He raced across the church square. When the black limousine was only twenty metres away, he collapsed in the middle of the road, pretending a fainting fit. He heard the brakes squeal. A mellifluous voice murmured:
‘Gérard, help that poor young man into the car! A sudden malaise no doubt! His face is so pale! We will prepare a hot toddy for him at the château.’
He was careful not to open his eyes. The back seat on which the chauffeur laid him smelled of Russian leather but he had only to repeat to himself the sweet name of Jusquiames for a scent of violets and brushwood to caress his nose. He was dreaming of the blonde tresses of Princess Eleanor, of the château towards which he was gliding. Not for a moment did it occur to him that, having been a collaborationist Jew, a bookish Jew, a bucolic Jewish, he was now in danger, in this limousine emblazoned with the Marquise’s coat of arms (Gules on a field Azure, Fleurs-De-Lis sautéed with Stars per Saltire), of becoming a snobbish Jew.
The Marquise asked him no questions as though she found his presence entirely natural. They strolled together through the grounds of the château, she showed him the flowers and the beautiful spring waters. Then, they went up to the house. He admired the portrait of Cardinal de Fougeire-Jusquiames. He found the Marquise enchanting. The inflections of her voice were pierced by the jagged contours of the land itself. Subjugated, he murmured to himself: ‘The energy and charm of a cruel little girl of one of the noble families of France who from her childhood had been brought up in the saddle, had tortured cats, gouged out the eyes of rabbits. .’
After a candlelit dinner served by Gérard, they sat and chatted by the monumental fireplace in the drawing room. The Marquise talked to him about herself, about her grandparents, her uncles and cousins. . Soon, nothing of the Fougeire-Jusquiames family was unknown to him.
I stroke a Claude Lorrain hanging on the left-hand wall of my bedroom: The Embarkation of Eleanor of Aquitaine for the Orient. Then I study Watteau’s Sad Harlequin. I step around the Savonnerie carpet, fearful of soiling it. I do not deserve such a prestigious room. Nor the epée de page — the little sword upon the mantel. Nor the Philippe de Champaigne that hangs next to my bed, a bed in which Louis XIV slept with Mlle de La Vallière. From my window, I see a woman on horseback galloping through the grounds. For the Marquise goes every morning at five o’clock to ride Bayard, her favourite horse. At a fork in the path, she disappears. Nothing now disturbs the silence. And so I decide to embark upon a sort of biographical novel. I have memorised every detail the Marquise graciously gave me on the subject of her family. I shall use them to write the first volume of the work, which will be called The Fougeire-Jusquiames Way, or the Memoirs of Saint-Simon as revised by Scheherazade and a handful of Talmudic Scholars. In my childhood days, on the quai Conti in Paris, Miss Evelyn would read me the Thousand and One Nights and the Memoirs of Saint-Simon. Then she would turn out the light. She would leave the door to my room ajar so that I might hear, before I fell asleep, Mozart’s Serenade in G major. Taking advantage of my drowsy state, Scheherazade and the Duc de Saint-Simon would cast shadows with a magic lantern. I would see the Princesse des Ursins step into the caves of Ali Baba, watch the marriage of Aladdin and Mlle de la Vallière, the abduction of Mme Soubise by the caliph Harun al-Rashid. The splendours of the Orient mingling with those of Versailles created a magical world which I will try to recreate in my novel.
Night falls, the Marquise de Fougeire-Jusquiames passes beneath my window on horseback. She is the faerie Mélusine, she is La Belle aux cheveux d'or. Nothing has changed since those days when my English governess read to me. Miss Evelyn would often take me to the Louvre. We had only to cross the Seine. Claude Lorrain, Philippe de Champaigne, Watteau, Delacroix, Corot coloured my childhood. Mozart and Haydn lulled it. Scheherazade and Saint-Simon brightened it. An exceptional childhood, a magical childhood I should tell you about. Immediately, I begin The Fougeire-Jusquiames Way. On a sheet of vellum bearing the arms of the Marquise, in a nervous hand, I write: ‘It was, this “Fougeire-Jusquiames,” like the setting of a novel, an imaginary landscape which I could with difficulty picture to myself and longed all the more to discover, set in the midst of real lands and roads which all of a sudden would become alive with heraldic details. .’
This evening, they did not converse in front of the hearth as usual. The Marquise ushered him into a large boudoir papered in blue and adjoining her chamber. A candelabra cast a flickering glow. The floor was strewn with crimson cushions. On the walls hung bawdy prints by Moreau le Jeune, Girard and Binet, a painting in an austere style that might have been the work of Hyacinthe Rigaud depicted Eleanor of Aquitaine about to give herself to Saladin, the leader of the Saracens.
The door opened. The Marquise was dressed in a gauze dress that left her breasts free.
‘You name is Schlemilovitch, isn’t it?’ she asked in a coarse accent he had never heard her use. ‘Born in Boulogne-Billancourt? I read it on your identity card! A Jew? I love it! My great-great-uncle Palamède de Jusquiames said nasty things about Jews but he admired Marcel Proust! The Fougeire-Jusquiames, or at least the women in the family, are not prejudiced against Orientals. My ancestor, Eleanor, took advantage of the Second Crusade to cavort with Saracens while the miserable Louis VII was sacking Damascus! In 1720, another of my ancestors, the Marquise de Jusquiames, found the Turkish ambassador’s son very much to her taste! On that subject, I notice you have compiled a whole Fougeire-Jusquiames dossier! I am flattered by the interest you take in our family! I even read the charming little passage, no doubt inspired by your stay at the château: ‘It was, this “Fougeire-Jusquiames”, like the setting of a novel, an imaginary landscape. .’ Do you take yourself for Marcel Proust, Schlemilovitch? That seems ominous! Surely you’re not going to waste your youth copying out In Search of Lost Time? I warn you now, I’m not some fairy from your childhood! Sleeping Beauty! The Duchesse de Guermantes! La femme-fleur. You’re wasting your time! Treat me like some whore from the Rue des Lombards, stop drooling over my aristocratic titles! My field Azure with fleurs-de-lis. Villehardouin, Froissart, Saint-Simon and all that lot! Snobbish little Jewish socialite! Enough of the quavering, the bowing and scraping! I find those gigolo good looks of yours devilishly arousing! Electrifying! Handsome thug! Charming pimp! Pretty boy! Catamite! Do you really think Fougeire-Jusquiames is “like the setting of a novel, an imaginary landscape”? It’s a brothel, don’t you see? The château has always been a high-class brothel. Very popular during the German occupation. My late father, Charles de Fougeire-Jusquiames, pimped for French intellectual collaborators. Statues by Arno Breker, young Luftwaffe pilots, SS Officers, Hitlerjugend, everything was arranged for the pleasure of these gentlemen! My father understood that sex often determines one’s political fortunes. Now, let’s talk about you, Schlemilovitch! Let’s not waste time! You’re a Jew? I suppose you’d like to rape a queen of France. I have various costumes up in the attic. Would you like me to dress as Anne of Austria, my angel? Blanche de Navarre? Marie Leszczynska? Or would you rather fuck Adélaïde de Savoie? Marguerite de Provence? Jeanne d’Albret? Choose! I’ll dress up a thousand different ways. Tonight, all the queens of France will be your whores. .’
The week that ensued was truly idyllic: the Marquise constantly changed her costume to rekindle his desires. Together with the queens of France, he ravished Mme de Chevreuse, the Duchesse de Berry, the Chevalier d’Éon, Bossuet, Saint Louis, Bayard, Du Guesclin, Joan of Arc, the Comte de Toulouse and Général Boulanger.