She asked what was wrong.
“Business,” he said cagily.
It was the sort of thing M. Péricourt said. When he did not wish to explain something, he would say, “It’s just business.” It was a man’s expression. Eminently practical.
Henri looked at her and pursed his lips, Madeleine still found him handsome. Seeing he was waiting, she persisted.
“Well?” she moved toward him, “what is it?”
He was forced to make a painful confession, but the ends justified the means.
“I may need your father’s help . . .”
“Why?”
Henri gave a dismissive wave, it was all too complicated . . .
“I see,” she smiled, “Too complicated to explain to me, but straightforward enough to ask me to intercede . . .”
Henri, playing the broken man to the hilt, gave her a poignant smile, one he often used to seduce. It had served him well, that smile . . .
If she pressed him, Henri would simply lie to her, he always lied, even when it was pointless, it was in his nature. She laid a hand against his cheek. Duplicitous he might be, but he was handsome; this pretense of helplessness made him look younger, emphasized the delicacy of his features.
Madeleine reflected for a moment. Even in the first flush of their relationship, she had paid little heed to what her husband said; she had not married him for his conversation. Since she became pregnant, his pronouncements had drifted past like an insubstantial haze. And so, while he did his best to look stricken and overwhelmed—she trusted he was more convincing with his mistresses—she gazed at him with that nebulous tenderness one reserves for other people’s children. He was beautiful. She would like to have a son like him. A little less mendacious, but just as handsome.
Then she left the room without a word, smiling softly as she always did when she felt the baby kick. She went straight to her father’s study.
It was 10:00 a.m.
Recognizing his daughter’s knock, M. Péricourt got up and went over, kissed her forehead, nodded at her belly, smiling, is everything all right? Madeleine made a face: so-so.
“I’d like you to speak to Henri, Papa,” she said, “He has been having problems.”
M. Péricourt stiffened imperceptibly at the mention of his son-in-law.
“Can’t he deal with his problems by himself? And what exactly are these problems?”
Madeleine knew more than Henri believed she did, but not enough to enlighten her father.
“His contract with the government . . .”
“What about it?”
M. Péricourt said this in the steely tone he adopted when preparing to stand on principle; at such times he was difficult to manipulate. Intractable.
“I know that you don’t like him, Papa, you’ve said as much before.”
There was no anger in her voice, in fact she smiled gently, and since she seldom asked for anything, she calmly played her trump card.
“I’m asking you to see him, Papa.”
She did not need to lay her hands on her belly. Her father had already nodded: very well, send him up.
M. Péricourt did not even pretend to be working when Pradelle knocked at the door. As he stepped into the room, Henri saw his father-in-law enthroned behind his desk at the far end, like God the Father. The distance between the desk and the chair reserved for visitors was boundless. In moments of adversity, Henri preferred to steel himself and attack head-on. The more daunting the problem, the more savage he became, he would not hesitate to kill. But today, the man he wanted to kill was the man whose help he needed; he loathed this position of subservience.
Since they met, the two men had been waging a war of contempt. M. Péricourt would greet his son-in-law with a curt nod, Henri responded in kind. From the instant of their first meeting, each had bided his time, waiting for an advantage, watching as the balance of power shifted: Henri had seduced his daughter, M. Péricourt had prevailed on the marriage contract . . . When Madeleine told her father she was pregnant, she had done so in private, Henri had been deprived of his victory, but it had been a decisive point. The balance of power was reversed: Henri’s problems were temporary, Madeleine’s child was not. And, as he saw it, this meant M. Péricourt was in duty bound to help him.
Marcel Péricourt smiled elusively, as though he could read Pradelle’s mind.
“Yes . . . ?” he said gravely
“Could you have a word with the Ministre des Pensions?” Henri said in a clear voice.
“Of course, he is a dear friend.” M. Péricourt hesitated for a moment. “He owes me a great deal. A personal debt, you might say. Ancient history now, of course, but the sort of affair that can make or break a man’s reputation. In short, the minister is at my disposal, if I might put it so.”
Henri had not anticipated such an easy victory. His assessment of the situation had proved more accurate than he had imagined. This was further confirmed when M. Péricourt looked away, staring down at his desk blotter.
“What does it concern . . . ?”
“A trifle . . . It’s . . .”
“If it is a trifle,” M. Péricourt said, looking up, “why trouble the minister? Why trouble me?”
Henri relished this moment. His adversary would put up a fight, try to put him in a difficult position, but sooner or later he would be forced to capitulate. Had he time, he would have enjoyed drawing out the delectable conversation, but it was urgent.
“There is a report that needs to be buried. It concerns my businesses, it is a tissue of lies and . . .”
“If it is lies, what have you to fear?”
Henri could not help himself, he smiled. Was the old man planning to carry on this fight for long? Did he feel the need to land a blow before he would shut up and do as he was bid?
“It’s complicated . . .”
“And so?”
“And so I would be grateful if you could intercede with the minister and have the matter buried. For my part, I can assure you that there will be no recurrence of the incidents in question. They were the result of an oversight, nothing more.”
