Читать книгу The Foundling Boy - Michel Deon - Страница 5

Jeanne could not find a way through the hawthorn hedge. The stiff branches slashed at her face and arms. She ran along the path in the hope of finding an opening, but the hostile, aggressive hedge was impenetrable. Clasping her large barren bosom with both hands to stop it bouncing, she felt her heart’s panic-stricken thumping as a sharp pain under her left palm. But she could not give up. Behind the hedge, in the young birch forest, a child was wailing, and its fitful cries, carried on the evening air, were calling for her help. She badly wanted to rescue the baby lost in the wood, but her heavy legs felt glued to the earth and her lungs were failing her. She gasped for breath. If she did not hurry up, the child would die and Albert would never forgive her. What made her panic most was that, although she must have run the best part of a kilometre to try to find a way through, the cries were as close as ever, as if the baby was following her behind the hawthorns. Then she realised that the path must go in a circle around the wood, whose dappled foliage was rustling in the fading light. The wailing broke off, and Jeanne stopped, paralysed by fear, with such a lump in her throat that when she tried to call out, only a croak passed her lips.

‘What’s the matter?’ Albert said.

A strong hand, with its calloused palm, squeezed her arm, and Jeanne’s anxiety vanished. She opened her eyes onto the darkness of the bedroom, made out its shape and the position of the window, saw the curtains stir in the breeze. Albert’s thumb stroked her forearm with a reassuring gentleness.

‘There’s a baby crying,’ she said.

‘No there isn’t, it’s nothing … go back to sleep.’

‘There is, there is, I promise you. Listen.’

They stopped talking and heard nothing, and then there was a wail from somewhere close by, weaker than in Jeanne’s dream, a last exhausted whimper.

‘Oh,’ Albert said. ‘You’re right! It sounds like an injured hare.’

‘I’m sure it’s a baby.’

‘At this hour … outside our window?’

He had a literal mind that had no room for anything unexpected. Jeanne sat up in bed, listening intently. There was another plaintive, desperate wail.

‘Maybe it’s Old Souillet’s crow. It imitates anything that moves.’

‘I’m going to see,’ Jeanne said, stretching out her hand to grope for the sulphur matches on the bedside table.

The Pigeon lamp gave out a gloomy, yellowish glow that shed almost no light. Jeanne adjusted the wick, put a dressing gown on over her nightdress, and went down the wooden staircase. The house had two entrances, one opening into the park, the other onto the road. Without hesitation, Jeanne went to the door to the road and opened it. A wicker basket sat in the middle of the steps, festooned with ribbons. Her hand made contact with a wool blanket. Bringing the Pigeon lamp closer, she saw a minuscule face screwed up against its glimmer. The baby gave a weak cry and its mouth twisted up.

‘Jesus! Mary! It is a child! Come down quick, Albert.’

She forgot that Albert could not come down quickly. He had only one good leg and needed time to strap on the other wooden one, pull on a pair of trousers and grip the banister, step by step.

‘Are you sure?’ she heard him shout from upstairs.

‘Am I sure? Listen to you!’

‘Bring it up then, and we’ll see. Is it just one?’

Only then did she think to look up and down the road, but the dark night only revealed what she knew already: a bend to the right, another to the left, the hawthorn hedge opposite. A light, almost warm breeze caressed the shapes of the shadows. A few stars twinkled in the sky. The moon was not yet up. On windy nights you could hear distinctly the waves buffeting the cliffs, but tonight the sea was calm and far away, as if blotted out by the summer night. Jeanne cautiously picked up the basket and carried it to the bedroom. Albert was waiting in his nightshirt, sitting on the edge of the bed with one leg dangling, holding a paraffin lamp.

‘So you were right. It is a baby,’ he said, stroking his thick moustache.

‘He can’t be more than a week old.’

She lifted the baby out of the basket and brought him closer to the lamp. A warm blue shawl tied with ribbons enveloped him. Next to him someone had placed a full bottle, a hairbrush, a tin of talcum powder and a sealed envelope that Albert opened. ‘I was born on 16 August. I don’t have a name. You can find one for me if you want me to stay with you.’

‘The bottle’s cold. You look after him while I warm it up,’ Jeanne said, with the decisiveness that characterised her at important moments.

She placed the baby in Albert’s arms. Never having held a child in his life before, he was petrified, and he remained sitting on the edge of the bed, his good leg sticking out, bare, hairy and muscular. He had not moved an inch when Jeanne came back and relieved him of his burden.

‘He’s a nice boy, anyway,’ he said.

The baby’s mouth opened wide and clamped shut on the teat. Air bubbles rose in the bottle as its level dropped. Twice Jeanne gently took the bottle away from him to burp him by patting him on the back. Albert, bending over him, received a blast of sour milk smell full in his face. In a cupboard Jeanne found some baby clothes that had been used nineteen years before, for Geneviève. She undressed the baby, washed, talced and re-dressed him.

‘He’s a handsome boy,’ she said, with an approving nod, referring to what she had just uncovered and covered up again, as though long experience and many patient measurements entitled her to identify a promising future.

He was hardly wrapped up again before he fell asleep, his fists closed, as two anxious faces bent over him: Jeanne’s round and moon-like, with small grey eyes marked with crow’s feet and a chin adorned with a small polyp, Albert’s long and hollow-cheeked, eyes yellowed by caporal tobacco smoke and calvados fumes, and a thick greying moustache as stiff as a brush.

