‘Your Grace, you bring the comfort of your support and the light of your counsel to the teachers, your devoted collaborators whose task is a particularly thankless one; you bestow upon the pupils, the benevolence of your fatherly smile and an interest of which they strive to be deserving . . . We joyfully commend you as an informed educator, a friend to youth, a zealous promoter of all things that foster the influence of Christian Schools – a living reality and the promise of a bright future of our country.
‘For you, Your Grace, the well-tended lawns that flank the gates are freshly coiffed and a scattering of flowers – despite the bleakness of the season – sing their symphony of colours; for you, our House, ordinarily a buzzing, boisterous hive, is filled with contemplation and with silence; for you, the somewhat humdrum rhythm of classes and courses has interrupted its flow . . . This is a great and holy day, a day of serene joy and of good resolutions!
‘We wish to participate, Your Grace, in the great work of renewal and reconstruction on the building sites excavated in this new era by the Church and by France. Honoured by your visit and mindful of such counsel as you choose to offer, with joyful hearts we offer Your Grace the traditional filial salute:
‘Blessed be Bishop Nuits-Saint-Georges,
‘Heil to His Grace our Bishop!’
I hope my work pleases Father Perrache and allows me to cultivate our precious friendship: my career in the white slave trade depends on it.
Fortunately, he dissolves into tears as he reads from the first lines and lavishes me with praise. He will personally share the delights of my prose with the headmaster.
Loïtia is sitting by the fire. Her head is tilted to one side, she has the pensive look of a girl in a Botticelli painting. She will be a big hit in the brothels of Rio next summer.
Canon Saint-Gervais, the school principal, was very satisfied with my speech. At our first meeting, he suggested I might replace the history teacher, Fr. Ivan Canigou, who had disappeared without leaving a forwarding address. According to Saint-Gervais, Fr. Canigou, a handsome man, had been unable to resist his vocation as a missionary and planned to convert the Gentiles of Xinjiang; he would not be seen again in T. Through Fr. Perrache, the Canon knew of my studies for the École Normale Supèrieure and had no doubts as to my talents as a historian.
‘You would take over from Fr. Canigou until we can find a new history teacher. It will give you something to keep you occupied. What do you say?’
I raced to break the good news to Fr. Perrache.
‘I personally implored the Canon to find something to occupy your free time. Idleness is not good for you. To work, my child! You are back on the right path! Take care not to stray again!’
I asked his permission to play belote which he readily gave. At the Café Municipal, Colonel Aravis, Forclaz-Manigot and Petit-Savarin greeted me warmly. I told them of my new post and we drank plum brandy from the Meuse and clapped each other on the back.
At this particular point in my biography, I think it best to consult the newspapers. Did I enter a seminary as Perrache advised me? Henry Bordeaux’s article ‘Fr. Raphäel Schlemilovitch: a new “Curé d’Ars”’ (Action française, October 23, 19—) would seem to suggest as much: the novelist compliments me for the apostolic zeal I show in the tiny Savoie village of T.
Meanwhile, I take long walks in the company of Loïtia. Her delightful uniform and her hair colour my Saturdays navy blue and blonde. We bump into Colonel Aravis, who gives us a knowing smile. Forclaz-Manigot and Petit-Savarin have even offered to stand witness at our wedding. Gradually, I forget the reasons why I came to Savoie and the sardonic smirk of Lévy-Vendôme. No, I will never deliver the innocent Loïtia into the hands of Brazilian pimps. I will settle permanently in T. Peacefully and humbly, I will go to work as a schoolteacher. By my side, I shall have a loving wife, an old priest, a kindly colonel, a genial lawyer and a pharmacist . . . Rain claws at the windows, the fire in the hearth gives off a gentle glow, monsieur l’abbé is speaking to me softly, Loïtia is bent over her needlework. From time to time our eyes meet. Fr. Perrache asks me to recite a poem . . .
My heart, smile towards the future now . . .
The bitter words I have allayed
And darkling dreams have sent away.
And then:
. . . The fireside, the lamplight’s slender beam . . .
At night, in my cramped hotel room, I write the first part of my memoir to be rid of my turbulent youth. I gaze confidently at the mountains and the forests, the Café Municipal and the church. The Jewish contortions are over. I hate the lies that caused me so much pain. The earth, the earth does not lie.
Chest proudly puffed with fine resolutions, I took wing and set off to teach the history of France. Before my pupils, I indulged in a wild courtship of Joan of Arc. I set off on all the Crusades, I fought at Bouvines, at Rocroi, on the bridge at Arcola. I quickly realised, alas, that I lacked the furia francese. The blonde chevaliers outpaced me as we marched and the banners with their fleurs-de-lis fell from my hands. A Yiddish woman’s lament spoke to me of a death that wore no spurs, no plumes, no white gloves.
