In his notebook he wrote:
m) Writing is a wonderful exorcism. A letter to Antoinette and I feel better. And often — not often enough — this notebook has served to show me things more clearly in the muddle of every day. Everything’s so complicated! And no one warned me. All I was told were platitudes. Geneviève could have talked to me. It didn’t happen, and doubtless Palfy was right to put me on my guard. Now there she is, disappearing. I shan’t forget the real heartbreak there was for me in her last fleeting appearance. Where did I read, ‘The heart must either break or turn to lead’? Mine will have to turn to lead, or I’ll be no good for anything.
n) We know nothing about other people. Or rather, others know everything about me and I know nothing of them. On my list of questions that I need to resolve, one of the most important is about the prince and Salah. After the message Salah gave me to pass on, I no longer see him in the same light. Palfy has to clear up this mystery, as he also needs to tell me what he is up to with Madeleine.
o) I have placed the prince’s envelope on the table in front of me. It is the apple of the tree of knowledge. Am I Adam or am I Eve?
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.
At Cannes …
Mme Miranda
Teclass="underline" 28-32
‘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.