These loving, anxious faces were the first to imprint themselves on the visual memory of the small boy who was christened Jean and took the name of his adoptive parents: Arnaud. Exactly as in a fairy tale, Albert and Jeanne placed gifts in his basket-cradle, the only possessions in which they were rich: courage and goodness, uprightness and charity, all the qualities that were largely responsible for Jean’s later misadventures and for the opinion, partly false, that he formed of the rest of humanity. I say ‘partly false’ because from his childhood onwards he also met with spite, hypocrisy and mistrust, of which wiser fairies might have thought to inculcate an instinctive recognition in him. But we know that evil always surprises, and it is trust’s task to be disappointed. Jean opened his eyes onto a marvellous world, filling his lungs with the air of peace and freedom, a world where the brave were rewarded and the guilty pardoned. A great epoch was dawning. There would no longer be need of soldiers: Albert, along with many other veterans, was seeing to it, and of all the politicians who held forth in those years he listened to, and read, with most warmth and emotion those who promised an end to those wars for which men departed joyously, flowers in their rifle barrels, and from which they returned with a wooden leg where their left leg had been. I forgot to mention that Jean was born in the year of the treaty of Versailles, 1919; that since our first sentence we have been in Normandy – the hawthorns, the sound of sea against cliffs; and that Albert’s leg was left behind in the mud at Verdun in the course of one of those futile attacks that some generals seem to have a knack for. Among the other faces that offered themselves to Jean’s wide-eyed surprise, let us note immediately:

Monsieur du Courseau, owner of La Sauveté, of which Albert and Jeanne were the caretakers; Madame du Courseau, née Mangepain, who, the morning after the boy first appeared, had returned from a journey to Menton where her daughter Geneviève, nineteen years of age, was being treated for her lungs; Antoinette du Courseau, four years old (a home leave of Monsieur du Courseau’s after the battle of Les Éparges); Michel du Courseau, two years old (another leave of Monsieur du Courseau’s, before embarking for Salonika); Captain Duclou, Jeanne’s uncle and one of the last Cape Horners; Monsieur Cliquet, retired railway employee, Albert’s cousin; and last but not least Monsieur the abbé Le Couec, parish priest of Grangeville, a Breton exiled to Normandy by higher authorities nervous of his separatist fancies. This was not, we must acknowledge, a particularly large universe, but Jean could have fared worse, knowing only – until he finally left for military service – narrow-minded parents, an imbecilic schoolmaster, a numbingly dull priest, and a country house made gloomy by constipated proprietors.There are, actually, a couple of truly constipated characters lurking in this list. It will be clear who I mean in time. I prefer not to be specific, because it is after all possible that their attitudes will not seem constipated to readers of this story and may even be applauded by a silent majority. I am happy nevertheless to reveal that I am not talking about Monsieur du Courseau, whom Jeanne ran to inform as soon as it was light, pushing the baby into Albert’s arms and leaving him both paralysed by his responsibilities and furious at being forbidden to smoke his pipe in any room where little Jean was.

*

At about five o’clock in the morning, winter and summer, it was Monsieur du Courseau’s habit to get up, go down to the kitchen and make himself a large bowl of coffee, which he drank standing up in his dressing gown before going to his library where he closeted himself until eight. He was a tall, native Norman, ruddy-complexioned, blue-eyed, with a muscular neck and hands the shaped like paddles. Since being demobilised, he had put on weight around his waist but was unworried and even satisfied to note the reappearance of noble curves that the mud of the trenches and the diseases of the Army of the Orient1 had banished for a time. Nor did he worry about his baldness, which revealed a splendid skull, shining, smooth and emphasised by a corolla of greying hair. No one having ever seen a new book cross the threshold of his private library, it had to be assumed that he spent his time there rereading the same books, notably a complete Dickens in orange-red soft covers, a set of Balzac bound in shagreen, the works of Voltaire in the thirty-two-volume 1818 edition, and twenty or so biographies of William the Conqueror, his hero and the only man he admired, because he had defeated the English. Nothing of Antoine du Courseau’s reading ever surfaced in his conversation. When he was not eating, he liked to talk about food (when he was eating he was not talkative at all, being occupied with the sensations of eating and their analysis), about flowers (but only with Albert), about women (but only with the abbé Le Couec, who wasn’t afraid of them), about cars (but only with Ettore Bugatti whom once a year he visited at Molsheim to buy a new car), and about politics with nobody, having given up being outraged by anything. He had in fact ignored all political matters since his youth, when he had inherited La Sauveté from his mother and a fleet of trawlers from his father. Madame du Courseau was quite comfortably off too, being descended from three generations of millers who had long ago hung up their white jackets, the Mangepains of Caen. Yes, I know, how aptly named! But I can do nothing about that. The war had passed by without greatly troubling them, unlike many others whom it had enriched or ruined. Only two shadows darkened this happy picture: in Serbia Antoine had been wounded in the shoulder by a piece of shrapnel, and there was no question of his ever hunting again; and in 1917 Geneviève had begun to cough blood. Since then she had been living at Menton. Earlier in the summer they had feared for her future, but Madame du Courseau, who had rushed to her bedside, then announced that she was returning, Geneviève being out of danger …

Jeanne did not find Monsieur du Courseau in the kitchen, where his bowl still stood on the table next to the calvados bottle and the warm coffee pot, confirming that he had been there recently. Though fully aware of the instruction that he was not to be disturbed in his library, Jeanne did not hesitate and, instinctively understanding that there was no point in timidity, she opened the door sharply. A paraffin lamp lit the book-lined room and the desk, on which a china tobacco jar gleamed along with some other copper or silver objects. From a corner of the room there came a muffled cry, and a figure sat up. Monsieur du Courseau, for it was he, tidied himself, while on the day bed a black shape went on wriggling. Jeanne recognised Joséphine Roudou, a twenty-five-year-old from Martinique who, since Easter, had been looking after Michel and Antoinette in Madame du Courseau’s absence. In a gesture of modesty Joséphine pulled her nightdress up over her face, offering the charming sight of her brown belly and a sex darker than anything else in the library.

‘What is it that is so serious, my dear Jeanne?’ Antoine asked in an untroubled voice, since he was one of those men whom pleasure never left distracted for longer than two or three seconds.

‘We found a child on our doorstep in the night.’

‘Which one? Antoinette or Michel?’

‘No, somebody else’s child!’

‘But how very interesting. And what is his name?’

‘He doesn’t have a name. He’s about a week old.’

‘Goodness me! It must be some sort of joke …’

‘Who would dare to make a joke like that?’

‘Very true … Madame du Courseau is coming back today. She’ll know what to do. While we’re waiting, Joséphine can take care of it.’

‘Joséphine! Her? Never.’

There was a clucking from underneath the nightdress, and Monsieur du Courseau turned round as though he had just discovered a third person between Jeanne and himself. The sight of her belly still twitching with gentle spasms reminded him what had just happened.

‘Put that away now, Joséphine, please, come along.’