In the end, when I could bear it no longer, I pointed my forefinger at Cran-Gevrier, my best pupil:
‘It was a Jew who broke the vase of Soissons! A Jew, d’you hear me! Write out a hundred times “It was a Jew who broke the vase of Soissons!” Learn your lessons, Cran-Gevrier! No marks, Cran-Gevrier! You will stay back after class!’
Cran-Gevrier started to sob. So did I.
I stalked out of the classroom and sent a telegram to Lévy-Vendôme to tell him I would deliver Loïtia the following Saturday. I suggested Geneva as a possible rendezvous for the handover. Then, I stayed up until three o’clock in the morning writing a critique of myself, ‘A Jew in the Countryside’, in which I derided my weakness for the French provinces. I did not mince words: ‘Having been a collaborationist Jew like Joanovici-Sachs, Raphäel Schlemilovitch is now playing out a “Back to the land” shtick of a Barrès-Pétain. How long before we get the squalid farce of the militarist Jew like Capitaine Dreyfus-Stroheim? The self-loathing Jew like Simone Weil-Céline? The eminent Jew in the mould of Proust-Daniel Halévy-Maurois? We would like Raphäel Schlemilovitch simply to be a Jew . . .’
This act of contrition done, the world once again took on the colours that I love. Spotlights raked the village square, boots pounded the cobbled streets. Colonel Aravis was rudely awakened, as were Forclaz-Manigot, Gruffaz, Petit-Savarin, Fr. Perrache, my best pupil Cran-Gevrier and my fiancée Loïtia. They were interrogated about me. A Jew hiding out in the Haute-Savoie. A dangerous Jew. Public enemy number one. There was a price on my head. When had they last seen me? My friends would unquestionably turn me in. The Milice were already on their way to the Hôtel des Trois Glaciers. They broke down the door to my room. And there, sprawled on my bed, I waited, yes, I waited and whistled a minuet.
I drink my last plum brandy at the Café Municipal. Colonel Aravis, the lawyer Forclaz-Manigot, the pharmacist Petit-Savarin and Gruffaz the baker wish me a safe journey.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow night for our game of belote,’ I promise, ‘I’ll bring you some Swiss chocolate.’
I tell Fr. Perrache that my father is staying in a hotel in Geneva and would like to spend the evening with me. He makes a little something for me to eat and tells me not to dawdle on the way back.
I get off the bus at Veyrier-du-Lac and take up my position outside Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs. Soon afterwards, Loïtia comes through the wrought iron gates. After that, everything goes as I had planned. Her eyes shine as I talk to her of love, of empty promises, of abductions, of adventures, of swashbucklers. I lead her to Annecy coach station. From there we take a bus to Geneva. Cruseilles, Annemasse, Saint-Julien, Geneva, Rio de Janeiro. Giraudoux’s girls love to travel. This one, however, seems a little anxious. She reminds me she doesn’t have a suitcase. Don’t worry. We’ll buy everything we need when we get there. I’ll introduce her to my father, Vicom
te Lévy-Vendôme, who will shower her with gifts. He’s very sweet, you’ll see. Bald. He has a monocle and a long jade cigarette-holder. Don’t be scared. This gentlemen means well. We cross the border. Quickly. We drink fruit juice at the bar of the Hôtel des Bergues while we wait for the vicomte. He strides up to us, flanked by his henchmen Mouloud and Mustapha. Quickly. He puffs nervously on his jade cigarette-holder. He adjusts his monocle and hands me an envelope stuffed with dollars.
‘Your wages! I’ll take care of the young lady! You have no time to lose! From Savoie you go to Normandy! Call me on my Bordeaux number as soon as you arrive!’
Loïtia gives me a panicked glance. I tell her I will be right back.
That night, I walked along the banks of the Rhône thinking of Jean Giraudoux, of Colette, Marivaux, Verlaine, Charles d’Orléans, Maurice Scève, Rémy Belleau and Corneille. I am coarse and crude compared to such people. I am unworthy. I ask their forgiveness for being born in the Île-de-France rather than Vilnius, Lithuania. I scarcely dare write in French: such a delicate language putrefies beneath my pen . . .
I scrawl another fifty pages. After that, I shall give up literature. I swear it.
