‘By the way,’ Palfy said, ‘how is your beloved?’
‘Not well.’
‘A cold?’
‘No. A breakdown. I’ve managed to get her admitted to a psychiatric clinic in the Chevreuse valley.’
Palfy stopped and gripped Jean by the shoulders.
‘Good heavens! Do you think …?’
‘I’m sure of it. Those twenty-four hours were too much for her. She cracked. It has all gone downhill very fast in the last few days.’
‘My dear, that is what is called a trial.’
He resumed walking, still holding Jean’s arm tightly.
‘How did you notice?’
‘There were certain warning signs I should have paid attention to sooner.’
‘What signs?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
They walked as far as the Cascade without speaking. Jean’s memory filled with episodes from Claude’s illness, whose progression had remained confused to him until the final crisis. Episodes that had in an obscure way heralded Claude’s gradual deterioration: the awful emptiness of her gaze, her indifference towards Cyrille, her periods of silence, as though she was speaking privately to someone not there, the rapidity with which she moved from formality to informality, her sudden shedding of her defences and the fevered pleasure she took in lovemaking — lyrical, elated, carried away by frenzy — followed by a deep torpor, as if only sex gave her burning body the fathomless rest she craved. That she had not been stupidly, fussily modest during their long period of unconsummated love had pleased Jean. Unable to reveal everything, she had offered her only truth, a physical one. It has not gone unnoticed — and perhaps been exasperating — that she let Jean come close to her on so many occasions without letting go. Let us say again that she loved him, and probably loved him more than he loved her. Jean was sowing wild oats and slow to mature, though several women had already been clear about their wish to hurry him. Claude had been ahead of all of them by a long way, with her seriousness, her thoughtfulness, the understanding she had had, even in their passion, of the consequences of her acts. We might possibly have wanted her to be less thoughtful, more susceptible to passion, but we cannot remake her. That is how she is. Or more precisely, how she was, for now, abruptly, she is quite different, no longer on her pedestal, transformed in a sense as radically as Palfy, in reverse. And so Jean must learn through her, as through his friend, that there are no beings who stand still and that it needs only a meeting or an upheaval for a secret truth to be born. Claude had broken down. If Jean had resisted — but heroism has its limits after such a long wait — she would perhaps not have given way as she had. He could not reproach himself. It was too late. Since their first afternoon she had thought of nothing else but making love, casting aside all modesty, disregarding Cyrille’s presence asleep in the bedroom, murmuring streams of obscenities that froze Jean’s desire instead of fuelling it. That these words had come out of Claude’s mouth seemed monstrous. Jean had felt he was back with Mireille Cece, the sex-mad bistro keeper of Roquebrune. He felt a deep revulsion, not for Claude but for himself. A great hatred rose in him at the same time: monsters of cruelty and dishonour had destroyed the woman he loved. They were all-powerful. There was no defence against them. Jean reflected on his earlier indifference to war. It had, at last, dealt him a blow, sweeping away an image of beauty that, however pointless it seemed in the prevailing horror, mattered more to him than anything else. He had been superficial, careless, preoccupied with his own life, and now Claude lay in a clinic, stupefied by sedatives that smothered her obsessions.
*
They reached the Cascade and saw the Longchamp racecourse with its bleached turf, long sweep of stands and winter trees that hid the Seine. The roofs of Suresnes glittered in the blue morning. A large Mercedes sped past them.
‘General Danke,’ Palfy said. ‘The best he can hope for is to be shot, or he might even lose his head. He’s convinced Germany has lost the war in the East. He’s what they call a traitor in his country and a man of honour here.’
‘You see! You do know them all.’
‘No, only one or two. The important ones. It’s better to be prepared. Let’s go back to the car. We must do something for Claude.’
‘What? There’s nothing we can do. Except look after her. I haven’t enough money to keep her in the clinic, and if she goes into hospital she’ll die. They warned me: the Germans have ruled mental patients to be useless mouths to feed.’
‘Dear boy, now you’re being stupid. I’ll help you.’
‘You’ve always helped me, but now I need money.’
‘I never lend money. I’ve offered you a job, the gallery …’
‘And I’ve accepted it, but it’s idiotic: I don’t know anything. I’ll fall flat on my face.’
Palfy looked thoughtful. The walk had put colour into his yellow complexion.
‘I’ve got an idea, but there are risks. In any case, take the gallery. It will serve as cover …’
‘I don’t mind risks.’
‘Oh, at the moment they’re non-existent … But later … when Germany collapses. You’ll have to be ready for some score-settling.’
Jean was surprised, and we may share his astonishment. Yes, the Wehrmacht had failed to take Moscow, but it still held Europe and its army remained intact. Everywhere else it was racing from victory to victory, and the United States, grappling with Japan, had so far made no more than symbolic gestures towards Britain. It is easy today to have a character in a story which, to many, will seem made up, announce in 1942 that Germany will lose the war, since we know that it subsequently did. Yet well before that date Palfy had realised it would happen: he was one of the few witnesses of this period to judge events clearly. He will not be wrong. He has coldly assessed the situation, seen there is no way out and has his plans ready: first, to exhaust the immense possibilities offered by this difficult period, and then to prepare his withdrawal. His most important task is not to give himself away. One word too many carries an enormous risk. Already, even with Jean, he feels he may have said too much. Yet he will help him, because of Geneviève.
‘I’m going to give you a single piece of advice. Do not trust anyone.’
‘Not you?’
Palfy shrugged.
‘What did I just say to you?’
‘Not to trust anyone.’
‘I cannot say it any more clearly.’
Jean rebelled. Trusting by nature, by naivety or from lack of an alternative, he found deception hurtful and dismal. The idea of living with suspicion put him off. Palfy, by contrast, was a born deceiver, anticipating traps with an instinctive pleasure, almost regretful when he encountered loyalty, as if the world was trying to steer him away from his natural infamy.
‘But you’d still trust me?’ Jean asked.
‘Yes, reluctantly, and perhaps because there are times when I wonder about your naivety. I just can’t believe it’s feigned.’
Jean smiled. Nelly had said something similar: ‘Dear Jules-who, your naivety is your poetry.’ His trials were curing him, but slowly. So Palfy was right, and Jean saw himself compelled by necessity still to turn to him.
‘In that case I have no alternative but to accept.’
‘Honestly, you are a most royal twit. In Paris alone there are ten thousand fellows a lot less fussy than you who’d jump at the chance, and here you are holding your nose.’
They had reached the Pavillon d’Armenonville, where their car was waiting. Émile jumped from the driver’s seat and stood by the rear door.