She lowered her nightdress and her face appeared, wild-looking, with the whites of her eyes showing. Without the madras headscarf that usually covered her head, her thickly corkscrewed hair gave her a Gorgon’s head that was frightening enough to make Jeanne shiver.

‘You can go back to your room,’ Monsieur du Courseau said.

Jeanne barely saw her dart out of the library, run down the hall and upstairs, leaving behind a scent of peppery skin and a trail of luxuriant free-and-easiness which could, very evidently, turn a man’s head, but which Jeanne herself, immune to such charms, judged particularly harshly.

‘Where is this child?’ Monsieur du Courseau asked.

‘With Albert. Albert adores babies.’

‘In that case he couldn’t be in better hands. Without doubt the best thing to do is to inform Monsieur the abbé Le Couec. Now I need to read …’

Jeanne left the library, disappointed at not having been able to share her excitement with Monsieur du Courseau, although she knew him well enough to be aware of his character and unresponsiveness. And he had given her good advice. The abbé Le Couec was exactly the man she needed. Her bosom swelled with hope, and her generous imagination was already hatching a thousand plans. At last providence was answering her prayers, just when age was forcing her to give up what she had wished for so much: a child. She would keep him, he belonged to her; she made the resolution as she crossed the park, its colours awakening in the early morning with its yellow-tinged dawn and ragged grey strips of cloud. A delicious scented freshness was rising from the earth, from the long bluffs of rhododendrons and the beds of dahlias, begonias, roses and marigolds. Jeanne knew that she had never been as happy as she was at this minute. She forgot the scene she had just witnessed, which should have outraged her, but which later she would relate in detail to her husband, leaving him unable to stop thinking about the story, which took him back to an African woman in a brothel behind the lines, a week before he lost his leg. Her breasts had been like watermelons and he had experienced the most intense pleasure between her strong thighs, nothing like the honest conjugal embraces in which Jeanne had become less and less interested after she had stopped hoping for a child. When Jeanne told him about Joséphine they both swore discretion, but their vow was futile, for soon everyone in the district knew and admitted that Monsieur du Courseau had a partiality to dark skin. Captain Duclou explained that sailors who had tasted such charms remained spellbound for life. Antoine must have picked up bad habits in the Army of the Orient, and since that date there had always been black women at La Sauveté. Each year, at around the same time as he changed his Bugatti, Antoine paid off the Martiniquan or the Guadeloupean he had employed the year before and requested another, who would arrive on one of those banana boats out of Dieppe, fresh, plump and brightly dressed, with gold rings in her ears. I shall not say much more about Joséphine Roudou, whom everyone disapproved of and then rather missed after she exchanged La Sauveté for a fleeting fame in Montmartre before one of those unpleasant maladies that women catch from men of little hygiene carried her off in the space of a few weeks.

Madame du Courseau – I also forgot to mention that her first name was Marie-Thérèse – arrived back at Grangeville the same morning that Jean was settling in with his adoptive parents. After she had kissed Antoinette – largely indifferent – and Michel – who clung to her desperately – Marie-Thérèse hurried to Jeanne’s to see the baby. Events would almost certainly have taken a different turn if Monsieur the abbé Le Couec had not been present. That excellent man was in the kitchen, in the middle of an elaborate Cartesian discourse.

‘Religion,’ he was saying to Jeanne and Albert, ‘is shared more easily in this world than anything else. If this child has already been baptised, a second baptism will do him no harm at all. You must not hesitate. A good Christian cannot live properly without the succour of a patron saint. Let us put him on the right track, as Monsieur Cliquet would say. There will always be locomotives to pull him, and if he stays in a siding at least he will be relieved of his original sin. Albert, I know you have no religion, but the most profound sceptics can’t be against whatever it is, without contradicting themselves. Give the child a chance, I mean an extra chance, given that he already seems to have been so fortunate in the choice of his adoptive parents … Ah, Madame du Courseau, greetings. How is our Geneviève?’

‘Better, much better, Father. But what’s this news, Jeanne? A baby has fallen from the sky at La Sauveté? Where is he?’

‘He’s asleep, Madame.’

‘He’s just been fed,’ Albert added.

The priest had stood up after putting down his glass of calvados on the waxed cloth of the kitchen table. He was fearless in the face of his parishioners’ hospitality. His complexion, which was on the ruddy side, owed much to the visits he made after mass each morning, but his robust constitution allowed him these excesses. He had strength to spare, even after four years of carrying wounded men and digging the graves of the dead in the mud of the trenches. On his return he had put his old, worn cassock back on with its greenish and violet tints, his only vanity being to pin to it the ribbon of his Croix de Guerre. The presence of that decoration caused Albert to forgive the priest for still being a priest, and although he still had a number of quarrels with him on points of theology, these were little more than annoyances between the two men, rapidly erased by the evocation of the ordeals they had both undergone. Jeanne listened to them open-mouthed, her faith blind and immovable, unlike Madame du Courseau, who would have preferred a priest of greater worldliness at Grangeville, one with a fine speaking voice and more aptitude for the harmonium than apple-based spirits.

‘I’ll go up and see him,’ Madame du Courseau said, in a tone of great firmness.

‘You’ll wake him up!’ Jeanne moved to block her way.

‘Jeanne, don’t be ridiculous … It’s perfectly clear that you haven’t had children. A baby doesn’t wake up just because you bend over his cradle.’

‘Perhaps I haven’t had children, but I have had Geneviève. For long enough that she calls me “Maman Jeanne”.’

‘I haven’t forgotten, I haven’t forgotten … But—’

The discussion would have gone on indefinitely, and harsh words doubtless been exchanged, if Jean had not at that moment had the good sense to cry out. The two women went upstairs. In his Moses basket, fists clenched, the baby was yelling at the top of his lungs. Jeanne picked him up and calmed him immediately. Madame du Courseau wanted to rock him, but when she held him, he started howling again.

‘You see,’ Jeanne said proudly.

‘He’s certainly sweet. We shall look after him. I’ve given it some thought, and we’ll put him in Michel’s room. Michel can go to Geneviève’s.’

‘No,’ Jeanne said, ‘he’s staying here.’

‘Goodness me, dear Jeanne, what can you be thinking? You have neither the time nor the means to take care of a child.’

