Along the boulevard, bustling ladies stepped down from hackney carriages followed by maids weighed down with parcels. Delivery wagons pulled up outside tradesman’s entrances, the drivers talking with supercilious footmen who, feeling it their duty to represent their masters, appraised the crates of vegetables, the baskets of bread with a critical eye while, some distance away, on the pavement next to the park railings, two elegant young women as slender as matchsticks walked arm in arm along the street, laughing. On the corner of the boulevard, two men were bidding each other farewell, a newspaper tucked under their arms, clutching their top hats—my dear fellow! see you soon!—looking for all the world like court judges. One of them stepped aside for a small boy in a sailor suit who hurtled past, bowling a hoop, a nanny ran after him, apologizing to the gentlemen; a florist’s wagon appeared, delivering bouquets enough for a wedding, but there was no wedding, this was simply the weekly delivery, there are so many rooms, and one has to think about such things when entertaining guests, it costs a fortune I can tell you, but they laugh as they say this, it’s amusing to buy so many flowers, we simply love to entertain. Albert stared at all these people in much the same way as once, through the glass walls of an aquarium, he had peered at tropical fish that scarcely looked like fish at all.
And he had almost two hours to kill.
He did not know whether to stay here on his bench or take the métro, but where would he go? Time was, he liked to stroll along the Grands Boulevards. But traipsing up and down them with a sandwich board had changed all that. He wandered around the park, and having arrived early, he completely lost track of time.
Seven fifteen p.m. When he realized he was late, his panic level soared; he broke out in a sweat, striding away from the house only to turn back again, staring at the pavement, twenty past and still he had not made up his mind. At about 7:30 p.m. he passed the house again, crossed to the opposite side of the street, decided to go home, but they would come fetch him, they would send a chauffeur who would not be as tactful as his mistress, the whys and wherefores rattled and ricocheted inside his head, and though he never understood how it came about, he climbed the six steps to the front door, rang the bell, furtively buffed his shoes, rubbing each against the back of the other calf, the door opened. Heart hammering wildly in his chest, he finds himself in a lobby that soars like a cathedral, there are mirrors everywhere, everything is beautiful, even the housemaid, a young woman with short dark hair, she is radiant, my God, those lips, those eyes; in the houses of the rich, Albert thinks, even the poor are beautiful.
On either side of the immense hallway tiled as a black-and-white checkerboard, five-globe lampposts flanked a monumental staircase of carved yellow sandstone, whose white marble banisters traced symmetrical spirals as they ascended to the upper landing. A warm yellow glow that seemed to come from heaven itself cascaded from an imposing art deco chandelier. The pretty housemaid looked Albert up and down and asked his name. Albert Maillard. He glanced around and felt a wave of relief. Despite making every possible effort, unless he had arrived in a tailor-made suit, a pair of overpriced shoes, a top-notch top hat, a dinner jacket or a tailcoat, whatever he wore was bound to make him look like a peasant, as indeed he did. The yawning gap between their world and his, the anxiety he had felt for days, the frustration of waiting . . . Albert suddenly started to giggle, naturally, spontaneously, his hand covering his mouth, and it was so obvious that he was laughing to himself, at himself, that the pretty housemaid began to laugh, too—her teeth, my God, and that laugh, even her pink, pointed tongue was a vision. Had he seen her eyes as he arrived, or was he only now seeing them for the first time? Dark, shimmering. Neither of them knew what they were laughing at. Blushing furiously, and still laughing, she turned away; she had her duties to attend to. She opened the door on the left leading to a formal waiting room with a grand piano, tall Chinese vases, cherrywood bookcases filled with old books and leather armchairs; she gestured for him to sit wherever he liked, and could only manage to stammer “Sorry,” since she still could not contain her giggles. Albert held up his hands, giggle away, it’s all right.
