The invitation to visit the Péricourts haunted Albert. He had never been entirely happy about Édouard’s change of identity, he dreamed of the police coming to arrest him and throw him in prison. And what most saddened him about that was that there would be no one to take care of Édouard. And at the same time, he felt a surge of relief. Just as Édouard sometimes dimly resented him, so Albert felt bitter that Édouard had usurped his life. Since his comrade had got himself thrown out of hospital, and once they had recovered from the news that Édouard would not be able to draw a pension, Albert had had the impression that their life had settled into an orderly routine, an impression that was brutally contradicted by the arrival of Mlle Péricourt and by this invitation that preoccupied him day and night. After all, it meant sitting down to dinner with Édouard’s father, perpetuating the travesty of his son’s death, looking into the eyes of his sister, who seemed quite kind when she was not pressing money into your hand as though you were a delivery boy.
Albert spent all his time weighing up the possible consequences of this invitation. If he confessed to the Péricourts that Édouard was still alive (and how could he not?), what then? Forcibly drag him back to a family he wanted nothing to do with? That would mean betraying him. And why the hell was Édouard so determined not to go back to them, for Christ’s sake? Albert would have been more than happy. He had never had a sister, so Édouard’s family would have suited him perfectly. It had been a mistake to listen to his friend back in the hospital a year ago, he decided. Édouard had been suffering from profound depression; Albert should not have given in to him . . . but what was done was done.
On the other hand, if he did admit the truth, what would happen to the unknown soldier who, right now, was probably lying in the Péricourt family vault, an interloper whose presence they would be unlikely to tolerate for long. What would become of him?
The police would be called, Albert would be blamed. Or, worse, he would be forced to dig up the poor unfortunate soldier the Péricourts wanted to be rid of, and what would he do with the remains? They would trace it all back to the false entries he had made in the army ledgers!
Besides, the idea of going to visit the Péricourts, of meeting Édouard’s father, his sister, maybe other members of the family, without telling his friend was disloyal. How would he react if he found out?
But surely telling him was also a kind of betrayal? Édouard would be here, alone, fretting, while his friend was spending the evening with the very people he had repudiated. Because in deciding never to see them again, he was effectively rejecting them, wasn’t he?
He would write a letter, plead some unexpected emergency. But the Péricourts would only suggest another date. He would have to invent some other pretext. But they might send someone to look for him and find Édouard . . .
There seemed no way out. Everything was so confused, Albert was plagued by nightmares. In the early hours, Édouard, who scarcely slept, propped himself up on one elbow, gripped his friend’s shoulder, and shook him awake, handed him the conversation pad with a questioning look. Albert shrugged that it was nothing, but still the nightmares continued; they seemed never ending, and he, unlike Édouard, needed sleep.
After much brooding and countless conflicting thoughts, he finally came to a decision. He would go to the Péricourts’ house (otherwise they would come looking for him here), but he would hide the truth, it was the least dangerous solution. He would give them what they wanted, he would tell them how their son had died, that was what he would do. Then never see them again.
The problem was he did not really remember what he had written in his letter. He racked his brain. What had he said? A hero’s death, a bullet straight to the heart, like something out of a novel, but in what circumstances? Then there was the fact that Mlle Péricourt had met him through that bastard Pradelle. What had he told her? He would have portrayed himself in a favorable light. What if Albert’s version of events contradicted what Pradelle had told her? Who would she believe? They might think him an imposter.
The more he agonized, the more muddled his thoughts and memories became, and the nightmares returned, rearing out in the darkness like phantoms.
Then there was the awkward problem of what he should wear. He could not decently turn up at the Péricourts as he was; even in his best suit, he looked like a tramp.
Just in case he did finally decide to go to dinner at boulevard des Courcelles, he asked around to find a respectable suit. The only one he could find belonged to someone he worked with, a sandwich man rather shorter than he was who patrolled the Champs-Élysées. Albert had to tug the waist of the pants as low as possible so as not to look like a clown. He almost borrowed one of Édouard’s shirts, since he had two, but changed his mind. What if the family recognized it? He borrowed one from the same colleague, which was too small, so the buttons gaped. There remained the delicate matter of shoes. He could not find any to fit him. He would have to make do with his own, a pair of battered clodhoppers he spent hours buffing in a vain attempt to make them look half-decent. Having mulled over his options, he concluded he would have to buy a new pair, which was now possible because the recent reduction in his morphine budget had given him some breathing space. A fine pair of shoes. Thirty-two francs from Bata. Emerging from the shop with the package tucked under his arm, he realized that, ever since being demobilized, he had longed to buy himself a new pair of shoes, feeling that this, more than anything, determined a man’s elegance. An old suit or an overcoat might be acceptable, but a man could be judged on the quality of his shoes. These were pale-brown leather; wearing them was the only pleasurable thing about this whole sorry affair.
