‘We can be fairly satisfied,’ he said. ‘The day has gone better than I expected.’
‘What will you have?’ Antoine asked.
‘Scotch for me!’
‘Scotch? I don’t know if they have any here.’
Antoine’s slur on the Café des Tribunaux was unfounded. There was indeed Scotch for the locals, as the British never ordered it, addicted as they were to white wine from the moment they disembarked.
‘Will you do me the pleasure of dining with us?’ Maître Prioré asked, intrigued by Antoine’s Olympian indifference. ‘I mean, with my bookkeeper and myself. And Monsieur as well, of course.’
Jean was not often addressed as ‘Monsieur’, and he looked up at the person who had just disturbed his game.
‘I’ll take you back after dinner,’ Antoine said.
Jean accepted. The auctioneer asked to see a menu and the head waiter. He wanted sole. He had come to Dieppe to eat sole. But before deciding whether he would have them au gratin or meunière, he needed to see them. A lavish choice was presented to him, because they were all very different sizes.
‘Do you have a preference?’ the auctioneer asked for form’s sake, believing that Antoine did not give a damn, as he did not about everything else.
‘Yes. Small. Two hundred and fifty grams at the most, because I like them meunière.’
‘Well all right, meunière you shall have if you like, but have this big fat one instead. It’s truly only here that they have such enormous ones.’
‘No, they’re like that at Oléron too,’ Antoine said, ‘but so fat that they only taste good au gratin, with the skin on. Small ones you skin, they have a more delicate taste. Medium size, you stuff them, which I’m not wild about. I don’t like shallots or peeled shrimps. The stuffing kills the flavour of the fish. Naturally I exclude anything prepared with tomatoes or mushrooms, which is for people who are tired of life, and that’s not the way I feel at all, nor you, I sincerely hope.’
‘No, obviously not. Well then, let’s follow your advice.’
The bookkeeper protested mildly. He wanted a salad with some ham. No one listened to him. On the choice of wine Antoine was equally categoricaclass="underline" there would be no wine. The patron kept a few bottles of a personal reserve of sparkling cider, which survived the summer thanks to a cool and remarkably well-insulated cellar.
‘I’m completely in your hands!’ Maître Prioré said. ‘You’re a true epicure.’
‘Sometimes, though more and more rarely. When I travel, I’m happy with saucisson and red wine.’
‘You travel a good deal for your business, I imagine.’
‘I get around. It’s not exactly business, which I understand nothing about and wish to understand nothing about. Besides, you wouldn’t be here this evening if I had known how to look after myself.’
‘You haven’t even asked me how much the sale this afternoon amounted to.’
‘No, I haven’t, and yet the cheque you’ll hand over represents all that I have left …’
Abandoning his sole, which he had been clumsily picking at, the bookkeeper made a grab for his black ledger, on the bench beside him.
‘We have plenty of time,’ Antoine said.
The auctioneer gestured irritably at his bookkeeper. Antoine du Courseau surprised him, and he was extremely curious to know who this man really was, so untroubled at his separation from his fortune. He tried politics.
‘The Front Populaire has ruined France in the space of three months.’
‘Do you think so?’ Antoine asked, pouring himself some cider. ‘I don’t. Money’s being redistributed, that’s all, and I generally think that’s a good thing.’
‘People tell me that the strikes in the armaments industry have driven any number of small companies to the wall.’
‘We’re anachronisms. Others will come and take our place.’
‘Even so, you won’t deny that if things continue as they are, we’ll soon start losing the will to work, even for our children’s sake. Thanks to my father’s hard work I’ve been able to acquire my position, and if I’m not mistaken your own company was founded by your father.’
‘I didn’t manage to hang on to what he left me. He took a lot of trouble for nothing.’
‘A great shame for your own son! Isn’t that right, young man?’
‘I’m not Monsieur du Courseau’s son,’ Jean said.
Maître Prioré began to feel uncomfortable. Plain speaking and platitudes generally worked much better than this. He had aimed too low, thinking he was dealing with an unsophisticated Norman ruined by his own stupidity, and discovered that beneath his provincial appearance Antoine concealed a profound well of contempt. The auctioneer was annoyed, and could not see how to backtrack easily and show that he was the kind of man he felt himself to be (and in reality was, with a slight self-over-estimation that was normal in his smooth-tongued profession): a connoisseur of dependable taste, possibly the best expert he knew in English furniture, and a great collector of enamels. It is always difficult to switch from one tone to another when one has made a mistake. Flight is usually the only way out. There is nothing like it for leaving your mistakes behind. They decay, forgotten and alone.