M. Péricourt paused for a long moment, staring hard into Pradelle’s eyes as if to say, “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” Henri assured him. “You have my word.”
“Your word . . .”
Henri felt his smile wither, the old man was beginning to irritate him with these remarks. What choice did he have? His daughter was heavily pregnant, was he threatening to bankrupt his own grandson? It was a joke! Pradelle made a final concession.
“I’m asking this not only for myself, but for your daughter . . .”
“I’ll thank you not to bring my daughter into this!”
This time, Henri could take no more.
“But that’s exactly what’s at stake here! My reputation, my businesses, so for the sake of your daughter and the future of your unborn . . .”
M. Péricourt could have raised his voice, but instead he tapped the desk blotter with his forefinger. A sharp rap like a teacher calling an unruly pupil to order. M. Péricourt remained calm, his voice was serene, he did not smile.
“This matter concerns you and only you, monsieur,” he said.
Henri felt a creeping panic, but, though he racked his brain, he could not see how his father-in-law could avoid intervening on his behalf. Was he prepared to turn his back on his own daughter?
“I have been informed of your problems. Perhaps before you were.”
This sounded promising, Henri thought, if Péricourt was trying to humiliate him, it meant he was prepared to give in.
“Not that I was surprised, I always knew you for a crook. One with an aristocratic name, but a crook nonetheless. You are an utterly unscrupulous man, driven by greed alone, and I confidently predict you will come to a very bad end.”
Henri made to get up and leave.
“No, no, monsieur, you will stay and listen to what I have to say. I have been expecting your request, I have gi
ven the matter a great deal of thought, and I will tell you how I see things. In a few days, the dossier on you will be referred to the minister, and having been made aware of the various reports concerning your activities, he will set about revoking all the contracts you signed with the government.”
Henri’s earlier arrogance had drained from his face, he stared straight ahead with a look of horror, like a man watching a house being swept away by floodwaters. His house, his life.
“You have defaulted on contracts entered into with the nation; an inquiry will be launched to determine the exact nature of the material damage to the state, which you will have to pay from your personal fortune. If, as I have calculated, you do not have the necessary funds to meet the debt, you will be forced to request help from your wife, a request I will strongly oppose, as is my legal right. At that point, you will have to sell your family estate. Not that you will have any further need of it, since the government will haul you before the courts and, in order to exonerate itself, will have to join with the public prosecutor in the civil action brought by families and the war veterans associations. And you will end up in prison.”
Henri had resigned himself to appealing to the old man because he knew he was in a delicate position, but what he was hearing was infinitely worse than anything he had imagined. The problems had escalated so quickly, he had not had time to react. Suddenly, a thought came to him.
“So, you are the one who . . . ?”
If he had had a gun, he would not have waited for an answer.
“No, no, why would I bother? You needed no help from anyone in getting into this mess. Madeleine asked me to speak to you, so I am speaking to you, and it is to say this: neither she nor I will be caught up in your business affairs. She wished to marry you, so be it, but you will not drag her down with you, I shall see to that. As far as I am concerned, you can sink without a trace; I will not lift a finger to help.”
“You want a war?” Henri thundered.
“Do not ever raise your voice to me, monsieur . . .”
Henri did not wait to hear the rest of this sentence to get to his feet and stalk out of the room, jerking the door viciously behind him. The ripples from the bang would set the whole house quaking. But the door, fitted with a pneumatic damper, swung slowly to, pff . . . pff . . . pff . . . , with a soft, rhythmic hiss.
Henri had reached the ground floor by the time it finally closed with a muffled thud.
Still at his desk, M. Péricourt had not moved.
33
“It’s nice here . . . ,” Pauline said, looking around.
Albert wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. He spread his hands wide, dancing from one foot to the other.
Since they had known each other, they had always met outside. She had a small attic room in the servants’ quarters of the Péricourts’ mansion, and the agency had been clear: “Visitors are strictly forbidden, mademoiselle,” the accepted way of telling one’s domestics that if they wished to fuck, they should do so elsewhere, we’ll have none of that here, this is a god-fearing house, and so on . . .
Meanwhile, Albert could hardly bring Pauline back to his apartment. Édouard never went out—where could he go? And besides, even if he had agreed to let Albert have the apartment to himself for the night, it would be no use. Albert had been lying to Pauline from the start, what could he do now? I live in lodgings, he had told her, the landlady who runs the place is very strict, very suspicious, visitors strictly forbidden, just like yours, but I’m looking to find somewhere else.
Pauline had been neither shocked nor impatient. In fact she seemed reassured. She said it was all right, that she was “not that kind of girl” (implication: she did not sleep around), that she wanted a “serious relationship” (implication: marriage). Albert found it impossible to sort the truth from the lies. She did not want to “do it,” he accepted that, but every time he took her home and they were about to go their separate ways, there were wild, passionate kisses; they would huddle in doorways, legs entwined, rubbing against each other frantically. Pauline would inevitably push Albert’s hand away, but she did so later and later; in fact the other night she had gripped him harder, let out a long hoarse cry, and sunk her teeth into his shoulder. He had climbed back into the taxi gingerly, like a man carrying explosives.
