Pedigree

by Georges Simenon

  The holidays were over. Although it was not as dense as in the narrow Rue Saint-Gilles, the procession of pupils coming from the Collège Saint-Servais at the end of the day changed the street’s appearance. Roger saw some of the boys in the morning, hurrying up the street separately. He saw them going past again in groups on their way home, and the idea that they had been shut up in those white cages hanging above the yard struck him as no less incongruous than the untidy agitation of the passers-by.

  He guessed what they were talking about, looking very self-important, and he smiled pityingly. Now and then he saw the pale, anguished face of Verger, who had grown even taller and was scouring the town in search of some shady business, some traffic in accumulators or other goods. Stievens went past too, as serious as a man of forty, convinced that everybody was admiring the shine on his shoes and the crease in his trousers.

  Roger saw nothing more of Gaston Van de Waele who, so he heard, had gone into business and went to the Stock Exchange on Mondays, like a Louis of Tongres.

  All that, in the light and shade in the street, in the din which in the long run formed an indispensable background of music, was unreal and rather grotesque, like a world seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

  People recovered their real size and density only when they crossed the threshold and came forward between the shelves filled with black volumes—except for the shelves behind the counter, which held the new books in their yellow covers. This was what counted, this was what was tangible and important: the catalogue hanging on a string, the stamp-box, the drawer for the labels, and even the towel hung behind a door.

  ‘Returned: 1267.’

  That was a Dumas. Nobody knew better than he did Alexandre Dumas’ works, which he had read from the first line to the last, including the travel notes and the memoirs. He knew which volumes were out and which were available. He reached for them even more casually than for the others, like a conjuror whose hands draw objects towards them.

  ‘Le Capitaine Pamphile? Just a moment, please, Madame.’

  It was an October afternoon, one of the last fine afternoons in the year. The streets were unusually crowded, because during the last few days the Germans had been releasing their Russian prisoners. Men could be seen wandering around who had come on foot from some German province where there was not enough food for them. They were dressed in unfamiliar uniforms and great-coats which were too big for them, too wide above all, for they were extremely thin and for the most part in the last stages of physical collapse.

  The townspeople had started taking them in. Committees were being formed. Already individual families were trying to accommodate one or two Russians each. And if, in the poor districts, they were taken in at random, at the Carré you could see ladies and girls examining the ex-prisoners before picking one to their liking.

  They knew this. They had an amazingly sure instinct. They roamed around looking like mangy dogs, and now and then, meeting a prosperous-looking woman, they bared their pointed white teeth in an inviting smile.

  The bookshop was full of people. The bad-tempered lady in black astrakhan who had spoken to Roger was the wife of a magistrate. Monsieur Germain had not seen her, for he would have rushed forward to serve her in person.

  ‘Let’s see … Acté … Amaury … Ange Pitou … Aventures de John Davis…’

  Roger’s finger sped down the list.

  ‘Les Blancs et les Bleus … Boule de Neige … Cadet de Famille … Le Capitaine Richard…’

  That was funny! Surprised, he went back to the beginning and read through the whole list of Dumas’ works again. Perhaps somebody had forgotten to enter Le Capitaine Pamphile into the catalogue? He clambered up the ladder, took the books from the shelf one after another, and checked the titles.

  ‘What are you looking for up there, Monsieur Mamelin?’

  ‘Le Capitaine Pamphile, Monsieur.’

  ‘Why are you looking for it among the Dumas, if you please?’

  He scented disaster, and took on his humblest and most timid voice to murmur:

  ‘Because it’s by Dumas.’

  ‘Who told you that Le Capitaine Pamphile was by Alexandre Dumas? Let me tell you, Monsieur, that Dumas père never wrote Le Capitaine Pamphile. Look for it under Théophile Gautier and you will find it. That is what you would have done straight away if you were not so muddle-headed and sure of yourself.’