Now he is alone in the room, the door has closed, the announcement is being made that M. Maillard has arrived, his laughing fit has subsided, overawed by this silence, this majesty, this opulence. He strokes the leaves of the potted plants, thinks about the little housemaid, if only he dared . . . He tries to read the titles of books, traces the intricate marquetry, his finger hovers hesitantly over the keyboard of the grand piano. He could wait for her until the end of her shift, who knows? But maybe she already has a young man? He tries one of the armchairs, sinks down, gets up again, tries the fine brushed-leather sofa, distractedly rearranges the English magazines on the low table, what should he do about the pretty little housemaid? Whisper something in her ear as he leaves? Or, better still, come back, pretend he has forgotten something, ring the doorbell, and press a bill into her hand with . . . what? His address? And besides, what could he have forgotten? He does not even have an umbrella. Still standing, he leafs through issues of Harper’s Bazaar, the Gazette des Beaux Arts and L’Officiel de la mode. He sits on the sofa. Maybe waiting around until the end of her shift would be best, make her laugh the way he did earlier. On the edge of the coffee table, an album of photographs bound in silky, fine-grained calfskin. If he invited her for dinner, how much would it cost? And where would he take her? Another dilemma. He picks up the album, opens it, Duval’s café is fine for him, but he could not possibly take a young woman there, not one who works in a great house, even in the kitchens they probably use silver cutlery, suddenly he feels a knot in his belly, his hands are sweaty, he swallows hard to stop himself from retching, he tastes bile in the back of his throat. In front of him is a wedding photograph: Madeleine Péricourt is standing next to Capitaine d’Aulnay-Pradelle.
It is him, there is no doubt, Albert would know him anywhere.
Still, he needs to check. He thumbs quickly through the book. Pradelle is on almost every page, the photographs as large as the pages of a magazine, there are crowds of people, mountains of flowers, Pradelle is smiling modestly, like a lottery winner who does not want to make a fuss but is happy to be gawked at; on his arm, a radiant Madeleine Péricourt is wearing the kind of dress no one wears in real life, bought to be worn just once, and there are morning suits, tailcoats, low-backed dresses the like of which he has never seen in life, brooches, necklaces, pale-yellow gloves, the happy couple are greeting their guests—it is him, it is Pradelle—sideboards groaning with gifts and next to the blushing bride, it must be her father, M. Péricourt, even smiling the man looks fearsome, and everywhere there are patent leather shoes, starched shirt-fronts, in the background, silk top hats hang from copper hooks, in the foreground, pyramids of champagne flutes, the liveried waiters wearing white gloves, the waltzes, the orchestra, the happy couple flanked by the guard of honor . . . Albert is turning the pages feverishly.
An article from Le Gaulois:
A Glorious Wedding
We held great expectations of this quintessentially Parisian event, and we were not disappointed by a wedding day on which grace and beauty were wedded to courage. To explain, for those few readers who do not already know, this was the wedding of Mlle Madeleine Péricourt, daughter of the celebrated industrialist Marcel Péricourt, to Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle, patriot and hero.
The ceremony itself, at Notre-Dame d’Auteuil, was a simple, intimate affair, and scarcely two dozen friends and family members will have heard the stirring homily by Monsignor Coidet. The reception was held in the Bois de Boulogne, in the 18th-century Pavillon Armenonville, whose graceful Belle Époque architecture is matched only by the modernity of its fittings. The terraces, the gardens, and the salons of this royal hunting lodge teemed with the most elegant and eminent people in society. Some six hundred guests, we are told, greeted the young bride, whose dress (in tulle and duchesse satin) was personally designed as a gift by the celebrated couturière Jeanne Lanv
in, a close friend of the family. The lucky man, the dapper Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle, scion of one of France’s oldest aristocratic families, is none other than the “Capitaine Pradelle.” whose numerous heroic feats include the capture of Hill 113 from the Boches on the eve of the armistice, and whose many acts of courage have seen him decorated four times.