This was how things stood on June 22, when the Patriotic Memory scheme eventually took off.
All of a sudden, money began to pour in.
Torrents of it.
Within a week, their tidy little sum quadrupled. More than 300,000 francs. Five days later, they had banked 570,000 francs; by June 30, they had 627,000 . . . there was no end to it. They had orders for 100 crosses, 120 torches, 182 busts, and 111 memorials of various designs; Jules d’Épremont had even won the contract for the memorial to be built in the arrondissement where Édouard was born, a down payment of 100,000 francs had been paid by the council.
Fresh orders came in every day, and with them more payments. Édouard spent his mornings making out receipts.
This manna from heaven had a curious effect; only now did they begin to realize what they had set in motion. They were already rich, and Édouard’s hypothetical million francs no longer seemed a pipe dream. July 14 was still some way off and the bank account of Patriotic Memory was swelling daily . . . Each day, 10,000; 20,000; 50,000; 80,000 francs . . . it was incredible. One morning, there had been a draft for 117,000 francs.
At first, Édouard was delirious with joy. When Albert had come home with a briefcase filled with bills, he had tossed them in the air and watched them fall like life-giving rain. He asked whether he might take some of his share right now, and Albert, laughing, had said of course, no problem. The following day, Édouard created an extraordinary mask, a swirling spiral made entirely of two-hundred franc bills. The effect was superb, a seething mass of bills that seemed to be ablaze, wreathing his face in a halo of smoke. Albert was amazed, but he was also shocked, one did not do such things with money. He might be swindling hundreds of people, but he had not abandoned all moral sense.
Édouard, for his part, was stamping his feet with glee. He never counted the money, but the orders he carefully preserved like trophies, rereading them at night, sipping a drink using his pipette; this file was his Book of Hours.
When the wonder of being rich began to fade, Albert began to comprehend the magnitude of the risk. The more the money poured in, the more he felt the noose tighten around his neck. Ever since the total had reached 300,000 francs, he had thought only of getting away. Édouard demurred; his target of 1 million was not negotiable.
And there was Pauline to think of. What could he do?
Albert, besotted, longed for her with a passion magnified a hundredfold by the self-restraint she imposed on him. The problem was, he had started out on the wrong footing; one lie had led inevitably to another. Could he really tell her the truth now, without losing her? “Pauline, I need to tell you something, the truth is I work as a clerk in a bank, but only so I can get my fingers in the till because a friend (a crippled war vet with a hole for a face and a loose grip on reality) and I have set up a deeply immoral scheme to swindle half the country, and two weeks from now, on July 14, we plan to run off to the far side of the world, do you want to come with me?”
Did he love her? He was crazy about her. But with Albert, it was impossible to know what would prevail: the fierce desire he felt for her or the mounting dread of being arrested, tried, and sentenced. He had not dreamed of the firing squad since those long nights back in 1918 after he had been interrogated by Général Morieux under the stern eye of Capitaine Pradelle. Now he had those dreams every night. When he was not making love to Pauline, he was being gunned down by twelve identical facsimiles of Capitaine Pradelle. Whether it ended with him dying the little death or the actual one, the effect was the same, he would wake with a start, bathed in sweat, haggard and howling. He would grope for his horse head mask, the only thing that could calm his fears.
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br /> The first feverish joy of realizing that their plan had succeeded mutated quickly, in both men and for different reasons, into an strange coolness, the calm one feels after completing an important task that has required a great deal of time and that, in hindsight, no longer seems as necessary as one had supposed.
With or without Pauline, all Albert could talk of was leaving. Now that the money was rolling in, Édouard could think of little reason to demur. Reluctantly, he accepted.
It was agreed that, since the Patriotic Memory promotion was to come to an end on July 14, they would leave on the fifteenth.
“Why wait until the day after?” Albert said, flustered.
“Alright, the fourteenth,” Édouard wrote.
Albert threw himself on the shipping company maps, tracing a line from Paris—a night train that would arrive in Marseille in the early hours—then the route of the first ship leaving for Tripoli. He was thankful he had kept the military record belonging to poor Louis Évrard, which he had stolen a few days after the armistice. The next day, he would buy the tickets.
Three tickets.
One for Eugène Larivière, two in the names of M. and Mme Louis Évrard.
He had no idea how to go about things with Pauline. Was it possible, in two weeks, to persuade a girl to leave everything and flee eighteen hundred miles with you? He was beginning to have his doubts.
This particular June seemed to have been made for lovers, a blissful balminess and, when Pauline was not on shift, for long endless evenings, hours and hours spent caressing, talking, sitting on park benches. Pauline told him about her girlish dreams, about the apartment, the children she wanted one day, talked about a future husband, her description gradually coming to sound more like the Albert she knew and less like the real Albert, who was nothing but a small-time crook about to flee the country.
The Great Swindle Page 34