(Desnos was involved in the page layout.) Oh‚ Labadou’s lot certainly had a good laugh that time. In short‚ while this team’s activity was almost nil and never caused the least harm to Axis forces‚ at least our brave tipplers had excellent intentions. I’d never concealed from Labadou the possibilities available to me of communicating with London. He asked me to pass on the news of the existence of his group‚ ‘Le Chat Qui Pêche’. Why not? I made a report to BCRA and the war went on.
During the street battles Labadou and his team were careful not to venture outside for any other reason but to stock up‚ on wine especially. ‘We have other things to do‚’ they would say archly. Discipline being the chief force of the worst shambles‚ everyone regarded this as normal. So as soon as everything had more or less calmed down‚ and a few poor wretches had been bumped off for reasons that had nothing to do with national interests‚ and the splendid falangist police so hated only the day before had been feted‚ and the whores and the blacks from the Mid-West had through a process of mutual compromise invented their own curious Anglo-Saxon dialect‚ Franco-Allied pen-pushers took over from Wehrmacht- Gestapo pen-pushers.
Marius Labadou got himself and his group ‘recognized’. A colonel who’d waged war from the safe distance of London offices‚ and a reenlisted NCO who selflessly kept up morale in the bars on Rue de la Huchette were destined to see eye to eye.
Marius Labadou was promoted to major without further ado‚ Fralicot and Domaom to captains‚ the rest to two-pip lieutenants. Who knows where they found the extremely smart‚ non-regulation uniforms with which they immediately rigged themselves out. Goering would have paled at the sight of what they displayed on their chests.
They didn’t sober up for a whole week. Marius Labadou cut a fine figure in his uniform. And that’s what brought about his downfall.
He was a widower. For some years he’d been living with a middle-aged woman‚ as husband and wife. She‚ Madame Félicienne‚ had a rather arrogant manner and was extremely houseproud. Her two-roomed apartment was crammed with knick-knacks‚ picked up here and there on Sunday strolls along the riverbanks or at fun fairs. And the china swans‚ Japanese tea cups‚ finicky brass ornaments‚ polished and buffed and patinated‚ gleamed with a heartwarming lustre. But Madame Félicienne seemed to reserve for these trinkets‚ embroidered tasselled cushions‚ and flower vases‚ an affection she withheld from human beings. With great thrift and capability she managed the household budget and took a dim view of ‘her man’ spending all his time in the company of his friends. For her‚ the Liberation should have marked the end of a dissipated existence she abhored. Whereas Labadou‚ elated by his unexpected acclaim‚ saw things differently: in no hurry to take up his paintbrushes again‚ he preferred to saunter about in uniform‚ with one or two of his cronies at his side‚ and to keep the whole neighbourhood agog with his account of feats of arms no less astounding than imaginary.
So it was that he won the heart of Louisette‚ a former model turned barmaid. Quite pretty‚ though looking prematurely the worse for wear‚ Louisette managed to transform Marius’s guardian angel into the demon of middle-aged lust.
The Major neglected his professional duties. Fed up with listening to Madame Félicienne’s recriminations every day‚ he took advantage of a row between them to pack his lightweight suitcase and clean shirts at once and move in with the infinitely younger and more desirable Louisette. The newly-formed couple were now living together within a few hundred metres of the home he had forsaken. But such were the manners and morals of the neighbourhood‚ no one took any exception to this. Life resumed its humdrum routine. Madame Félicienne bided her time. She pretended to be on good terms with her rival‚ but those who knew her warned against putting too much trust in this. Especially as Marius was now getting a pension which meant that‚ come what may‚ there was always that little extra.
Meanwhile‚ Marius Labadou lost a bit of his swagger. He caught a chill that he didn’t nurse properly. He was always doubled-up‚ coughing. His new mistress looked after him as best she could‚ but he drank far too much.
Until one dreadful morning during a spell of terribly cold weather that seemed to go on and on‚ when Marius‚ running a very high fever‚ had to be admitted to the Hôtel-Dieu where he was diagnosed with double broncho-pneumonia.