In Normandy, I will put the finishing touches to my sentimental education. Fougeire-Jusquiames, a little town in Calvados, set off by a seventeenth-century château. As in T., I take a hotel room. This time, I pass myself off as a sales representative for exotic foods. I offer the manageress of Les Trois-Vikings some Turkish delight and question her about the lady of the manor, Véronique de Fougeire-Jusquiames. She tells me everything she knows: madame la marquise lives alone, the villagers see her only at high mass on Sundays. Every year, she organises a hunt. Tourists are allowed to visit the château on Saturday afternoons for three hundred francs a head. Gérard, the Marquise’s chauffeur, acts as guide.
That same evening, I telephone Lévy-Vendôme to tell him I have arrived in Normandy. He implores me to carry out my mission as quickly as possible: our client, the Emir of Samandal, has been daily sending impatient telegrams threatening to cancel the contract if the merchandise is not delivered within the week. Clearly, Lévy-Vendôme does not understand the difficulties I face. How can I, Raphäel Schlemilovitch, make the acquaintance of a marquise overnight? Especially since I am not in Paris, but in Fougeire-Jusquiames, in the heart of rural France. Around here, no Jew, however handsome, would be allowed anywhere near the château except on Saturdays with all the other paying guests.
I spend all night studying a dossier compiled by Lévy-Vendôme on the lineage of the marquise. Her pedigree is excellent. The Directory of French Nobility, founded in 1843 by Baron Samuel Bloch-Morel, offers the following summary: ‘fougeire-jusquiames: Seat: Normandie-Poitou. Lineage: Jourdain de Jusquiames, a natural son of Eleanor of Aquitaine. Motto: “Jusquiames, do or damn, Fougère ne’er despair.” The House of Jusquiames supplants the earlier comtes de Fougeire in 1385. Title: duc de Jusquiames (hereditary duchy) under letters patent of 20 September 1603; made hereditary member of the Chambre des pairs by the decree of 30 August 1817. Hereditary Duke-Peer (duc de Jusquiame) Cadet branch: baron romain, papal brief of 19 June 1819, ratified by the decree of 7 September 1822; prince with right of transmission to all descendants by decree of the King of Bavaria of 6 March 1846. Advanced to the dignity of hereditary Count-Peer, by the edict of June 10, 1817. Arms: Gules on a field Azure, Fleurs-De-Lis sautéed with Stars per Saltire.’
In their chronicles of the Fourth Crusade, Robert de Clary, Villehardouin and Henri de Valenciennes offer testaments to the good conduct of the Seigneurs de Fougeire, Froissard, Commynes and Montluc and heap praise upon the valiant Capitaine de Jusquiames. In chapter X of his history of Saint Louis, Joinville recalls a good deed by a knight of the de Fougiere family: ‘Then did this right worthy man raise up his sword and smite the Jew ’twixt the eyes dashing him to the ground. And lo! the Jews did turn and flee taking with them their wounded master.’
On Sunday morning, he posted himself at the entrance to the church. Shortly before eleven o’clock, a black limousine pulled into the square; his heart was pounding. A blonde woman was walking towards him but he dared not look at her. He followed her into the church, struggling to master his emotions. How pure her profile was! Above her, a stained glass window depicted the entrance of Eleanor of Aquitaine into Jerusalem. She looked just like the Marquise de Fougeire-Jusquiames. The same blonde hair, the same tilt of the head, the same slender, delicate neck. His eyes moved from marquise to queen and he thought: ‘How beautiful she is! What nobleness! I see before me a proud Jusquiames, a descendent of Eleanor of Aquitaine.’ Or ‘The glories of the Jusquiames precede the reign of Charlemagne, they held the power of life and death over their vassals. The Marquise de Jusquiames is descended in direct line from Eleanor of Aquitaine. She neither knows nor would she deign to know any of the people gathered here.’ Certainly not Schlemilovitch. He decided to abandon his efforts: Lévy-Vendôme would surely understand that they had been presumptuous. To transform Eleanor of Aquitaine into the denizen of a brothel. The prospect was repugnant. One may be called Schlemilovitch and yet nurture a flicker of sensitivity in one’s heart. The organ and the hymns awakened his nobler disposition. Never would he give up this princess, this fairy, this saint of the Saracens. He would strive to be her hireling, a Jewish pageboy, granted, but mores have changed since the twelfth century and the Marquise de Fougeire-Jusquiames would not take offence at his origins. He would take on the identity of his friend Des Essarts so he might more readily introduce himself. He would talk to her about his own forebears, about Foulques Des Essarts who gutted two hundred Jews before setting off for the Crusades. Foulques was right to do so, these Jews boiled the Host, their slaughter was too kind a punishment, for the bodies of even a thousand Jews are not the equivalent of the sacred Body of Our Lord.