‘I’ll find the time and the means. This baby was put outside my front door. God wills me to have him.’

‘I rather suspect that in her guilty haste the mother got the wrong door. Quite clearly she wanted to leave him at ours.’

‘With suppositions like that you can remake the whole world. This little boy – Albert and I have decided to call him Jean – belongs to us.’

‘His future—’ Madame du Courseau began.

‘He shall have a future. Money doesn’t buy you happiness. We’ll teach him to work hard and to love his parents.’

‘He’s a little young for that, don’t you think?’

‘We’ll wait.’

If Marie-Thérèse du Courseau thought she would find an ally in the priest, she was seriously mistaken. The abbé Le Couec sided with the Arnauds, and nothing would induce him to change his mind, even when the mistress of La Sauveté quite unscrupulously raised the subject of Albert’s atheism and anticlericalism.

‘Madame,’ the abbé said, ‘to state the matter briefly, God knows how to identify those among his lost or straying sheep who have Christian virtues and sometimes a charity greatly superior to those who go to mass regularly. Even as a freemason who subscribes to L’oeuvre, Albert is an example to many.’

‘I doubt that your bishop would be of the same opinion,’ she answered in a tone with an undercurrent of menace.

President of a ladies’ workroom at Dieppe, Marie-Thérèse du Courseau possessed some modest access to the see. They listened to her, flattered her, and she considered as great favours the self-interested kindnesses of the hierarchy. But the abbé Le Couec cared nothing for the hierarchy. He feared neither its reprimands, being bereft of pride, nor its threats of transfer, feeling himself in any case to be a stranger everywhere outside Brittany. Madame du Courseau continued to exert pressure from every angle, but the Arnauds stood their ground. It must be said that she was also fighting a lone battle, her husband taking no interest in the affair. All of her ingenuity was rebuffed by Jeanne’s blinkered stubbornness, a stubbornness all the fiercer because the caretaker sensed, on two or three occasions, that some dark plot was threatening her possession. The plot finally failed, thanks to the sergeant at the gendarmerie, the mayor and the primary school teacher, who came down on the side of the Arnauds. Jean had found refuge with them. He would stay there, and no Joséphine Roudou or Marie-Thérèse du Courseau would be allowed to dote on him.

Madame du Courseau still refused to surrender, but continued her campaign in such a way as not to make an enemy of the boy’s adoptive mother, and if she had any regrets she nevertheless rapidly understood, in the wake of two incidents that could have ended in tragedy, that the foundling’s place was not at La Sauveté. On the first occasion little Michel, just two years old, was found standing next to Jean’s cradle, trying to stab him. The baby was asleep in the sun in front of the lodge when Jeanne heard a scream. She dashed outside to glimpse Michel, his fist clutching the handle of a kitchen knife, struggling with Joséphine Roudou. In his cradle, Jean’s blood was running onto the pillow from a long gash on his left cheek. If Joséphine had not been there, Michel would have put his eyes out. On another occasion it was Antoinette who ran to warn Jeanne that her brother had stolen the rat poison and was trying to make the baby swallow it, although from that episode he suffered nothing worse than an attack of vomiting.

Have I said anything yet about the physical appearance in which Madame du Courseau, née Marie-Thérèse de Mangepain, offered herself? No, because to me it seems that it goes without saying, but a person reading over my shoulder is worrying me somewhat by describing her as in her forties, ugly, simultaneously authoritarian and sickly-sweet, dressed like those ladies of good works who seem constantly to be watching out for the sins of others. Let us not allow free rein to anyone else’s imagination, apart from my own. At the time this story begins, Marie-Thérèse de Courseau is thirty-eight years old. In three years’ time she will cut her hair short, which will save her from too harsh a transition to her forties. She drives herself to mass in her own trap, swims in the Channel during the three summer months, cooks very admirably when necessary, teaches the Gospels to the children of the village and, as we have seen, presides over her workroom at Dieppe. Dressed by Lanvin, there is no trace in her of the provincial lady in her Sunday best. No one has ever seen her faint at a trifle. In fact, you could say that she is a woman with a strong head, although the head, in her case, is misleading: an expression of sweetness, a voice of honey, a kindness that is only withdrawn whenever she encounters an object in the way of her desires – as for example when Jeanne decided to adopt little Jean. The ambiguity of her character is apparent in her relations with her children. She was never interested in Geneviève until her daughter started coughing. She more or less ignores Antoinette, but repeatedly reveals her adoration of little Michel. If asked the question, ‘Do you have children?’ she will answer, ‘Yes, I have one child, Michel, and two daughters too.’ To go a step further and pierce the veil of intimacy, she fulfils her conjugal obligations without appetite, as a dutiful woman does. Antoine’s misdemeanours caused her pain at first, but now she is indifferent to them. She has not been insensitive to the ‘du’ that precedes Courseau, and is no less proud of having been born a Mangepain, the more so now that a brother of hers is a deputy, elected on a right-wing platform in Calvados. She knows perfectly well, however, that if the ‘du’ Courseaus have one or two pretensions, they do not feature in any directory of the nobility. Sometimes people address her as ‘baronne’, and she does not always correct those who do. Thus are titles forged, over a generation or two. I come back to that expression of sweetness that one can usually see on her face. It has not always been there: as a young girl Marie-Thérèse had a lovely complexion, fresh and pink, that made people forget a certain sourness in her features: thin lips, a sharp nose. As she has got older her complexion has faded, and her sweet expression has corrected the loss. Almost everyone is taken in, except, probably, the abbé Le Couec, whose own sweetness is not on the surface and who, by dint of hearing the confessions of Norman farmers, is more than a little sceptical of the innate goodness of humankind.

So Jean stayed with the Arnauds. I shall not recount his early childhood, which was composed above all of little needs and great appetites, illnesses he had to catch, tears, laughter, cries and the smiles his adoptive mother was always looking out for on his lips. To Jeanne’s profound annoyance, Madame du Courseau insisted on interfering with the baby’s education, which had the result of exacerbating Michel’s jealousy. It was a strange thing to see this child of two years old, nearly three, grow pale with anger whenever Jean’s name was mentioned. It amused Michel’s sister Antoinette to provoke him. Perhaps it was to irritate him even more that she conceived a passion for Jean. Escaping from Joséphine, then from her successor, Victoire Sanpeur, she ran to hide in the lodge. Jeanne had no more faithful ally than this five-year-old child. Keeping a lookout at the kitchen window, as soon as Antoinette saw her mother approaching she would shout, ‘Watch out, it’s her!’ whereupon Jeanne would throw herself into some frenetic task – waxing the floor, polishing her copper pans – to justify her monosyllabic responses to Madame du Courseau.

