers: a Cadillac, a Rolls-Royce, a Mercedes, a Bentley. The yellow Hispano-Suiza started up. The chauffeur had taken off his jacket and was smoking a cigarette.

Jean called Madeleine. She sounded anxious. No, the ‘baron’ was not in Cannes. In the society column of the
Éclaireur du Soir
she had seen a photo of him in a dinner jacket at a reception at the Casino de la Méditerranée at Nice. Perhaps he had stayed on to spend the day there. She also needed to see him urgently. Jean walked the streets
of Cannes for a while, alone and lost. He was reluctant to return to his hotel room, for he knew that reading would not banish the two images that had suddenly forced their way back to disturb the peace of mind he thought he had found: Geneviève going away from him towards the Middle East, and Chantal, her long hair tumbling across the pillow, framing her sleeping face. Running away had made no difference. Everything was still there within him, and the one person he would have liked to confide in lived cooped up in Grangeville. Writing to her might alleviate the obscure, nameless pain that he felt.

Next morning the
Toinette
docked at the marina and Jean had to give Théo some bad news. The group of English tourists booked for that day had just cancelled. The agency was sinking under the weight of telegrams from holidaymakers announcing that they would rather not come just now. Théo took it badly.

‘What are they worried about, these
Angliches
? That we’ll make corned beef out of their suckling-pig hides? The war? But there isn’t going to be any war in Cannes. Two weeks, two weeks I tell you, my fine friend, is all it will take General Gamelin to drive those Germans straight back to Berlin with a marching band to lead the way. I tell you … the Saint-Tropez brass band is ready to go. Right out in front!’

Jean stayed on board for lunch. He enjoyed Théo’s posturing and unflagging swagger, and for once Toinette was not unreachable. She had no one to serve and she stayed sitting at her father’s side, leafing distractedly through a fashion magazine. She was listening, without appearing to, and refilling their glasses. Jean watched her lovely fifteen-year-old face, her beautiful light eyes, from her mother almost certainly, her long chestnut-coloured hair and her bare arm as she poured, with its still-childlike hand. Who would be the first to capture this sweet being, so lovely in her simplicity and natural beauty? The first Gontran Longuet who appeared on a motorbike or at the wheel of a red Delahaye, most likely, if all women were the same.

There was a moment when he mentioned he was from Normandy. Toinette looked up and stared at him. Théo noticed.

‘That always sets her off. Her uncle’s Norman. He talks to her about Normandy sometimes, how it rains there and the light, when there is any, it’s very pretty.’

‘Does he often come to see you?’ Jean asked.

‘Does … He lives with us! He only likes the Midi now. He’s a funny bloke, I can tell you. He owns a Bugatti.’

Jean no longer had any doubts. Antoine du Courseau was alive and well at Saint-Tropez, unbeknown to his family, and this shy, graceful child was not his niece but his daughter. If you looked carefully you could see straight away some of Geneviève’s features, and that look Antoinette had had at the same age, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And her name! Toinette. The boat. The hotel and its sign: Chez Antoine. Everything was becoming clear.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Théo asked.

‘About Normandy.’

Théo had drunk so much pastis that he began casting glances at his cabin, eager to have a siesta before putting to sea again.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Is that it for this summer? He might apologise, Herr Hitler, for spoiling our lives. Anyway … if it works out again, send me word and I’ll come.’

He yawned and moved towards the bridge. Jean caught Toinette’s eye and she smiled shyly. He leaned towards her and murmured, ‘Tell your uncle that Jean Arnaud sends his very best wishes. Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Théo whipped around anxiously, as though Jean had made the most of his few seconds of inattention to show his daughter his private parts. Their smiles reassured him. At the gangway he said, ‘All the best … bye. The little one’s sweet, isn’t she?’

‘More than sweet. Bye, Théo. I’ll phone you.’

The afternoon was undemanding. He was the only one in the office
when the postman arrived with a parcel for him: Toulet’s
Counter-rhymes
,
which Salah had promised him. Two of his colleagues had received their call-up papers. The owner of the agency was wearing a suitably serious expression. He could already see himself walking behind a hearse, having placed a notice in the window: ‘Closed for reasons of general heroism’. At last Palfy appeared, wearing a shantung suit, a blue silk handkerchief spilling out of his breast pocket.

‘Come. I’m taking you out. I’ve found a delicious bistro at Mougins where we shall taste kid
aux herbes
courtesy of Madame Victoire. A highly indicative name for an era such as ours.’

The Austro-Daimler was outside. Palfy hummed all the way to Mougins. When they were seated he ordered pastis and tomato juice. They seemed to know him, and Madame Victoire kissed him.