That same evening the sick man’s friends met up at Le Chat Qui Pêche. They had fallen into two camps: the supporters of Madame Félicienne‚ with a respect for time- honoured conventions‚ in other words ‘decent behaviour’; and those who saw in Louisette another chance for Marius to be young again.
Madame Félicienne and Louisette arrived separately. Louisette seemed terribly upset. Her rival by contrast looked calm and resolute. The situation was discussed.
Domaom suggested‚ ‘Since there’s nothing more we can do for Marius in terms of his medical treatment‚ the only chance we have of speeding his recovery is to go to see the Lancelin brothers and have him slept.’
Madame Félicienne expressed reservations. But she was easily persuaded there could be no serious objection to the Sleeper’s letting his thoughts dwell for two hours a day on the man whose life they wanted to save.
‘It’s like praying for the dead‚’ said Fralicot. ‘It may not do any good‚ but it certainly doesn’t do any harm.’
This argument clinched it.
The evening wore on. Everyone related stories‚ embellished to the best of the narrator’s ability‚ of miraculous cures brought about by the Sleeper and his brother. They all but resuscitated the dead. Madame Félicienne‚ however‚ had her own idea.
‘And afterwards‚ when he comes out‚ he won’t be fully recovered. What will he do‚ and whose place‚ eh‚ whose place‚ will he go back to?’
Louisette remained silent. Embarrassed‚ the others shook their heads. ‘That’s up to him‚’ said Old Collard. ‘We’re his friends‚ and we’re friends of both of you. It’s none of our business. You sort it out between yourselves.’
Domaom intervened.
‘You both want to see him come out of there‚ don’t you? Well‚ better do the same as in wartime: make an alliance to achieve your objective. For the time being‚ you should be working together. Come on now‚ Fralicot‚ as man to man …’
‘You’re something of an authority on the subject‚’ agreed Fralicot.
With their moist-eyed comrades looking on‚ the two men hugged each other.
‘I’d love to know what dirty trick she’s plotting‚’ said a voice.
Madame Félicienne’s devotion exceeded all expectation. She’d rushed over to the Lancelin brothers’ neighbourhood at the crack of dawn‚ and found out where they lived. She had to beg them: and so successful was she that when the wards opened to visitors the Lancelins were at Marius’s bedside. He seemed very low. The Sleeper laid his hands on his torso for a long time‚ so long the patient complained‚ ‘No more‚ it’s tiring.’
As they were leaving Frédéric Lancelin‚ who was supporting his brother‚ said to Madame Félicienne‚ ‘You know‚ we’ll do our utmost‚ but it’s going to be difficult.’
‘You do everything you can‚ and I’ll take care of you … For a start‚ come and have your meals at my house.’
And while Louisette did the washing-up‚ Madame Félicienne meanwhile busied herself preparing appetizing dishes. She fed the Sleeper most carefully.
‘Truly‚ I wouldn’t let anyone else but you do it‚’ said Frédéric‚ genuinely moved. ‘Since he became paralysed‚ I’ve always been the one to look after him.’
The first day Marius was conscientiously slept for several hours.
Everyone at Le Chat Qui Pêche came by for news. Marius seemed better. His fever hadn’t dropped but he was breathing more deeply and able to talk without too much effort. His eyes had brightened. And everyone was delighted. But whereas Madame Félicienne seemed mostly excited by the Sleeper’s capabilities‚ Louisette couldn’t conceal her joy: Mari
us was getting better. She was radiant.
This greatly vexed Madame Félicienne‚ who wasted no time in putting her rival in her place.
‘You tried to steal my man. You see where that’s led. Well‚ just you give him back to me. I’ve a rightful claim on him. For a start‚ he’s still legally resident with me. He hasn’t registered any change of address. You don’t seriously believe‚ do you‚ that I’m just going to let you pocket his pension?’
‘I don’t give a damn about his money!’ said Louisette.
Collard‚ you could tell‚ didn’t much care for Félicienne.
‘In any case‚’ he ventured‚ ‘even if he does peg out‚ you can’t count on getting the money. You’d only be his mistress‚ not his widow.’
‘That’s open to discussion. There have been similar cases brought to trial. The law isn’t the same as before‚’ Félicienne declared authoritatively‚ a little put out nevertheless.
