‘Whether he is or was, I’ve no idea. When I last saw him in August 1939, before he left for Lebanon, he was dying slowly … I’ve had no news since then.’
‘And of her?’
‘None of her either. Why would she send me any? She doesn’t know I’m her son.’
‘Will you tell her?’
‘Palfy says I shouldn’t. He feels it wouldn’t be good manners.’
‘Your friend’s awfully funny. I’ve never met anyone as cynical as him. Don’t you like it?’
‘Palfy? Of course—’
‘No. I mean the andouillette.’
‘At least as much.’
‘Have some more then.’
After lunch they lay stretched out on the rug in front of the log fire, another bottle between them.
‘You’re not too sad?’ she asked.
‘Sad? No, that’s not the word. I’m waiting. I can’t do anything. I’m waiting. It’s easier with you.’
She held his hand and shifted closer to him. He wanted to undress her. She stopped him.
‘No. Let’s keep our clothes on. When you’re naked, pleasure goes everywhere. I want you just to be inside me. Everything should happen there. You’ll see, it’s much more intense.’
She took him out and loosened her clothes just enough. He felt so good when he was inside her that he stopped moving and closed his eyes. Their pleasure intensified, gently, without their saying a word. They stayed like that for a long time, before they finally came together.
*
Later the window let in only a vague greyness. The flames from the logs cast flickering orange shapes onto the ceiling. Books, photos and drawings trembled in the fire’s dying light. The building and street were slowly submerged in the darkness. They distantly heard the noisy iron shutter of a shop selling religious objects coming down. The telephone, within reach of their hands on the rug, did not ring. Nelly lifted the receiver to her ear to check the line had not been cut. No. There was a dialling tone. She replaced it quickly. They opened another bottle. The third, or fourth? They weren’t counting any longer, and it hardly mattered. Everything flowed over them. They shut themselves away in a patience that could no longer be distracted by desire. Nelly got up to put another log on the sputtering fire. Burning pine added its sweet smell to the room.
‘Tell me something else,’ she said.
He told her about Chantal de Malemort, the little girl who had taken his hand when they hid in a dark room, the girl who had exercised her horse in the Arques forest, the one who one day in Paris had run away with someone else. Antoinette had written that the hard life at the Malemorts’ since the marquis had become a prisoner of war had transformed the delicate girl into a sturdy countrywoman, her cheeks ruddy from labouring in the fields. Like her father. Like three generations of Malemorts who had defended their property without imagination, with a gruff stubbornness. She refused to see Gontran Longuet. She had turned her back on her past, speaking ruefully and scornfully of her former girlish pretensions to happiness. Malemorts looked down on love. Love was for servants. And as servants became harder to find, so did love. One still saw her occasionally galloping flat out through the forest, followed by a couple of hunting dogs, and never acknowledging a friendly wave. For two years she had spoken to her mother only twice a day: once to say good morning, and in the evening to say good night. The Marquise de Malemort suffered in silence.
‘You’ll see her again,’ Nelly said.
‘I hardly ever think about her. She’s buried under all sorts of old things now, and under new experiences and other women.’
‘Yes, but it was love. True love. There are only two sorts: the love you feel in childhood, and love at first sight. The rest is just mucking about, and then you add a bit of literature to make it feel like a dream. Claude is love at first sight. If you lost her, you’d never find anything like her ever again. I hope Palfy can save her. If not, little Jules-who, you’re going to turn into — and you’ll have every right to — a dreadful cynic just like your friend.’
‘I’m already—’
Nelly kissed him on the cheek.
‘No. Not with me. You’re not cheating on her with me. We’re friends. We share everything, even pleasure. And we’ve no secrets from each other.’
‘I’ve never met anyone like you.’
‘Thank you. Now that’s a very nice thing to say. Usually men aren’t as nice as that and prefer to tell me that it turns out I’m just like all the others, a bitch who’ll sleep with anyone.’
‘It’s stupid we didn’t get to know each other sooner.’
‘Sooner? Before Claude? Before my first lover? Poor Jules-who, with me you’d have been unhappy straight away. I’m too inquisitive. I always want to know more. I’ll never stop. When I’m old and ugly and ruined like Mercedes del Loreto, I’ll pay for lovers. I will, I’ll have money and I’ll pay for lovers. Beautiful boys, novices, half-boys, half-girls. But hung like stallions—’
The telephone rang. She grabbed the receiver.
‘Constantin? Yes, he’s here … What’s happening? Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll pass him to you …’
Jean grabbed the phone. He was shaking.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Palfy said. ‘I’ll explain. It’s better if she doesn’t go home this evening … We could bring her to Rue de Presbourg but that’s not ideal either. Nor Madeleine’s … Any ideas?’
‘No. Not really. Wait …’
He turned to Nelly.
‘It’s better if Claude doesn’t go back to her apartment this evening.’
‘Tell her to come here.’
‘Here?’
‘Why not?’
It seemed perfectly natural when Nelly said it. There was a silence, then he heard Claude’s voice.
‘Anywhere, Jean. Anywhere. I just need to sleep. I can’t go on. They questioned me all night and all day. But I’d like Cyrille with me …’
Everything was settled. The chauffeur would drive Claude to Nelly’s. Madame Michette would accompany her. Then the car would take Jean to fetch Cyrille. Things happened so quickly that there was no opportunity to reflect or find Nelly’s hospitality unusual. She wanted Cyrille to stay too.
Claude appeared, supported by Marceline Michette and the chauffeur. She could hardly place one foot in front of the other and her face was waxy and she was shivering in her wet dress, her fine ash-blond hair hanging in rat’s tails. Nelly hugged her. Madame Michette took matters in hand: a bath, warm towel, rub down with eau de Cologne, and electric hairdryer.
‘I’ve brought some woollens. Now go and get Cyrille!’
She pushed Jean and the chauffeur out of the door. Anna Petrovna lived in Passy, where the White Russians had gathered in exile, in a detached house down a private path overgrown with ivy. She opened the door and started when she saw Jean.
‘Well?’
‘She’s been released.’
‘Why hasn’t she come?’
‘She’s exhausted.’
‘I’ll go to her.’
‘No. You won’t find her at her apartment.’
She did not invite him in and despite the cold she left the door open. Behind her Jean could see a hall wallpapered in a hideous design.
‘I’ve come for Cyrille,’ he said.
‘He’s with my son.’
She pointed to the side of the building where there was a single room, probably an old garage, with a light in the window.
‘But you’ll only have him if Claude asks me herself.’
He gave her Nelly’s number.
‘Come in!’ she said finally.
Jean placed his hand on the receiver as Anna Petrovna seized it.
‘Wait!’
He lifted the receiver and listened for the telltale click of a listening device. There was no sound.