As for Albert, he continued to grumble. For him, peace would truly have meant peace if his employers had found him a couple of assistant gardeners and some decent fertiliser. His grumbles met with no response from Antoine du Courseau, who, up until the war, had taken little or no pleasure in analysing his own feelings, and in his private moments was frightened to discover in himself a kind of unease for which he could not find a name. He would have been amazed to learn that the feeling in question was one of boredom. Boredom that he banished in his own way by straddling whichever Martiniquaise was working at La Sauveté at the time or by reversing his Bugatti out of the garage to race the country roads using every one of its thirty horsepower, scattering hens, dogs, cats and dawdling flocks of sheep as he went. It was thus that, one afternoon in the summer of 1920, at the wheel of his sports car, he reached Rouen, crossed the River Seine and, having sent a telegram back to La Sauveté telling them not to wait, continued via Bernay and Évreux deep into an agricultural Normandy that was foreign to him. France seemed terrifically exotic to him, so full was his mind’s eye still with the memory of landscapes burnt by the sun, cracked by cold or glowing with poppies that he had encountered in southern Serbia and Macedonia. This was a France he did not know, unless he had forgotten it, and it worked its way back into his mind via neat villages full of flowers, hundreds of delicate churches, and a countryside drawn in firm and well-finished lines and softly coloured in grey, green, and red brick. The war had not passed this way, and to see the parish priests out walking, mopping their brows with big checked handkerchiefs, the postmen on bicycles in their straw hats, the children mounted atop hay carts bringing in the second cutting, you would have thought the whole conflict merely a bad dream born of men’s unhinged imaginations.

The greedy Bugatti gobbled up the kilometres, trailing a plume of ochre dust behind it, its engine burbling with a joyful gravity that communicated itself to the driver. The indefinable malaise Antoine suffered from was left far behind, at La Sauveté. At petrol depots he stopped to stretch his legs and answer the questions of mechanics who walked respectfully around the car, examining it. The same model, a Type 22 driven by Louis Charavel, had recently won the Boulogne Grand Prix, and the automotive world was beginning to talk about Ettore Bugatti and his little racing cars that were beginning to eat away at the supremacy of the monsters made by Delage, Sunbeam, Peugeot and Fiat.

Antoine felt so relaxed that he stopped to have dinner at Chartres, after changing his tyres and four spark plugs and filling up with petrol. Afterwards he drove straight out of the city and into the night. His headlamps lit no more than a few metres of the road ahead and he had to ease back on the throttle, driving inside a small, tight circle of light that threw trees up as he passed and pierced the thick shadows of sleeping villages. Two or three times on the outskirts of a town he almost drove into an unlit farmer’s cart. He felt as if he was playing Russian roulette and stepped on the accelerator once more, drinking in deep draughts of the cool night as dense as a mass of black water rolling over him. At about two o’clock in the morning, apparitions began rearing up at the roadside. He was driving in a trance that was close to drunkenness: columns of soldiers in sky-blue uniforms were marching northwards, followed by towed artillery, 75-mm guns that paused to fire between the trees. Each shot pierced the night with a burst of red and yellow. He passed a convoy of ambulances coming towards him that left a long trail of blood on the road, then floated to the surface of a lake that muffled the noise of the engine and the screech of the tyres. Here he felt marvellously well for a moment, but then was buffeted by waves and the bodywork groaned and the muffled engine stopped with a hiccup. He fell asleep on the steering wheel, waking up at the first rays of the morning sun in a ploughed field, soaked in dew. The engine fired straight off, and he bumped back to the road. Day was breaking over the Bourbonnais, with its white villages and pretty cool-smelling woods. He carried on to Lyon, where he arrived shortly before lunch after following the banks of the sluggish Saône. He was thirsty and hungry and stopped at a roadhouse by the Rhône. He was served with a jug of Beaujolais, saucisson and butter, while children and gawpers surrounded the Bugatti, parked at the kerb. It had suffered during the night. Squashed mosquitoes and moths dirtied its fine blue bodywork, and its spoked wheels bore traces of its trip across the field. But even as it was, it still looked like a thoroughbred at rest, its neck proudly tensed, its round rump with its cylindrical petrol tank. Antoine arranged for it to be washed at a garage and only then thought of himself. His hardy woollen suit was holding out, but his soiled shirt and day-old beard did not suit the owner of a thoroughbred. He bought a shirt and changed into it at the barber’s after the barber, a small, catty man he could not bring himself to speak to, had shaved him. He was in a hurry to get started, to feel the warm wind stroking his face once more and hear the engine’s happy purring. Lyon’s deserted streets surprised him. Not a single passer-by, not a tram, the curtains all drawn and shutters shut, café terraces empty without a gloomy waiter in sight, the Rhône unfurling its bluish cold waters between banks of pebbles, Fourvière on the hill blurred in a heat haze that smothered even the sound of its bells. The Bugatti, rolling between gleaming tram tracks down cobbled streets, tried vainly to dislodge this strange torpor by the clamour of its four cylinders. Lyon was at lunch.

By mid-afternoon he had reached Valence. Another France began here, on the road out of town, in the pale green and grey of its olive trees. A violent surge of happiness filled Antoine. He knew now where he was heading. The road led all the way down to his daughter Geneviève. It had all been planned for a long time, and he hadn’t known. There was no hurry any more. He dropped his speed and drove more carefully. On the way out of Montélimar the next morning, he bought clean underwear and filled the Bugatti with nougat. Now and again he urged it to a gallop, and the plane trees flashed past in splashes of sunlight through the foliage. The Provençal landscape, so harmonious and beautiful – the loveliest in the world – sparkled before him like a mirage with its walls of black cypresses, its roofs of curved ochre-coloured tiles, its peaceful, blessed farms and pale sky.

