Grève brings the liqueurs. His bearing and his ceremonious manner are in sharp contrast to the free-and-easy behaviour of the three men and the woman. Murraille, chin propped in his hand, eyes bleary, gives the impression of being more than relaxed. Marcheret has loosened his tie and is leaning his entire weight against the back of his chair, so that it’s balanced on two legs. Any moment now, it’s going to tip over. And my father is leaning towards them so intently that his chest is almost pressed against the table; a pat on the back and he’d be sprawled across his plate. The few words one can still catch are those grunted by Marcheret, thickly. A few moments later the only sound to be heard is his stomach gurgling. Is it the excessive meal (they always order dishes with rich sauces and various kinds of game) or the bad choice of wine (Marcheret always insists on heavy pre-war burgundies) which has stupefied them? Grève stands stiffly behind them. He asks Marcheret pointedly: ‘Would Monsieur le Comte like anything else to drink?’ stressing each syllable of ‘Monsieur le Comte’. He says even more heavily: ‘Thank you, Monsieur le Comte.’ Is he trying to call Marcheret to order, and remind him that a gentleman shouldn’t let himself go like that?
Above Grève’s rigid form, a roebuck’s head rears from the wall like a figurehead and the animal considers Marcheret, Murraille and my father with all the indifference of its glass eyes. The shadow from its horns traces a vast interlace on the ceiling. The light dims. A power-cut? They remain slumped and silent in the semi-darkness which gnaws at them. The same feeling again of looking at an old photograph until Marcheret gets up, so clumsily that he keeps knocking into the table. Then it all starts up again. The ceiling light and the sconces shine as strongly as ever. No shadows. No haziness. Each object is outlined with an almost unbearable precision. The movements which had grown torpid become brisk and imperious again. Even my father sits up as though to a command.
They are evidently heading into the bar. Where else? Murraille has laid a friendly hand on my father’s shoulder and, cigarette dangling, is talking to him, trying to persuade him on some point they have been arguing about. They stop for a moment a few feet from the bar, where Marcheret is already installed. Murraille leans towards my father, adopting the confidential tone of one who is guaranteeing an irresistible offer. My father nods, his companion pats his shoulder as if they had at last reached agreement.
All three have sat down at the bar. Maud Gallas has the wireless playing low in the background, but when there’s a song she likes, she twists the knob and turns it up loud. Murraille pays great attention to the eleven o’clock news which is hammered out by a reader in a brisk voice. Then there’ll be the signature tune indicating the close of broadcasting. A sad and sinister little melody.
A long silence again before the memories and secrets start up. Marcheret says that, at thirty-six, he’s washed up, and complains about his malaria. Maud Gallas reminds him of the night he came into the Beaulieu in full uniform and the gypsy band massacred the ‘Hymne de la Légion’ in his honour. One of our beautiful pre-war nights, she says ironically, grinding out her cigarette. Marcheret stares at her, gives her an odd look and says that he doesn’t give a damn about the war. And that even if things get worse, he isn’t worried. And that he, Count Guy, Francois, Arnaud de Marcheret d’Eu, doesn’t need anyone to tell him what to do. He’s only interested in ‘the champagne sparkling in his glass’, and he squirts an angry mouthful at Maud Gallas’s bosom. Murraille says; ‘Come, come. .’ No, not at all, his friend is far from washed up. And what does ‘washed up’ mean anyway? Hmm? Nothing! He insists that his dear friend has many more glorious years ahead. And he can count on the affection and support of ‘Jean Murraille’. Besides, he, ‘Jean Murraille’, has every intention of giving his niece’s hand to Count Guy de Marcheret. You see? Would he let his niece marry someone who was washed up? Would he? He turns towards the others as if daring them to challenge him. You see? What better proof could he give of his confidence and friendship? Washed up? What do you mean by ‘washed up’? ‘Washed up’ means. . But he trails off. He can’t think of a definition, so he just shrugs. Marcheret observes him keenly. Then Murraille has an inspiration and says that if Guy has no objection, Chalva Deyckecaire can be his witness. And Murraille nods to my father, whose face immediately lights up in an expression of speechless gratitude. The wedding will be celebrated at the Clos-Foucré in a fortnight. Their friends will come from Paris. A small family party to cement the partnership. Murraille — Marcheret — Deyckecaire! The Three Musketeers. Besides, everything’s going well! Marcheret needn’t worry about anything. ‘These are troubled times,’ but ‘the money’s pouring in’. There are already all sorts of projects, ‘some more interesting than others’, afoot. Guy will get his share of the profits. ‘To the last sou.’ Cheers! The Count toasts the health of his ‘future father-in-law’ (odd, really: there isn’t more than ten years between him and Murraille. .), and, as he raises his glass, announces that he’s proud and happy to be marrying Annie Murraille because she has the ‘palest, hottest arse in Paris’.
Maud Gallas has pricked up her ears, and asks what he’s giving his future wife as a wedding present. A silver mink, two heavy bracelets in solid gold for which he paid ‘six million cash’.
He has just brought an attaché case bulging with foreign currency from Paris. And some quinine. For his filthy malaria.
‘It’s filthy all right,’ Maud says.
Where did he meet Annie Murraille. Who? Annie Murraille? Oh! Where did he meet her? Chez Langers, you know, a restaurant on the Champs-Élysées. In fact, he really got to know Murraille through his daughter! (He laughs uproariously.) It was love at first sight and they spent the rest of the evening together at the Poisson d’Or. He goes into great detail, gets muddled, picks up the thread of his story. Murraille, who had been amused to begin with, has now returned to the conversation he started with my father after dinner. Maud listens patiently to Marcheret, whose story trails off in a drunken mumble.
My father’s head nods. The bags under his eyes are puffy, which makes him look immensely tired. What is he playing at, exactly, with Murraille and Marcheret?