Édouard and Louise looked up as Albert stepped out from behind the folding screen. They had just finished making a new mask: ivory colored with a pretty pink mouth set in a slightly condescending sneer, with two faded autumn leaves glued high up on the cheeks that looked like tears. And yet there was nothing sad about the overall effect; it was the contemplative expression of someone detached from the world.
But the mask was nothing compared to the spectacle of Albert as he emerged from behind the screen. A butcher’s boy on his way to a wedding.
Édouard, assuming that his friend had an assignation, was touched.
Love was a subject they joked about, obviously, being young men . . . But it was a sore subject since both were young men without lovers. In the end, Albert had found that fucking Mme Monestier on the sly occasionally did him more harm than good, because it made him realize how much he missed love. He stopped screwing her, she persisted for a little while, then she stopped insisting. He saw pretty young girls here and there, in the shops, on the omnibus, many of them with no beau since so many men had been killed, girls who were waiting, watching, hoping, but Albert was no conquering hero, always glancing about him, skittish as a cat, with his battered shoes and a greatcoat that dribbled dye, he was not what anyone might call a catch.
And even if he did find himself a young lady who was not too disgusted by his appearance, what sort of future could he offer her? What was he supposed to say? “Come live with me, I share an apartment with a crippled ex-soldier who never leaves the house, shoots himself full of morphine, and wears carnival masks, but never fear, we have three francs a day to live on and a folding screen to protect your modesty”?
Besides, Albert was cripplingly shy; if things did not come to him . . .
And so he went back to Mme Monestier, but she had her self-respect, that woman, just because she was married to a cuckold didn’t mean she had no pride. Her pride was in fact rather adaptable, since the actual reason she no longer needed Albert was because she was getting screwed by the new office clerk, a man who—to Albert’s dim recollection—looked strangely like the young man who had been with Cécile in the elevator at La Samaritaine on the day Albert left his job and several days wages . . . If he had to do it over . . .
One night, he had talked to Édouard about this. He thought it would make him happy to confess that he, too, had decided he would have to give up on any idea of a normal relationship with a woman, but the situation was hardly comparable: Albert could begin again, Édouard could not. Albert might find himself a young woman—maybe a young widow, there were a lot of them about—as long as she was not too particular; he might have to search, to keep his eyes open, but what woman would have wanted Édouard, had he been attracted to women? The conversations had been painful for both of them.
But now, to suddenly see Albert in his Sunday best!
Louise gave a wolf whistle, walked over to him and waited for Albert to bend down so she could straighten his tie. They teased him, Édouard slapped his thighs and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up, making a shrill tooting from the back of his throat. Not to be outdone, Louise tittered behind her hand and said, “Oh, Albert, you look so handsome . . . ,” a woman’s words, but how old was she, this child? He was rather wounded by their extravagant flattery; even good-natured mockery can be hurtful, especially in the circumstances.
Better to leave now, he thought, besides, he needed to think some more, and having done so, with little consideration for the relative merits of the arguments, he would make a spur-of-the-moment decision to go or not to go to dinner with the Péricourts.
He caught the métro and walked the last stretch of the way. The farther he traveled, the more ill at ease he felt. Emerging from his overcrowded arrondissement filled with Poles and Russians, he encountered tall, majestic buildings lining a boulevard that was three streets wide. As he approached the parc Monceau, he spotted the house—it would have been impossible to miss M. Péricourt’s soaring mansion, outside which stood a gleaming automobile that a chauffeur in immaculate livery was rubbing down as though it were a thoroughbred racehorse. Albert was so awestruck he felt his heart stutter. Pretending to be in a hurry, he walked quickly past the house, tracing a wide circle through the adjoining streets, and came back through the park, where he found a bench from which he could just see the facade, and sat down. He felt flabbergasted. In fact, he found it difficult to believe that Édouard had been born here, had grown up in this house. In another world. And today, Albert had come bearing the most terrible lie imaginable. He was a reprobate.