The président de la République, M. Raymond Poincaré, a personal friend of M. Péricourt, made a brief, discreet appearance before leaving the distinguished guests—senior political figures, including M. Millerand6 and M. Daudet,7 and a number of great artists, including Jean Dagnan-Bouveret and Georges Rochegrosse,8—to enjoy a celebration that will, we have no doubt, long be remembered.
Albert closed the book.
The loathing he felt for Pradelle had become a form of self-loathing; he hated himself that he was still afraid of this man. The very name Pradelle made him quiver. How long would this carry on? It had been more than a year since he had heard the capitaine mentioned, but he still thought about him. He could not forget him. Albert had only to look around to see the damage that man had wrought in his life. And not only his own life. Édouard’s face, his every gesture, everything about him bore the mark of that single moment when a man runs through an apocalyptic wasteland, eyes blazing, a man who sets little store by the deaths—or the lives—of others, summoning all his strength he crashes into a helpless Albert, and what follows, we already know: a miraculous rescue and the gaping void that cleaves Édouard’s face. As though war were not misfortune enough.
Albert gazes blankly ahead. So this is how the story ended. With this wedding.
Though not a philosophical man, he thinks about the nature of his existence. And about Édouard, whose sister has unwittingly married the man who murdered them both.
He sees flickering images of the cemetery, the darkness. And images of the day before, when the young woman with an ermine muff appeared with the great Capitaine Pradelle by her side, her knight in shining armor. He remembers the journey to the cemetery, Albert sitting next to the sweaty driver who shifts his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with a flick of his tongue while Mlle Péricourt and Capitaine Pradelle follow in the limousine. He should have suspected something. “Albert never could see the nose in front of his face, if it was raining soup he’d be out there with a fork. Makes you wonder if that boy will ever grow up, he’s come through a war and he’s learned nothing, it’s enough to drive you to distraction.”
A moment ago, when he saw the first picture of the wedding, his heart was beating fit to burst, but now he can feel it slowing, dissolving, ready to stop.
Bile at the back of his throat . . . Again he feels an urge to retch that he manages to stifle only by getting up and rushing out of the room.
The penny has just dropped. Capitaine Pradelle is here.
With Mlle Péricourt.
He has been lured into a trap. A family dinner.
Albert will have to sit across the table, suffer the same withering stare he endured in Général Morieux’s office when he almost ended up before a firing squad. There is nothing to be done. Will this war never be over?
He needs to leave now, to lay down his arms and surrender, otherwise he will die again, be killed again. He has to get away.
Albert leaps to his feet, rushes across the room, and just as he reaches the door, it opens.
Madeleine Péricourt is smiling at him.
“So you’re here,” she says. She sounds almost impressed, though why he cannot tell. That he found his way, that he found the courage?
Instinctively, she looks him over from head to foot. Albert too looks down, and now he sees it plainly: the shiny new shoes combined with the threadbare suit a size too small, it looks tawdry. He had been so proud of them, had wanted them so desperately . . . The shoes scream poverty.
All his absurdity is here, he despises them, he despises himself.
“Come,” Madeleine says, “come with me.”
She takes his arm, as though he were her friend.
“My father will be down in a moment, he’s very eager to meet you . . .”
19
“Good evening, sir.”
M. Péricourt was less tall than Albert had been expecting. We often expect the powerful to be tall and are surprised to find they are ordinary. Though they are anything but ordinary, as Albert could immediately see. M. Péricourt had a piercing gaze, his handshake lingered a fraction of a second too long, even his smile . . . There was nothing ordinary about him, he seemed to be made of steel, with exceptional self-assurance, it was from among such men that world leaders were chosen, it was because of such men that wars began. Albert felt afraid, he could not imagine being able to lie to such a man. And he kept glancing to the door, expecting Capitaine Pradelle to appear at any moment.
Very graciously, M. Péricourt waved toward an armchair, and they sat. In the blink of an eye, staff appeared wheeling a cart of drinks to them and then food. The pretty housemaid was among the servants, Albert tried not to look at her while M. Péricourt eyed him curiously.