  Roger obeyed. He knew that he would not find anything under Gautier. He knew that all the better in that he had read Le Capitaine Pamphile not more than six months ago.

  ‘Well, Monsieur, have you finally found it?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  With an abrupt gesture, the catalogue hanging on its string was snatched out of his hands. Why did the customer, whom the book-seller had annoyed, look encouragingly at Roger?

  He murmured in an undertone, so that only Monsieur Germain could hear him:

  ‘I assure you, Monsieur, that Le Capitaine Pamphile is by Alexandre Dumas. We haven’t got it, but it’s definitely by him.’

  ‘What are you saying, young man? I don’t think I can have heard correctly. Are you trying to teach me my own business?’

  ‘I’ve read it.’

  ‘Well then, you read it wrong, as indeed you do everything. Who asked for Le Capitaine Pamphile?’

  ‘This lady.’

  He was angrier than ever when he recognized the important and difficult customer.

  ‘Excuse this young man, Madame, who imagines that he knows everything.’

  To which she retorted:

  ‘Le Capitaine Pamphile is indeed by Alexandre Dumas.’

  The old man’s ears went red and every hair on his head bristled up. Without a word, he went over to the counter and with a trembling hand opened the bookseller’s manual. He was going to brandish the avenging page, the proof that he had not made a mistake, that he had never made a mistake, and that Le Capitaine Pamphile …

  But there, in the list of Alexandre Dumas’ complete works, he was obliged, in spite of the anger blurring his sight, to read: Cadet de Famille … Capitaine Arena … Capitaine Pamphile …’

  He raised his shaggy eyebrows and pretended to catch Mamelin out.

  ‘Monsieur Mamelin, I cannot allow one of my employees, however highly recommended he may be, to take up an insolent attitude in my shop. Kindly wait for me in my office.’

  Roger had not said anything, had not done anything, had not smiled. What was insolent was obviously his equanimity, his confidence in himself and in Dumas.

  He did not know how the old man had managed with his customer. Slightly relieved by his castigation of the young man, he had probably indulged in a great deal of bowing and scraping, but all his anger returned as soon as he entered the office.

  ‘I imagine that this incident, which I had been expecting for a long time, has been sufficient to convince you that you are out of place in this establishment.’

  Roger was going to apologize. He had made up his mind. He was ready to swear that Alexandre Dumas had never written Le Capitaine Pamphile, but already the office till had been opened and the hands with the prominent veins, an old man’s hands, were counting out notes and coins.

  ‘Here are fifty francs. And here are another twenty-five francs in lieu of notice. I should be justified in not giving you this latter sum, in view of your impertinent attitude. I want your uncle to know that I have behaved more correctly towards you than you have towards me. Good-bye, Monsieur. I wish you good luck and a little more respect for your elders.’

  Hiquet, who saw him go out, did not know that he was leaving for good.

  And that was how Roger found himself back in the aquarium. After a moment’s hesitation, the spring was released, his eyebrows puckered up, his forehead hardened, and he started walking at the same pace as the passers-by, moving his arms and legs faster and faster as if a task of capital importance were waiting for him at the other side of the stage.

  The oddest thing was that he was aw
are of all this. He could feel himself shrinking, returning to the proportions of the big-headed puppets which he used to see through the bookshop window, endlessly strutting about the fishbowl.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SECTIONS of the serial film were alternating with the music-hall turns and with orchestral pieces which were played while the waiters were replenishing the customers’ glasses. The Palace was full to overflowing. Outside, it was still raining, as you could see from the drops on the coats of the people coming in. Again, every time somebody lifted the curtain in the doorway, you could see the progress made by the darkness on the bit of pavement where the festoons of electric lamps were casting a puddle of red light.

  The place was warm with human heat. Elbows were touching on both sides of the marble tables placed end to end. There was a smell of beer, wet wool, and cigars. The presence of the Russians in their grey uniforms added an exotic note.