As she left the mass, the Marquise glanced distantly at her congregation. Was it some illusion? Her eyes of periwinkle blue seemed to fix on him. Did she sense the devotion he had vowed to her not an hour since?
He raced across the church square. When the black limousine was only twenty metres away, he collapsed in the middle of the road, pretending a fainting fit. He heard the brakes squeal. A mellifluous voice murmured:
‘Gérard, help that poor young man into the car! A sudden malaise no doubt! His face is so pale! We will prepare a hot toddy for him at the château.’
He was careful not to open his eyes. The back seat on which the chauffeur laid him smelled of Russian leather but he had only to repeat to himself the sweet name of Jusquiames for a scent of violets and brushwood to caress his nose. He was dreaming of the blonde tresses of Princess Eleanor, of the château towards which he was gliding. Not for a moment did it occur to him that, having been a collaborationist Jew, a bookish Jew, a bucolic Jewish, he was now in danger, in this limousine emblazoned with the Marquise’s coat of arms (Gules on a field Azure, Fleurs-De-Lis sautéed with Stars per Saltire), of becoming a snobbish Jew.
The Marquise asked him no questions as though she found his presence entirely natural. They strolled together through the grounds of the château, she showed him the flowers and the beautiful spring waters. Then, they went up to the house. He admired the portrait of Cardinal de Fougeire-Jusquiames. He found the Marquise enchanting. The inflections of her voice were pierced by the jagged contours of the land itself. Subjugated, he murmured to himself: ‘The energy and charm of a cruel little girl of one of the noble families of France who from her childhood had been brought up in the saddle, had tortured cats, gouged out the eyes of rabbits . . .’
After a candlelit dinner served by Gérard, they sat and chatted by the monumental fireplace in the drawing room. The Marquise talked to him about herself, about her grandparents, her uncles and cousins . . . Soon, nothing of the Fougeire-Jusquiames family was unknown to him.
I stroke a Claude Lorrain hanging on the left-hand wall of my bedroom: The Embarkation of Eleanor of Aquitaine for the Orient. Then I study Watteau’s
Sad Harlequin. I step around the Savonnerie carpet, fearful of soiling it. I do not deserve such a prestigious room. Nor the epée de page – the little sword upon the mantel. Nor the Philippe de Champaigne that hangs next to my bed, a bed in which Louis XIV slept with Mlle de La Vallière. From my window, I see a woman on horseback galloping through the grounds. For the Marquise goes every morning at five o’clock to ride Bayard, her favourite horse. At a fork in the path, she disappears. Nothing now disturbs the silence. And so I decide to embark upon a sort of biographical novel. I have memorised every detail the Marquise graciously gave me on the subject of her family. I shall use them to write the first volume of the work, which will be called The Fougeire-Jusquiames Way, or the Memoirs of Saint-Simon as revised by Scheherazade and a handful of Talmudic Scholars. In my childhood days, on the quai Conti in Paris, Miss Evelyn would read me the Thousand and One Nights and the Memoirs of Saint-Simon. Then she would turn out the light. She would leave the door to my room ajar so that I might hear, before I fell asleep, Mozart’s Serenade in G major. Taking advantage of my drowsy state, Scheherazade and the Duc de Saint-Simon would cast shadows with a magic lantern. I would see the Princesse des Ursins step into the caves of Ali Baba, watch the marriage of Aladdin and Mlle de la Vallière, the abduction of Mme Soubise by the caliph Harun al-Rashid. The splendours of the Orient mingling with those of Versailles created a magical world which I will try to recreate in my novel.
Night falls, the Marquise de Fougeire-Jusquiames passes beneath my window on horseback. She is the faerie Mélusine, she is La Belle aux cheveux d'or. Nothing has changed since those days when my English governess read to me. Miss Evelyn would often take me to the Louvre. We had only to cross the Seine. Claude Lorrain, Philippe de Champaigne, Watteau, Delacroix, Corot coloured my childhood. Mozart and Haydn lulled it. Scheherazade and Saint-Simon brightened it. An exceptional childhood, a magical childhood I should tell you about. Immediately, I begin The Fougeire-Jusquiames Way. On a sheet of vellum bearing the arms of the Marquise, in a nervous hand, I write: ‘It was, this “Fougeire-Jusquiames,” like the setting of a novel, an imaginary landscape which I could with difficulty picture to myself and longed all the more to discover, set in the midst of real lands and roads which all of a sudden would become alive with heraldic details . . .’
La Place De L'Étoile Page 6