At Aix he stopped at a garage to have the oil changed, and a mechanic addressed him as ‘captain’. Antoine recognised him: Charles Ventadour, tall and emaciated with a gypsy’s complexion, a driver in his company who had driven his truck all over the potholed and cratered roads of Macedonia. Aix was one place it was worth giving up some time for. He knew his destination from here, so there was no hurry. He dined with Charles Ventadour, who reminisced about Serbia, the Turks, the roads where the Army of the Orient had got stuck, gone down with diarrhoea, shivered with malaria. He exaggerated, but in the overblown colours of his recollections there was the beauty of a shared memory, and both men suddenly felt a brotherhood so close that a friendship was born, a friendship that could never have existed in the army. After dinner they slumped in armchairs on a café terrace on the Cours Mirabeau. Why didn’t all of France live here? Shed its ambition, and let happy days roll past around a fountain bubbling with foam, watching pretty girls with passionate eyebrows and hourglass waists. Antoine thought fleetingly of Victoire Sanpeur. Even with her springy, curly sex, she didn’t make the grade.

He set out again next morning, and when the sun was nearly at its highest drove through a little port full of green, lateen-rigged tartanes with crude patched sails. On the dock a few conscientious artists had set up their easels and were painting, dripping with sweat in the heat. On the road out of the village he stopped at an open-air café at the edge of a beach and got out. He was lent a black swimming costume with shoulder straps that was too big for him. A pretty girl with brown hair, pink cheeks and thick eyebrows brought him half a baguette split in two and stuffed with tomatoes, anchovies, onions and garlic, over which she drizzled olive oil from a large glass. Sitting on the sand, for once he ate distractedly, his eyes fixed instead on the sea’s incandescent blue. Tartanes slipped across his field of vision, halfway to the horizon. From time to time he turned round to look at his Bugatti, which glittered in the sun like the sea. Passers-by placed their hands on its panels, stroked it, squatted down to get a better look at its transmission, its brakes, its rear axle. Someone mentioned that the place was called Saint-Tropez. Antoine decided that when his children had all left home and he was widowed – in his mind the plan had no snags – he would sell La Sauveté and settle here. At the same moment he made the mistake of looking down at his paunchy stomach and white Celtic skin and running his fingers across his bald head, trickling with sweat. He did not like what he saw and felt. The passing years had turned him into this heavy, clumsy man, who only felt unconstrained behind the wheel of his car. The swimming costume he wore was ridiculous, and in a mirror at the café he had glimpsed his face and seen his eyes ringed with white circles from his mica goggles.

Perched on the corner of a table, the girl who had served him swung her shapely leg back and forth, exposing a tanned knee. She was talking to a boy her own age, and their singsong accents mingled. For the pleasure of seeing her up close again, and to separate her from the interloper, he asked for another ‘pan bania’ and a bottle of Var rosé. As she squatted to place the tray on the sand he saw her knee again and, looking up, found himself staring into a face full of warmth and innocence and smelling a scent of nectarine, lightly spiced with garlic. She was lovely, she was simple, she was not for him. As he left, he presented her with a big box of nougat that she accepted with exclamations of pleasure. Her name was Marie-Dévote.

The road through the Esterel wound deep into the red rock and through pine forests whose scent washed over him in great gusts. The car responded joyfully to the effort Antoine demanded from it. Its tyres squealed in the bends and it leapt up the hills and grumbled on the descents with that sweet musical sound that only a Bugatti makes. Behind it trailed aerial pools of castor oil-scented air. Antoine drove through Cannes and Nice without stopping. They were towns for winter visitors, deserted during the summer. Beyond the port at Villefranche, signposts indicated Menton and the high corniche road. He slowed down. Night was falling on Mont Boron. At altitude and this time of evening, the Bugatti’s engine was at its best and would take off at the slightest pressure of his foot, but Antoine was no longer in any haste. In three days, time and space had lost their meaning. After he had seen Geneviève he might go on to China. This admirable machine, so precise and eager, would never develop a fault. At La Turbie he stopped near the Trophy of Augustus to look down at the coast, where the yellow lights trembled and twinkled along the sea like a rosary. A bit further on, at Roquebrune, he noticed at the roadside a little restaurant whose terrace overlooked a slope sown thickly with plum tomato plants. The patron stood at the door in a singlet and linen trousers. An enormous, still-pink scar cut across his face like a stripe, deforming his mouth. He spoke with difficulty. Antoine sampled soupe au pistou, stuffed fleurs de courgettes and fried anchovies. The man served him with a weary casualness. In the kitchen, behind a bead curtain, two women were moving around busily: they could not be seen, but their shrill voices were audible, one young, one old. They did not appear, and once dinner was over they slipped away without passing through the restaurant. Antoine requested a digestif. The patron brought a bottle of Italian grappa and two glasses and sat down opposite him.

‘So you travel like that, eh?’ he said. ‘Leave us poor devils standing.’

Raising a hairy hand, he stroked the awful scar on his face with his fingertips, sighed, and gulped down his glassful.

‘What about you? What did you get?’

‘Oh, practically nothing. A few splinters in my right shoulder. Six months ago another piece came out. I’m not complaining.’

‘Except for hunting …’

‘Except for hunting.’

‘Where did you get to?’

‘Army of the Orient. What about you?’

‘Verdun. Douaumont. Do you like this grappa?’

‘Not bad. A bit young. I’m from Normandy, calvados is my drink.’

‘I wouldn’t say no. They used to give us a glass before we went over the top.’

They drank for a while, silent, then carefully exchanging a few words that let each place the other. Antoine would willingly have finished the bottle, but there were still a few kilometres to go, and the smashed face in front of him depressed him terribly. So many soldiers went to war with the idea of sacrificing their life, or possibly their left arm, but not one imagined that they might as easily come back with their face a pulp, and look like a monster for the rest of their days. He was conscious of his own cowardice, but without cowardice, as without lies, life was impossible. It looked as if there was a night of reminiscing ahead, scenes and stories spilling out in bulk across the tablecloth, stoked by the warmth of the grappa.

‘Were you an officer?’ the man asked, his expression wary.

Antoine felt sorry for him. He had no desire to leave a bad impression, or deepen the certain bitterness of this defeated man.

