We walked in silence. He seemed surprised when I turned up the Chemin du Bornage with him rather than going straight on, to the auberge. He gave me a furtive glance. Did he recognize me? I wanted to ask him outright, but I remembered how skilled he was at dodging awkward questions. Hadn’t he told me himself one day: ‘I could make a dozen prosecutors throw in the towel’? We passed beneath a street lamp. A few metres farther on, we found ourselves once more in darkness. The only houses I could see looked derelict. The wind rustled in the leaves. Perhaps in the intervening decade he had forgotten that I ever existed. All the plotting and scheming I had done just so that I could walk next to this man. . I thought of the drawing-room of the ‘Villa Mektoub’, of the faces of Murraille, Marcheret, and Sylviane Quimphe, of Maud Gallas behind the bar, and Grève crossing the garden. . Every gesture, every word, the moments of panic, the long vigils, the worry during these interminable days. I felt an urge to throw up. . I had to stop to catch my breath. He turned to me. To his left, another streetlight shrouded him in pale light. He stood motionless, petrified, and I had to stop myself reaching out to touch him, to reassure myself that this was not a dream. As I walked on and I thought back to the walks we used to take in Paris long ago. We would stroll side by side, as we were tonight. In fact in the time we had known each other, this was all we had ever done. Walked, without either of us breaking the silence. It was no different now. After a bend in the path, we came to the gate of the ‘Priory’. I said softly: ‘Beautiful night, isn’t it?’ He replied abstractedly: ‘Yes, a lovely night.’ We were a few yards from the gate and I was waiting for the moment when he would shake hands and take his leave. Then I would watch him disappear into the darkness and stand there, in the middle of the road, in the bewildered state of a man who may just have let slip the chance of a lifetime.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is where I live.’
He nodded shyly towards the house which was just visible at the end of the drive. The roof shimmered softly with moonlight.
‘Oh? So this is it?’
‘Yes.’
An awkwardness between us. He had probably been trying to hint that we should say goodnight, but saw that I was hesitant.
‘It looks like a beautiful house,’ I said, in a confident tone.
‘A lovely house, yes.’
I detected a slight edginess in his voice.
‘Did you buy it recently?’
‘Yes. I mean no!’ He stammered. He was leaning against the gate and didn’t move.
‘So you’re renting the place?’
He tried to catch my eye, which I noticed with surprise. He never looked directly at people.
‘Yes, I’m renting it.’
The words were barely audible.
‘You probably think I’m being terribly nosy?’
‘Not at all, monsieur.’
He gave a faint smile, more a tremor of the lips, as though afraid of being hit, and I pitied him. This feeling I had always experienced with regard to him, which caused a burning pain in my gut.
‘Your friends seem charming,’ I said. ‘I had a lovely evening.’
‘I’m glad.’
This time, he held out his hand.
‘I must go in and work.’
‘What at?’
‘Nothing very interesting. Accounting.’
‘Good luck,’ I murmured. ‘I hope I’ll run into you again soon.’
‘It would be a pleasure.’
As he opened the gate, I felt a sudden panic: should I tap him on the shoulder, and tell him every detail of the pains I had taken to find him? What good would it do? He trudged up the driveway slowly as though completely exhausted. For a long moment, he stood at the top of the steps. From a distance, his figure looked indistinct. Did it belong to a man or to one of those monstrous creatures who loom over you in feverish dreams?
Did he wonder what I was doing there, standing on the other side of the gate?
Eventually, thanks to dogged persistence, I got to know them better. It being July, work didn’t keep them in Paris and they ‘made the most’ of the country (as Murraille put it). All the time I spent with them, I listened to them talking, ever meek and attentive. On scraps of paper, I jotted down the information I gleaned. I know the life stories of these shadows is of no great interest to anyone, but if I didn’t write it down, no one else would do it. It is my duty, since I knew them, to drag them — if only for an instant — from the darkness. It is a duty, but for me it is also a necessary thing.
Murraille. At a young age, he started hanging out at the café Brabant with a group of journalists from Le Matin. They persuaded him to get into the business. Which he did. At twenty, general dogsbody, then secretary to a man who published a scandal sheet he used to blackmail victims. His motto was: ‘Never threaten; only coerce.’ Murraille was sent to the victims’ homes to collect the envelopes. He remembered the frosty welcome. But there were some who greeted him with obsequious politeness, begging him to intercede with his editor, to ask him to be less demanding. These were the ones who had ‘every reason to feel guilty’. After a while, he was promoted to sub-editor, but the articles he was called on to write were of a terrifying monotony, and they all began with: ‘We hear from a reliable source, that Monsieur X. .’ or: ‘How is it that Monsieur Y. .’ or ‘Can it be true that Monsieur Z. .’ There followed ‘revelations’ that, at first, Murraille felt ashamed to be spreading. His editor suggested he always end with a little moral maxim such as: ‘The wicked must be punished’, or by what he called ‘a hopeful note’: ‘We hold out hope that Monsieur X. . (or Monsieur Y. .) will find his way back to the straight and narrow. We feel sure that he will, because, as the evangelist says “each man in his darkness goes towards the light”,’ or some such. Murraille felt a brief twinge of conscience every month when he collected his salary. Besides, the offices of 30 bis Rue de Gramont — the peeling wallpaper, the dilapidated furniture, the meagre lighting — were conducive to depression. It was all far from cheering for a young man his age. If he spent three years there, it was only because the perks were excellent. His patron was generous and gave Murraille a quarter of the proceeds. The same editor (apparently, a dead ringer for Raymond Poincaré) was not without a sensitive streak. He had bouts of black depression when he would confide to Murraille that he had become a blackmailer because he was disillusioned by his fellow man. He had thought they were good — but had quickly realised his mistake; so he had decided to tirelessly condemn their vile deeds. And to make them pay. One evening, in a restaurant, he died of a heart attack. His last words were: ‘If you only knew. .!’ Murraille was twenty-five. These were difficult times for him. He worked as film and music-hall critic for several second-rate papers.
He quickly developed an appalling reputation in the newspaper world, where he was currently regarded as a ‘rotten apple’. Though this saddened him, his laziness and his taste for easy living made it impossible for him to change. He had a permanent fear of being short of money, the very prospect threw him into a state of panic. At times like this, he was capable of anything, like an addict desperate for a fix.
When I met him, his star was on the rise. He was editor of his own magazine. ‘Troubled times’ had made it possible for him to realise his dream. He had exploited the chaos and the murk. He felt perfectly at home in this world which seemed hell bent on destruction. I often wondered how a man who looked so distinguished (everyone who met him will tell you about his unaffected elegance, his frankness) could be so utterly devoid of scruples. There was one thing I liked a lot about him: he never deluded himself. A friend from his old regiment had once accidentally shot him while cleaning his gun; the bullet had missed his heart by inches. I often heard him say: ‘When I’m condemned to death and they order a firing squad to put twelve bullets in me, they can save a bullet.’