I mentioned that the Clos-Foucré reminded me of my childhood, that I often went there with my father. I asked him if he liked his house. He would have liked to spend more time here, but the magazine monopolized his time. But he liked to keep at it. And Paris could be very pleasant too. With these fascinating remarks, we sat down at one of the tables. Seen from the garden, the inn had a rustic, opulent air, and I didn’t miss the opportunity of telling him so. The manageress (he called her Maud) was a very old friend, he told me. It was she who advised him to buy the house. I would have liked to ask more about her, but I was afraid my curiosity might arouse his suspicion.
For some time now I had been thinking of various ways I might get in touch with them. First I thought of the red-haired woman. Our eyes had met more than once. It would have been easy to get into conversation with Marcheret by sitting next to him at the bar; conversely, impossible to confront my father directly because of his mistrustful nature. And Murraille scared me. How to approach him tactfully? Now he solved the problem himself, after all. An idea occurred to me. Suppose he had made the first move to find out what I was up to? Perhaps he’d noticed the keen interest I had taken in his little group these past three weeks, the way I was intent on their every movement, on every word they spoke in the bar or the dining-room? I remembered the derisive way I’d been told, when I wanted to become a policeman: ‘You’ll never make a good cop, son. Whenever you’re watching or eavesdropping, you give yourself away. You’re a complete innocent.’
Grève steered a trolley loaded with aperitifs towards us. We drank vermouth. Murraille told me that I could read a ‘sensational’ article by Alin-Laubreaux in his magazine the following week. His voice took on a confidential tone, as if he had known me ages. Twilight was drawing in. We both agreed that this was the most pleasant time of the day.
The hulking form of Marcheret’s back. Standing behind the bar, Maud Gallas waved to Murraille as we came in. Marcheret turned.
‘How are things, Jean-Jean?’
‘Good,’ Murraille answered. ‘I brought a guest. Actually. .’ he looked at me, frowning ‘. . I don’t even know your name.’
‘Serge Alexandre.’
This was the name I had signed in the hotel register.
‘Well, Monsieur. . Alexandre,’ Marcheret announced in a drawling voice, ‘I suggest you have a porto-flip.’
‘I don’t really drink’ — the vermouth we had had was making me feel queasy.
‘That’s a mistake,’ Marcheret said.
‘This is a friend of mine,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy de Marcheret.’
‘Comte Guy de Marcheret d’Eu,’ corrected the other. Then he turned to me: ‘He has a horror of aristocratic titles! Monsieur likes to think he’s a republican!’
‘And you? A journalist?’
‘No,’ said Murraille, ‘he’s a novelist.’
‘Are you indeed! I should have guessed. With a name like yours! Alexandre. . Alexandre Dumas! But you look miserable, I’m sure a little drink would do you good!’
He held out his glass, almost pushing it under my nose, laughing for no apparent reason.
‘Have no fear,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy is always the life and soul of the party.’
‘Is Monsieur Alexandre dining with us? I’ll tell him stories he can put in his novels. Maud, tell our young friend about the stir I created when I walked into the Beaulieu in my uniform. A very dashing entrance, don’t you think, Maud?’
She didn’t answer. He glared at her sourly, but she didn’t look away. He snorted:
‘Oh well, that’s all in the past, eh, Jean-Jean? Are we eating up at the villa?’
‘Yes,’ Murraille said curtly.
‘With the Fat Man?’
‘With the Fat Man.’
So this is what they called my father?
Marcheret got up. To Maud Gallas: ‘If you feel like a drink later on up at the house, ma chère, don’t hesitate.’
She smiled and shot me a brief glance. We were still very much at the politeness stage. Once I managed to get her alone, I wanted to ask her about Murraille, about Marcheret, about my father. Start by chatting to her about the weather. Then gradually inch towards the true heart of the matter. But I was worried about seeming too obvious. Had she noticed me prowling round them? In the dining-room, I always chose the table next to theirs. Whenever they were in the bar, I would sit in one of the leather armchairs and pretend to be asleep. I kept my back to them so as not to attract their attention, but, after a minute or two, I worried they were pointing at me.
‘Goodnight, Maud,’ Murraille said.
I gave her a deep bow, and said:
‘Goodnight, madame.’
My heart begins to pound as we reach the main road. It’s deserted.
‘I do hope you will like the “Villa Mektoub”,’ Murraille says to me.
‘It’s the finest historic building in the area,’ pronounces Marcheret. ‘We got it dirt cheap.’
They stroll at a leisurely pace. I have the sudden feeling that I am walking into a trap. There is still time to run, to shake them off. I keep my eyes fixed on the trees at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards ahead. If I make a dash for it I can reach them.
‘After you,’ Murraille says, half-ironic, half-obsequious.
I glimpse of a familiar figure standing in the middle of the veranda.
‘Well, well!’ says Marcheret. ‘The Fat Man is here already.’
He was leaning idly against the balustrade. She, lounging in one of the whitewashed wooden chairs, was wearing jodhpurs.
Murraille introduced us.
‘Madame Sylviane Quimphe. . Serge Alexandre. . Baron Deyckecaire.’
He offered me a limp hand and I looked him straight in the eye. No, he didn’t recognize me.
She told us she had just been for a long ride in the forest and hadn’t had the energy to change for dinner.
‘No matter, my dear,’ said Marcheret. ‘I find women much more attractive in riding gear!’
The conversation immediately turned to horse riding. She couldn’t speak too highly of the local stable master, a former jockey named Dédé Wildmer.
I’d already met the man at the bar of the Clos-Foucré; bulldog face, crimson complexion, checked cap, suede jacket and an evident fondness for Dubonnet.
‘We must invite him to dinner. Remind me, Sylviane,’ Murraille said.
Turning to me:
‘You should meet him, he’s a real character!’
‘Yes, a real character,’ my father repeated nervously.
She talked about her horse. She had put it through some jumps on her afternoon ride, something she had found ‘an eye-opener’.
‘You mustn’t go easy on him,’ Marcheret said, with the air of an expert. ‘A horse only responds to the whip and the spurs!’
He reminisced about his childhood: an elderly Basque uncle had forced him to ride in the rain for seven hours at a stretch. ‘If you fall,’ he had said, ‘you’ll get nothing to eat for three days!’
‘And I didn’t fall.’ His voice was grave suddenly ‘. .That’s how you train a horseman!’
My father let out a little whistle of admiration. The conversation returned to Dédé Wildmer.
‘I don’t understand how that little runt has such success with women,’ Marcheret said.
‘Oh I do,’ Sylviane Quimphe smirked, ‘I find him very attractive!’
‘I could tell you a thing or two,’ Marcheret replied nastily. ‘It appears Wildmer’s developed a taste for “coke”. .’
A banal conversation. Wasted words. Lifeless characters. Yet there I stood with my ghosts, and, if I closed my eyes, I can still picture the old woman in a white apron who came to tell us that dinner was served.