‘No,’ he said, ‘corporal. Finished as a sergeant.’

‘Like me. Stay a bit longer.’

‘I need to get to Menton.’

‘She’ll wait for you …’

‘It’s my daughter.’

‘Ah! I understand. Well, come by again one day. We don’t stick together enough. My name is Léon Cece.’

Antoine got back into the car and freewheeled down to Menton. The cicadas sang in the pine woods and tomato fields. The town was already deeply asleep. It felt like the sleep of a sick person, so respectful was the silence of the deserted streets. The fragrance of lemon trees in blossom and the dimmed glow of the streetlights were redolent of hospitals. The houses were hidden deep in jungly gardens, walled behind high gates. Not a fishing boat moved in the dock. Antoine drove cautiously along the Promenade and eventually found a passer-by who told him the way to the clinic, a large turn-of-the-century detached house deep inside a silent park. The windows were shuttered and the doors locked. He switched off the engine, turned up the collar of his jacket, rested his head and arms on his steering wheel, and went to sleep.

It was not the dawn that woke him, but the sound of a pair of shutters opening on the balcony above his head. Geneviève appeared in a white nightdress with a ribbon in her hair. She seemed terribly thin to him, and pale, but more beautiful than before, a creature so fragile that the morning breeze or a shaft of sunlight might kill her.

‘It’s you, Papa!’ she said. ‘I thought it was. I was sure I heard the sound of a Bugatti last night. Is it the new one?’

‘Well, it’s the new one for now, the Type 22, four cylinders. Bugatti’s planning to replace it soon with the 28, which is apparently a marvel.’

‘I already like that one!’

Antoine puffed himself up. ‘Do you want to go for a spin?’

‘It’s difficult so early. The door’s still locked. A bit later, if you like.’

‘I’ll go and have a coffee. Look, I’ve brought you some nougat.’

He tossed two boxes up to the balcony, and Geneviève retrieved them.

‘Thank you! It’s so sweet of you to think of spoiling me. I adore nougat. When you come back, could you be really kind and bring me cigarettes and matches?’

‘You smoke? That’s not good.’

‘Nothing is good from where I’m standing.’

‘Really? I thought you felt better. You’re worrying me.’

From her pout he recognised his daughter from several years before, his little girl whom he had kissed on the doorstep of La Sauveté on the morning in August 1914 when he had left to join his unit. She had changed quite suddenly: now she was this frail young woman with an oval face and loose blond hair, who made him feel shy and intimidated.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

‘But you won’t get better!’

‘Do we get better?’

He realised that he wasn’t sure enough of the answer to be able to convince her. He could only think of distractions.

‘Do you need perfume?’

‘Well, if you can find something fairly modern …’

‘I’ll try.’

A figure in pyjamas appeared on the next balcony, a dishevelled man who began to gesticulate, showering them with insults.

‘What the hell is going on? Are you mad? There are people asleep here, sick people, and you don’t give a damn!’

‘Calm down, Piquemal,’ Geneviève said in a gentle voice. ‘It’s my father. We haven’t seen each other for five years. Anyway, he’s going. He’ll come back later.’

‘Your father, your father!’ Piquemal shouted, but said no more as he was choked by a fit of coughing.

‘You know you mustn’t get angry. It’s very bad for you.’

Piquemal, doubled up with coughing, retreated into his room.

Geneviève leant down to her father.

‘Don’t be offended. He’s half mad. In any case he hasn’t got much longer.’

‘I’ll be back soon,’ Antoine said.

‘See you very soon, Papa.’

The sloping drive allowed him to roll the Bugatti back to the gate, where he dropped the clutch and had the satisfaction of hearing the engine fire immediately. Menton was waking up in a golden dawn, an oblique light that slid across the oily sea and stroked the trees in the gardens. On the quay fishermen in straw hats were untangling their nets. He eventually found a barber, who shaved him and let him wash. He bought a new shirt and discarded the one he was wearing. Throughout his journey he had not burdened himself with anything: shirts, socks, undershorts, toothbrushes marked his route, tossed in ditches or available rubbish bins. It was harder to find somewhere to buy perfume at this early hour, but he came across a shop that advertised ‘goods from Paris’. Lacking in expertise, he relied on the saleswoman’s advice, then looked for a florist’s and ordered an enormous bouquet of white roses. The thought of burdening his Bugatti with roses threw him for a moment.

‘Would you like me to have them delivered?’ asked the florist, a small brown-haired woman with a downy upper lip.

‘That’s not a bad idea. With this package, if you don’t mind. Be careful, it’s perfume.’

‘Do you have a card?’

He found one in his wallet and wrote carefully and legibly,

My little Geneviève, these flowers will express all my affection much better than I could do it myself. Here also is the perfume you asked for. If you don’t care for it you can exchange it; I’ve left the name of the shop on the packet. Your papa, who kisses you.

Feeling much calmer, he headed west once more and drove as far as the outskirts of Roquebrune, to the restaurant where he had stopped the previous evening. On a chair outside, still dressed in his grubby singlet, the patron was plucking a chicken.

‘Hello!’ Antoine said, without getting out of the car.

‘All right? So, your daughter is well?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

‘Are you eating with us?’

‘It’s a bit early and I’ve a long way to go. Another time. I’ll be back.’

‘Always in a hurry. Like a fart in a fan factory, you are.’

‘That’s life!’ said Antoine, who would never have thought he could slip so easily into this sort of badinage.

‘With a puss like mine, I don’t know that there’s any more life to be had. But you’re right to make the most of it. On your way … see you again, and try not to have to scrape yourself off the road in that thing!’

‘Don’t worry, I’m a careful driver.’

He let in the clutch and the Bugatti leapt westwards down the coast, only stopping when it reached the outskirts of Saint-Tropez and the open-air café. Lounging in a wicker armchair, Marie-Dévote was reading a magazine with a cat on her lap. She turned her head and smiled.

‘Back already? Did you get bored?’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘It’s not really lunchtime yet. Will you be happy with a bowl of bouillabaisse?’

‘I’m sure I will.’

He sat down under the arbour, facing the beach, while she disappeared into the kitchen. A light breeze was blowing, raising ripples that expired on the white sand. He would happily have gone for a swim but the memory of his white, unappealing body disgusted him. Marie-Dévote put a steaming bowl and a carafe of Var wine in front of him.

