‘Shall we meet tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Is that really necessary? I’d intended to make an early start. I’d like to be at Saint-Tropez in time for dinner.’
‘In which case you’ve no time to lose: it’s 1100 kilometres.’
‘Oh, I can do that in ten hours.’
‘In an Alfa Romeo, I’m guessing?’
‘Absolutely not. A 57S.’
‘A Bugatti?’
‘Who ever told you a 57S was anything other than a Bugatti?’
‘Yes, you’re right of course, forgive me. Which model?’
‘The Atalante.’
The intelligent, cultured auctioneer, at ease with everyone and in every situation, crumbled. He could be criticised for his taste, his collections or his reading matter, but not for his car. He would rather have been cheated on, arrested for a breach of trust, or molested by a meharist in the middle of the desert than bested in his choice of wheels.
‘You’re still loyal to Bugatti!’ he said, with a twisted grin. ‘He’s been finished for four or five years.’
‘Is that so? I wasn’t aware of that. Let’s see, we’re 1936 now: that would mean that Bugatti hasn’t won anything since 1932.’
‘Very minor races, Monsieur.’
‘Achille Varzi made Tazio Nuvolari look pretty foolish in the 1933 Monaco Grand Prix.’
‘An unfortunate mechanical problem!’
‘Oh yes … at the gasometer bend he took the lead from under his nose like no other driver could have done with any other car.’
‘Then Nuvolari overtook him on the hill up to the Casino—’
‘And over-revved his car and sent it up in flames. He had to finish the last lap pushing it. And name me another constructor who has won the Targa Florio five times in a row. Last year the first continental car to win the Brooklands 500 was Earl Howe’s Bugatti. Apart from that, and this year’s ACF Grand Prix, Bugatti is definitely washed-up as a constructor.’
‘That isn’t at all what I was trying to say, my dear Monsieur, but Alfa Romeo, Maserati, Mercedes and Auto-Union are winning everything else.’
‘All of Italy, all of Germany are behind those makes. Bugatti races alone. He’s nothing short of a genius, and in France geniuses are condemned to isolation. But tomorrow I’ll be happy to take you on. Dieppe to Saint-Tropez. Eight o’clock start. The first to arrive wins the bet, as much as you like.’
‘Sadly tomorrow’s impossible. What about Sunday?’
‘I’m not going to sit languishing here from now till Sunday. A thousand regrets! But speak to me no more of Alfa Romeos. It annoys me. Good evening to you, Maître.’
There was nothing superior in his tone, he was just weary. The auctioneer became bad-tempered.
‘You think you know everything!’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Antoine said. ‘Nobody knows anything. I’m simply saying that you don’t compare a Rolls-Royce to a bicycle.’
He stood up and gestured to Jean. The draughtboard was waiting for them at a neighbouring table.
‘Shall I sign your cheque?’
‘If you’ll be so kind.’
He pocketed it without a glance and moved a draught forward.
‘Goodnight to you,’ Maître Prioré said.
‘Goodnight.’
Jean won the game. They were at 6–4, and decided to stop rather than desperately chase a draw. Antoine had a cognac, Jean a lemonade. A few couples lingered, an elderly English pair and a girl of twenty with a man in his fifties with whom she appeared to be in love. Antoine thought about Marie-Dévote. Another twenty-four hours and he would be with her. He would stroke her still glorious though over-ample breasts. Lying next to her, he would know the meaning of peace. The shells would stop bursting and Marie-Thérèse would stop shouting.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said to Jean.
‘But where will you sleep, Monsieur?’
‘At La Sauveté.’
‘There’s nothing left there.’
‘I don’t need anything.’
There was no light, except in the lodge. Antoine drove through the park and stopped in front of his door. It was not locked. What was there left to be stolen? They went in and walked through empty rooms that still smelt strongly of the removers. Through the windows, their shutters open, the full moon spilt long yellow splashes on the carpets and rugs. Antoine reached his bedroom where, after pulling a flat silver flask from his hip pocket, he sat on the floor with his back to the window and took a long swallow.
‘You still don’t drink?’
‘No. I think I’ll like to drink one day, but later. I’m rowing on Sunday.’
‘Just look how pretty my Atalante is in the moonlight.’
The Bugatti cast its long bluish shadow across the gravel. The chrome of its radiator grille glittered in the moon’s unworldly silver light. It sat there silently, placidly, sure of its strength. Jean thought it was as beautiful as a scull.
‘Do you remember this room?’ Antoine asked. ‘You were a small boy.’
‘The burst hosepipe. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘I liked you very much that day. It seems to me that we’ve got on well since then … apart from one small mishap …’
‘Yes, the Antoinette thing … I swear it wasn’t me.’
‘We don’t swear to each other. We only tell the truth. Who was it?’
‘Gontran Longuet.’
‘That littlesquirt! Poor darling Antoinette, how lonely she must have felt to descend all the way down to his level. I shall have to talk to her, tell her how very much her papa loves her … But why did Michel say it was you?’
‘He must have thought it was me.’
‘He hates you.’
‘Hate’s a strong word.’
‘No, I think he must do.’
Antoine drank from his hip flask again.
‘We’re really all right here, aren’t we? Without furniture, a house becomes itself again. I was born here. Geneviève, Antoinette and Michel were born here. And you were born next door.’
‘I don’t believe it any more,’ Jean said.
‘Hey now, come on, what’s going on in that head of yours?’
‘Michel came out with it last year, he taunted me and told me I was a foundling.’
Antoine stood up and paced to and fro several times, moving out of the shadows into the rectangles of light where his own shadow suddenly lengthened, deforming into an imposing and grotesque shape.
‘We decided we would never lie to each other.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘In that case I’ll tell you the truth. It’s correct to say that you’re a foundling. You were left in a basket on Albert and Jeanne’s doorstep. They adopted you. They are therefore your parents.’
‘I love them and respect them and I couldn’t hope for better parents, but I feel … different from them. Papa doesn’t understand me. He’s always getting on his high horse when I try to talk to him.’
‘He’s a first-class man. Everything that isn’t absolutely first-class irritates him.’
‘At the moment he’s really irritated.’
‘He always has been. You didn’t notice it so much when you were a child. My father was always irritated too. I was afraid of him. The outcome was not perfect, as you can see for yourself. Everything he left me has gone up in smoke. It’s nothing to be proud of. I’ve loved this house, you know …’