Fralicot‚ alias Les Eparges‚ who had reason to be well informed‚ said‚ ‘Well‚ I wouldn’t be so sure myself.’
Félicienne looked thoughtful. Her expression hardened. She directed a spiteful gaze at Louisette.
‘One way or another‚ my girl‚ I’ll get my own back on you‚’ she muttered to herself.
Félicienne only very rarely went to Pignol’s. She happened to be there when Dr Troquemène was called out to see one of the lodgers.
‘Will you have something‚ doctor?’
‘No thanks. I never drink.’
‘Listen‚ you couldn’t tell me … I don’t know what’s wrong with me‚ I’ve not been able to stay awake for the past two days.’
‘Do like me‚ drink less.’
‘That’s not the problem‚ I swear.’
Not bothering to answer‚ the doctor went off shrugging his shoulders. Suzanne‚ proprietress of the Sommerard hotel‚ was there.
‘Oh‚ that guy’s so disagreeable. I’ll ask young Claude‚ one of my lodgers‚ this evening. He’s a medical student.’
‘Oh‚ that’s really sweet of you. I’ll drop by for a little chat later on.’
The next day the patient seemed to be out of danger. And the whole gang‚ confident of the virtues of the two treatments combined – that of the medical staff‚ and that of the Sleeper – drank to Marius’s health and his speedy return. But all was not well. Along came the Lancelin brothers‚ one supporting the other. The Sleeper looked much weaker than usual. Obviously worried‚ Frédéric sat him down as if he were made of some extraordinarily delicate substance. The Sleeper was shivering slightly. He muttered in gasps‚ ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve not been able to sleep. Not at all.’
‘It’s a disaster‚’ Frédéric lamented. ‘For him and for our patients.’
‘The best thing is for him to come and stay with me‚’ said Félicienne. ‘I’ll take good care of him. We’ll sit up all night with him if necessary.’
Over the following days Marius’s condition seriously worsened. But everyone’s attention – except Louisette’s – was somewhat distracted by the state of the paralytic. The Sleeper wasn’t sleeping any more‚ was unable to sleep! By day or night. He complained of palpitations. He was no more than a shadow of his former self.
Félicienne made him swallow some gruel.
‘He needs to keep his strength up.’
Louisette offered to help.
‘No‚ no‚ I manage better by myself‚’ the older woman protested peevishly.
When she was told at the Hôtel-Dieu of Marius’s death‚ Félicienne sobbed dry-eyed. Frédéric had stayed behind to look after his brother‚ who was practically unable to breathe. When the women returned he’d go and fetch a doctor – a good one. Maybe a shot of some kind of antispasmodic might bring some relief to the sleep-deprived Sleeper on the verge of exhaustion.
Frédéric went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water‚ some sugar and a teaspoon. He opened a drawer.
When the two women got back‚ Félicienne said‚ ‘It’s all over.’ She snivelled.
‘It’s all over‚’ echoed Louisette‚ pasty-faced and devastated.
Félicienne went to look for something in the room next door. Frédéric took the opportunity to signal to Louisette that he had something to tell her. He took four metal tubes out of his pocket – three empty and one half consumed. ORTEDRIN. Louisette didn’t understand straightaway. Frédéric pointed to his brother.
‘It was to stop him sleeping. She could have killed him as well.’
Louisette fainted.
The subsequent rumpus roused the neighbourhood. No one could make much sense of it. The temporary fit of madness that overcame Louisette and caused her to round on her rival with unbelievable violence was put down to despair. She tried to attack the older woman. Frédéric restrained her. Incoherent utterances were also heard‚ in which the words ‘murder’ and ‘criminal’ recurred amid sobs and rasps of rage.
Frédéric Lancelin demonstrated remarkable self-control and authority. Having calmed down Louisette‚ he asked her to help him take his brother home. Which she did‚ seemingly brought back to her senses. A car was found for them.
The next day Félicienne and Louisette ran into each other at Le Chat Qui Pêche. For a moment there were fears of another row.
To everyone’s astonishment‚ it was Louisette who apologized.