  It was not exactly a sense of uneasiness which people had been feeling for some days, but rather the strain of waiting.

  Everybody was waiting, without knowing what for. The confectioner at the Pont de Longdoz, whom Roger had been to see a week ago, had looked embarrassed.

  ‘I’m not saying no. It’s true that I need somebody. Yes, I could take on an apprentice. I know your grandfather well. Come back to see me in about ten days. We’ll talk about it again.’

  Élise was waiting too in order to rejoice at the news. As for Roger, he had done everything he was supposed to do, but in his heart of hearts he did not believe in it.

  They were living through an interval during which things were of no importance. The weather was bad. Rain and wind followed one another without a pause. It grew dark early on, and often the lamps had to be lit during the day. The Russians were arriving in increasing numbers. Nobody knew where to put them. Élise had taken in two who slept in the dining-room, and Roger spent most of his time showing them round the town.

  At the Palace, as in the cinemas, they were allowed in free. It appeared that in certain camps they had been reduced to eating dung.

  The German troops in the town were said to be confined to barracks. In any case there were scarcely any officers to be seen in the streets, with their pointed helmets on their heads, their jackets flapping behind them and their swords trailing along the ground.

  Roger and the two Russians were smoking mildewed cigarettes which were sold in the Rue du Pont-Neuf at twenty-five centimes a packet instead of one franc.

  The canvas screen had rolled up under the frieze, the stage lit up, and a comic private came forward, a ludicrous figure in a red wig.

  ‘Caroline, tumpety-tum,

  Is sick, tumpety-tum;

  She is sick

  With the sickness of love.’

  He was wearing the pre-war French uniform, the red breeches and black leggings of the dragoons. With his eyes rolling and his arms waving in great epileptic gestures, he got the whole audience singing in chorus.

  ‘To make her better,

  Tumpety-tum,

  She needs a stick,

  Tumpety-tum …’

  Little by little the murmur in the auditorium, hesitant at first, became a vast roar accompanied by the orchestra, applause broke out, and the private skipped off behind a flat, coming back to take his bow.

  What happened then? They had caught a glimpse of a figure dressed in black standing in the wings. The comic, still half on the stage, started talking to him without taking any notice of the audience.

  They called for him. He came back to the footlights and bent down to speak to the conductor of the orchestra, who stood up, put his elbows on the stage, and, surprised, visibly hesitating, looked inquiringly at the man in black in the wings …

  … and finally sat down again, said a few words to the musicians, raised his baton …

  Then …

  ‘Allons enfants de la Patrie …’

  For a moment, nobody could believe his eyes or ears. With a magniloquent gesture, the soldier had snatched off his red wig and tossed back his brown hair. With the back of his sleeve he wiped away his silly mask. It was a young man with an intelligent face who roared at the top of his voice:

  ‘Aux armes, citoyens,

  Formez vos bataillons …’

  Nobody stayed where he was. Everybody stood up without knowing why, because it was impossible to remain seated, because something carried you away. Eyes smarted. Trembling voices repeated the words of the Marseillaise:

  ‘Qu’un sang impur

  Abreuve nos sillons …’

  The singer dashed over to the wings. Somebody handed him something which he brandished with a sweeping gesture, and a huge French flag unfurled in the glare of the floodlights.

  Something else was handed to him, and the same gesture revealed the Belgian flag: black, yellow and red.

  Then, while the orchestra struck up the Brabançonne, the man who was still wearing the costume of a music-hall soldier shouted to the two thousand people in the audience:

  ‘It’s the armistice! … The war is over!’

  After that everything was chaos. Everybody was crying, laughing, embracing, pushing. There were some who rushed outside to shout the news to the passers-by, but the latter knew it already, the whole town had heard it within a few moments. The shopkeepers were on their doorsteps, women were leaning out of the windows, and some people, seeing the growing crowds, wondered whether it would not be advisable to lower the iron shutters.