Albert did not know why Édouard would not want to come back here, he must surely have good reason, and being in the presence of M. Péricourt Albert could dimly sense why someone might feel the need to get away from such a person. He was a hard, unyielding man, forged from some new alloy, like a grenade, a shell, a bomb; who might kill you without realizing with a single shard of shrapnel. Albert’s legs spoke for him, they itched to get up and leave.
“What will you drink, Monsieur Maillard?” Madeleine said, smiling.
He was rooted to the spot. What would he drink? He had no idea. On special occasions, and when he had the means, he drank calvados, a working-class drink he could not ask for here. He had not the first idea what he might have instead.
“What would you say to a glass of champagne,” Madeleine said, to be helpful.
“Well . . .” Albert hesitated, he detested champagne
A nod, a long silence, then the butler appeared with an ice bucket, the cork was ceremoniously popped and caught. M. Péricourt gave an impatient wave, come on, come on, don’t stand there all night.
“So did you know my son well . . . ?” he said, leaning toward Albert.
In that moment, Albert understood that this was how the evening would play out. M. Péricourt questioning him about his son’s death under the watchful eye of his daughter. Pradelle would play no part in the proceedings. A family affair. He felt relieved. He looked at the table, at the bubbles in his glass of champagne. How to begin? What to say? He had been turning it over in his mind, but he could not find the words to begin.
M. Péricourt looked puzzled and felt it necessary to add:
“My son . . . Édouard . . .”
He was beginning to wonder whether this man had really known his son. Had he even written the letter, who knew how things were done in such circumstances, perhaps soldiers were randomly assigned the task of writing letters to the families of fallen comrades, each reciting the same phrases, or something very similar. But Albert’s answer was immediate, sincere.
“Oh, yes, monsieur, I think I can say that I knew your son very well.”
Very quickly, what M. Péricourt had wanted to know about the death of his son was of no importance. What this ex-soldier had to say was more important, because he talked about the living Édouard. Édouard in the muddy trenches, in the mess hall, waiting for cigarette rations, playing cards, Édouard sitting in the shadows, bent over this notepad, drawing . . . Albert was describing an imaginary Édouard rather than the man he had rubbed shoulders with in the trenches but scarcely knew.
For M. Péricourt it proved to be less painful than he had expected, indeed the stories, the images were almost pleasant. He found himself smiling; it had been a long time since Madeleine had seen her father genuinely smile.
“You’ll forgive me for saying,” Albert said, “but Édouard was always one for a joke . . .”
Emboldened, he told the stor
y. And then there was the time that, and the day that he, and another thing I remember . . . It was not difficult, whatever stories he could remember about other comrades in the trenches, he attributed to Édouard as long as they flattered his memory.
M. Péricourt, for his part, was rediscovering his son, some of what he heard seemed astonishing (He really said that? His very words, monsieur!), yet none of it surprised him, since he was now convinced that he had never really known his son, he would have believed anything. Inane stories, mess hall anecdotes, infantile pranks, lewd jokes, but Albert, having finally found the right track, forged ahead determinedly, he even began to enjoy himself. He told stories about Édouard that had them in fits of laughter. M. Péricourt wiped tears from his eyes. Urged on by the champagne, Albert went on talking, not realizing that his tale was gradually shifting from barrack-room banter to frozen feet, from card games to rats the size of rabbits and the stench of the corpses on the battlefield that stretcher bearers could not recover. It was the first time Albert had talked about his war.
“And then there was the time, Édouard said out of the blue . . .”
Albert might have gone too far, been too earnest, too truthful, might have said more than he should and ruined the portrait of the composite comrade he called Édouard, but fortunately, he had M. Péricourt sitting directly opposite, and even when he smiled, even when he laughed, there was something of the wild cat about the man’s gray eyes that was enough to curb any excesses.
The Great Swindle Page 21