‘It’s quiet here,’ he said.

‘On Sundays it gets busy.’

‘What day is it today?’

‘Friday. What are you doing that’s so interesting you can’t remember what day it is?’

‘Nothing,’ Antoine admitted.

‘Doesn’t your wife say anything?’

‘No.’

He wanted to ask her to sit on the corner of the table the way she had the day before, and swing her leg and show him her knee, but standing in front of him, hands on hips and feet apart, she seemed much stronger and more solid than he remembered her. Good health, sunshine, the men she had to serve and whose jokes she tolerated, had made her grown-up at twenty. But it was more than that: she had ripened, she was ripe like a luscious Provençal fruit, with that directness of expression and rough candour that women from the Midi have. When she laughed she revealed strong teeth solidly planted in a hungry mouth. Marie-Dévote was as far away as it was possible to be from those girls of good Norman families to whom he had been introduced and from whom, out of boredom and lack of critical sense, he had chosen Marie-Thérèse Mangepain.

‘Are you always on your own here?’ he asked.

‘Cheeky! I can’t half see you coming! No, I’m not on my own. Maman’s here. She never leaves the kitchen.’

‘And your father?’

‘My father’s dead. In the war. Like everybody.’

‘Not me.’

‘I saw you on the beach yesterday. Your shoulder’s all kersnaffled.’

Antoine didn’t know the expression, but there was no need. Marie-Dévote’s speech communicated above all by its musicality, her sentences that began sharply and finished smoothly, with an internal sensuous and lush music that he could have listened to for hours without trying to untangle its sense. But her attention had shifted from Antoine. A fishing boat was being rowed onto the sand. A tall tanned boy leapt out of it, his trousers rolled up to his knees, a bucket in his hand.

‘It’s Théo!’ she said delightedly. ‘He’s bringing the fish.’

She ran towards him in her bare feet. Antoine was eaten up with jealousy, and as he became aware of it he felt glad to experience the feeling. Something was moving inside him. A barrier was crumbling. He belonged to the world of the living, the world of Théo arriving with a bucket of fish, of Marie-Dévote running towards the young man with ill-concealed pleasure. Théo handed her the bucket and walked off, and Marie-Dévote lost her sparkle for a moment, became suddenly dull and lifeless, but the decline was brief. Antoine finished his carafe of rosé and asked for another, merely for the pleasure of seeing her get up, walk the length of the arbour and return with her light, swinging step, as if she were walking on the tips of her toes. Instinct demanded that he leave there and then, to nurse his appetite to return.

That evening he stopped again outside Charles’s garage at Aix. His work finished, Charles had his head under a tap of cold water.

‘All right, Captain? How’s the beast?’

‘Perfect, Charles. Are you free this evening?’

They had dinner together on a bistro terrace, talking naturally about the war they had shared together in the Balkans, a thankless and miserable episode but one that Charles, with a southerner’s talent for storytelling, had an ability to wrap in unexpected colours. Antoine, who remembered only mud, dysentery, thirst, hunger and wretchedness, listened with childlike attention as Charles crossed the Vardar on 22 September 1918, resupplied the Serbs at Gradsko two days later, raced in his truck to Prilep after the Bulgarians had set it on fire, and charged into Skopje alongside Colonel Gaspereau’s Chasseurs d’Afrique. Punctuated with a regular ‘crash, bang, wallop!’ that shook the table, his irresistible account attracted both waiters and patron to their table, making them briefly oblivious to the other diners. To Antoine Charles’s war was unrecognisable, as he juggled with entire divisions and possessed an incredible gift of ubiquity. But what did it matter? The former driver elevated the squalid, organised the disordered, gave reason to absurdity. When he at last sat down with the Bulgarian government to sign the armistice, the restaurant was in near rapture. The patron shook their hands, his eyes welling with tears.

‘You’re truly brave men,’ he said in a long sigh of garlic. ‘We owe you a great debt!’

A little unsteadily, drunk on stories and red wine, Antoine found a hotel room and slept a dreamless sleep.

Next morning Charles inspected the Bugatti, changed its tyres and spark plugs, and retimed the ignition. When the engine fired up, his mechanic’s eyes shone with pleasure. Back at the wheel, Antoine had one desire: to get back to La Sauveté, which he did at the astounding average of seventy kilometres an hour, seeing nothing but the road ahead, the dust, the bends, the trees that whistled past his ears.

La Sauveté had survived his absence. Driving through the gates, he saw Albert limping in front of a wheelbarrow being pushed by one of the village boys. Victoire Sanpeur was strolling hand in hand with Michel and Antoinette through the rose walks. Antoinette ran to her father and climbed up to sit next to him. They did a lap of the park and pulled up at the steps of the house as Jeanne was coming out with Jean in her arms. Marie-Thérèse showed her surprise in an offended frostiness.

‘Where were you?’ she said.

‘I went to see Geneviève.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you object?’

‘Not at all. I assume you’re joking.’

Antoine bent over Jean, who stared at him with wide eyes, and gently squeezed his cheek. The baby smiled and held out his arms.

‘Extraordinary!’ Marie-Thérèse said. ‘Such a difficult child, and look at him smiling at you.’

‘He’s not difficult,’ Jeanne countered. ‘He just doesn’t like everybody.’

‘He’s not wrong!’ Antoine said.

Marie-Thérèse flinched, and said with feigned gentleness, ‘I thought that children could always sense whether you really love them or not.’

Antoinette drew herself up, her eyes thunderous.

‘But Papa does love children!’

Tears welled in her eyes.

‘Don’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Antoine answered, distracted by the appearance of Victoire dragging Michel behind her. He succeeded in wriggling out of her grip and ran to bury himself in his mother’s skirts.

‘Maman!’ he yelled, trembling with fright. ‘I don’t want him to take you away in his car.’

‘There’s no danger of that, my darling. No danger at all!’

‘What an idiot,’ Antoinette said.

Antoine caught the Martiniquan’s gaze. She lowered her eyelids, fringed with long, curly lashes. It was a yes, but he would have to wait until tomorrow morning, at five o’clock, after his bowl of coffee laced with calvados, on the hard day bed in the library. He sighed.