  The war was over! In spite of the rain, the streets were filling with an increasingly excited mob, singing could be heard, and then suddenly, like a signal, the sound of a window shivering into pieces.

  It was a pork-butcher’s shop whose owner had worked with the Germans. Men disappeared into the shop and started throwing out hams and black puddings. The furniture followed, hurled out of the first-floor and second-floor windows: wardrobes, beds, a bedside table, a piano. The police did not know what to do and looters ran off down the street with their booty.

  ‘Destroy if you like, but don’t take anything!’ a police sergeant shouted.

  Ten, twenty, fifty butchers’ shops suffered the same fate and the crowd continued to become increasingly varied. In the Rue de la Cathédrale itself you could see whole groups of people from the poorer districts, certain cafés had begun serving free drinks and the others were forced to follow suit, for soon the mob insisted on it.

  In a patch of shadow, a human figure was struggling with half a dozen determined men and Roger looked on uncomprehendingly. They were stripping a woman, tearing off every piece of clothing she was wearing. She was naked now, on her knees on the slimy pavement, and one of the men slashed her hair off with a pair of scissors.

  ‘She can go now. We’re going to do the same to all the women who’ve slept with the Huns. Like that, when their husbands come back from the front, they’ll know what’s what.’

  She ran off to an accompaniment of hisses and jeers, pale and frozen in the windy night air. Some street-urchins followed her and the same scene was repeated all over the town, so that you gave a sudden start, in the darkness, on catching sight of a white, naked body keeping close to the houses.

  Roger had lost his two Russians. He had been caught up in a procession and accompanied it from one café to the next, singing with the rest, without recognizing the districts which they filled with their noisy, aggressive joy.

  He drank like everybody else. When the beer ran out, it was gin which was served in full glasses, and one group would break up to join another. On his left he had a lovely working-girl who had found time to put on a dress of pale green satin.

  For the first time in his life, he had gone right down the most secret alley-ways in Outremeuse and walked in single file through taverns whose existence he had never suspected. At one point a woman who looked like a costermonger had come up to his companion and, darting a suspicious glance at Roger, had taken her rings off her fingers.

  He also remembered standing for a moment with hi
s elbows on the bar of the café where he used to play billiards with his father.

  A dozen times, perhaps, he had come close to his home, and every time a surge of the crowd had pushed him back. He had had nothing to eat. He could not remember having anything to eat. What stood out in his memory was hundreds and thousands of strange faces which he had never seen before at such close quarters, cheeks which you kissed, mouths which opened wide to howl a song or a shout of triumph, eyes in which you could see a dangerous frenzy. Then more cafés, dark, shining pavements, pieces of broken glass, drops of rain.

  If he had been drunk, he was perfectly sober when, just as dawn was turning the sky pale and chilling the air, he crossed the Pont d’Amercoeur. He knew that his parents would not say anything, that they had probably not been worried about him. It was the armistice. His sodden clothes were clinging to his body. His shoes had taken in water. He was cold all over and he had a raging headache.

  Yet it struck him that he had never been as calm or clear-headed in his life as he was this morning.

  Had he really shouted with the rest? Perhaps he had tried. Yes, now he came to think about it, he had behaved that night as he had behaved during the two months he had spent at Germain’s Bookshop. He had taken pains to do what was expected of him, to avoid drawing attention to himself, to behave like everybody else.

  He had failed. As far as he was concerned, he succeeded by dint of trying. But the others were not taken in. It was they who looked at him as if he were a foreigner and drew away. Witness that working-class woman who had taken away her daughter’s rings!

  For the rest of his life, he would remember the comic singer with his sickening mask of imbecility. If it had not been for the armistice, Roger would have been returning in exactly two days—that had been agreed—to see the confectioner at the Pont de Longdoz. The latter would probably have taken him on. Roger would have become a confectioner, although he was not born to be a confectioner any more than he was born to be a bookseller’s assistant.