‘I don’t know what came over me. I don’t really remember. You know‚ I can’t hold my drink very well.’
And for the second time Félicienne and Louisette made peace with each other. Or pretended to.
Friends in the neighbourhood turned out in full force to accompany Marius Labadou’s hearse to Thiais.
People inquired after the Sleeper: he was able to sleep again and was back on the bridge‚ just as before. He had resumed his ‘consultations’. But it was Félicienne who began to fall apart. She often wept without rhyme or reason‚ got drunk and fell into deep depressions.
‘What have I done? What have I done?’
The neighbours would console her and take her home.
Louisette became her closest friend. One day she said to Félicienne‚ ‘You’re becoming a nervous wreck. I think you too should get yourself “slept”.’
Félicienne refused with horror. But she’d lost her willpower. Louisette kept insisting‚ slowly and surely wearing her down. It was on the nape of Félicienne’s neck‚ on her eyes and ears that the Sleeper laid his hands this time. Frédéric observed the procedure with a hardened expression no one recognized in him.
Félicienne has just been admitted to Ste-Anne. She’ll be there till the end of her days – which are numbered. She vegetates‚ sunk in a mindless state of almost permanent lethargy. Which is just as well: whenever she comes to‚ nightmares and hallucinations cause her to utter dreadful cries.
I still go and see Pierre-Luc my friend on the embankment‚ but whenever we’re obliged to walk past the Sleeper‚ I don’t know what makes me take a huge detour.
Chapter XI
An historian is a kind detective in seach of the fact – remote or otherwise – that brings to a set of events apparently unconnected with each other‚ the link that unites them‚ their justification‚ their logic.
You cannot imagine what great delights this profession affords. It’s as if‚ in every incunablum‚ consumed by worms and steeped in boredom‚ in every inarticulate scrawl‚ in every collection of forgotten chronicles‚ there presides a mischievous sprite‚ winking at you‚ who at the appropriate time confers on you your reward in the form of renewed wonder.
Marionettes and Magic Spells
Round Place Maubert and La Montagne‚ everyone was familiar with this slightly crazy Gypsy who a few years ago used to carve puppets‚ have clothes made for them‚ and sell them at Mayette and Vaubaillon.
Our man confined himself to making glove puppets‚ that’s to say without legs‚ their costume serving to glove the hand of the puppeteer.
It was a labou
r of love‚ carving the figures‚ painting them‚ dressing their hair‚ ‘finishing’ them. In bars he made no secret of the pleasure he took in working his puppets. He improvised painfully funny playlets to suit his audiences’ sense of humour. But it was all the same to him as long as peals of impersonal laughter – that ‘frank laughter’ Heine speaks of – rang in his ears.
I developed some interest in this woodcarving puppeteer‚ so much so that he inspired me to write some plays for puppets. (It’s pleasant and relaxing‚ now and again‚ to ‘concoct’ folklore.) I penned five farces in the Lyons style. Vaubaillon and Billaudot published them. Through this entertaining friend of mine‚ I made the acquaintance of his main client: Monsieur Mayette.
About fifty years old. Long-time owner of a successful business‚ who’d started out as a conjurer and illusionist by profession. But above all a kindly and decent man‚ far from being uncultured‚ and most importantly instilled with that delicate sensitivity that does not deceive. What’s all this leading up to? The fact that Monsieur Mayette should have established himself there and not elsewhere. It’s always the same story.
With plenty of orders coming in‚ the Gypsy suddenly stopped making puppets. Yet‚ small-scale though this craftsman’s production was‚ his business was flourishing.
‘I’ve had enough‚’ he said to me one day. ‘I take too much trouble over my puppets. There’s no profit in it.’
‘Raise your prices!’
‘If only it were that simple.’
I wasn’t going to insist. On a previous occasion he told me he was ‘too fond’ of his creations – no two heads he carved were identical – and‚ although he’d produced hundreds of them‚ it was always a kind of wrench for him whenever he parted with one of his ‘children’.
‘I don’t know whose hands they fall into … It’s casting pearls before swine.’
Finally‚ he came out with the real crux of the matter‚ which at the time left me none the wiser.
Paris Noir Page 19