‘You are unfaithful to me, Baron.’

‘Me?’ he exclaimed with indignation.

‘Yes, you!’

‘All right, I admit it!’

‘Your cynicism is shocking!’

Jean did not know where to begin. Palfy looked so happy. Did he have any right to curtail the happiness of a man so sure of himself? He let him keep talking, and as Palfy did so he pulled a packet of visiting cards out of his pocket and handed one to Jean.

‘Simple, elegant, discreet. Don’t you think? I adore the name Miranda. Where did Madeleine get the idea to call herself that? Can you see me having her answer the telephone as … Mme Madeleine? But Miranda’s almost a fairytale name for the French, for the English too come to that, they all have a little niece called Miranda, an aunt
Miranda, a sister Miranda. Can’t you see the attraction?’

With horror, Jean thought he understood.

‘Constantin, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve become Madeleine’s pimp.’

‘No, you fool. Madeleine’s past all that. Instead I have appointed her the head of a charming, and entirely frivolous, network of pretty girls and women who have difficulty making ends meet. A telephone call, a little disclosure of one’s tastes, and she finds just the right match from her card-file index. Obviously the card files need expanding. We’re recruiting – Madeleine mainly – nice little wives whose husbands are looking the other way. Professionals are out, of course. Somehow they always strike the wrong note. Now, you can help … no no, I beg you … none of your sensitivity … you’re in constant contact with English visitors. Here’s a packet of visiting cards. All you have to do is distribute them intelligently. No need for explanations, clients will understand at once. My system is completely new. A great pity I’m not able to patent it. I’ve already got a name: “Call Girls & Co”. All right?’

Jean hesitated. There were only the two of them in the small restaurant, which in August should have been full to the doors, with customers crushed together at long tables and busy waitresses nagging them. The rats really were leaving the sinking ship. Soon there would be only Palfy and himself left in France to face the coming war.

‘I should hate to think I was forcing you,’ Palfy said, annoyed by his silence.

‘You’re not forcing me, but I’ve got a message for you. I’m afraid that in your scurrilous scheme you‘ve treated the competition much too lightly. Apparently if you hadn’t been my friend you wouldn’t have been given a second chance.’

Palfy put down his glass without flinching. He knew how to take such shocks.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I would be awfully grateful if you would reveal who asked you to convey this message.’

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’

‘Absolutely. If it’s the owner of some crappy little brothel, I am not scared in the slightest. But someone highly placed would definitely worry me.’

Jean did not hesitate. If he failed to reveal Salah’s role, Palfy would treat the matter as a joke. It was far better to really put him on his guard.

‘Salah.’

Palfy picked up his glass and drank its contents in a single gulp. The roast kid was served.

‘I’m not very hungry any more.’

‘Why do you think Salah’s warning is so serious?’

Palfy shrugged.

‘The reason is slightly delicate to explain.’

‘Do tell me.’

‘Your friend, the prince, is a real prince. An Egyptian title, I think, and fairly authentic, at least more so than mine. Clean hands, doubtless transparently so, though I have not seen them. Educated at a French college, then Oxford, has travelled all over the world, high society, considerable fortune. If you haven’t lived such a life, you have no idea how boring it is. So how do you distract yourself? Exploiting the stupidity and vices of men is one temptation. Sex has been an investment of his. Oh, not directly, of course … One must keep one’s hands clean, always! But through the agency of devoted aides. Salah, among others. Even that Longuet fellow from Grangeville. Do you remember telling me how surprised you were that he mentioned his name to you in his car in Rome one evening? The centre of the organisation, and his headquarters, are in Lebanon.’

In Lebanon? That explained everything: the reason for their departure, their destination.

‘How do you know?’ Jean asked.

‘Oh, little by little … In London people talked and, you know … in my free time I keep bad company … The girls sometimes talk … I’ve built up a picture of a very small part of a large network that covers several countries. Unwittingly you helped me. For example, that house in Chelsea is a cover—’

‘Does Geneviève know?’

‘No. Definitely not! But you can see that the facts prove it: the dubious butler, the different chambermaids every morning. They have work permits, “regular” employment. The famous Madame Germaine, who whipped half the masochists in London, worked under their protection. You found Salah there.’

Two American couples came into the restaurant after hesitating at the sight of its interior, which, apart from Jean and Palfy’s table, remained empty. Victoire took possession of them, lit some candles and was translating the menu into irresistible English until one of the men interrupted her in perfect French and pointed out that there was an essential difference between a rock lobster and a lobster and that only dullards would confuse one with the other, and would she please not consider them as such because it irritated them, especially as they were, all four of them, great friends of France.