Along the boulevard, bustling ladies stepped down from hackney carriages followed by maids weighed down with parcels. Delivery wagons pulled up outside tradesman’s entrances, the drivers talking with supercilious footmen who, feeling it their duty to represent their masters, appraised the crates of vegetables, the baskets of bread with a critical eye while, some distance away, on the pavement next to the park railings, two elegant young women as slender as matchsticks walked arm in arm along the street, laughing. On the corner of the boulevard, two men were bidding each other farewell, a newspaper tucked under their arms, clutching their top hats—my dear fellow! see you soon!—looking for all the world like court judges. One of them stepped aside for a small boy in a sailor suit who hurtled past, bowling a hoop, a nanny ran after him, apologizing to the gentlemen; a florist’s wagon appeared, delivering bouquets enough for a wedding, but there was no wedding, this was simply the weekly delivery, there are so many rooms, and one has to think about such things when entertaining guests, it costs a fortune I can tell you, but they laugh as they say this, it’s amusing to buy so many flowers, we simply love to entertain. Albert stared at all these people in much the same way as once, through the glass walls of an aquarium, he had peered at tropical fish that scarcely looked like fish at all.
And he had almost two hours to kill.
He did not know whether to stay here on his bench or take the métro, but where would he go? Time was, he liked to stroll along the Grands Boulevards. But traipsing up and down them with a sandwich board had changed all that. He wandered around the park, and having arrived early, he completely lost track of time.
Seven fifteen p.m. When he realized he was late, his panic level soared; he broke out in a sweat, striding away from the house only to turn back again, staring at the pavement, twenty past and still he had not made up his mind. At about 7:30 p.m. he passed the house again, crossed to the opposite side of the street, decided to go home, but they would come fetch him, they would send a chauffeur who would not be as tactful as his mistress, the whys and wherefores rattled and ricocheted inside his head, and though he never understood how it came about, he climbed the six steps to the front door, rang the bell, furtively buffed his shoes, rubbing each against the back of the other calf, the door opened. Heart hammering wildly in his chest, he finds himself in a lobby that soars like a cathedral, there are mirrors everywhere, everything is beautiful, even the housemaid, a young woman with short dark hair, she is radiant, my God, those lips, those eyes; in the houses of the rich, Albert thinks, even the poor are beautiful.
On either side of the immense hallway tiled as a black-and-white checkerboard, five-globe lampposts flanked a monumental staircase of carved yellow sandstone, whose white marble banisters traced symmetrical spirals as they ascended to the upper landing. A warm yellow glow that seemed to come from heaven itself cascaded from an imposing art deco chandelier. The pretty housemaid looked Albert up and down and asked his name. Albert Maillard. He glanced around and felt a wave of relief. Despite making every possible effort, unless he had arrived in a tailor-made suit, a pair of overpriced shoes, a top-notch top hat, a dinner jacket or a tailcoat, whatever he wore was bound to make him look like a peasant, as indeed he did. The yawning gap between their world and his, the anxiety he had felt for days, the frustration of waiting . . . Albert suddenly started to giggle, naturally, spontaneously, his hand covering his mouth, and it was so obvious that he was laughing to himself, at himself, that the pretty housemaid began to laugh, too—her teeth, my God, and that laugh, even her pink, pointed tongue was a vision. Had he seen her eyes as he arrived, or was he only now seeing them for the first time? Dark, shimmering. Neither of them knew what they were laughing at. Blushing furiously, and still laughing, she turned away; she had her duties to attend to. She opened the door on the left leading to a formal waiting room with a grand piano, tall Chinese vases, cherrywood bookcases filled with old books and leather armchairs; she gestured for him to sit wherever he liked, and could only manage to stammer “Sorry,” since she still could not contain her giggles. Albert held up his hands, giggle away, it’s all right.
Now he is alone in the room, the door has closed, the announcement is being made that M. Maillard has arrived, his laughing fit has subsided, overawed by this silence, this majesty, this opulence. He strokes the leaves of the potted plants, thinks about the little housemaid, if only he dared . . . He tries to read the titles of books, traces the intricate marquetry, his finger hovers hesitantly over the keyboard of the grand piano. He could wait for her until the end of her shift, who knows? But maybe she already has a young man? He tries one of the armchairs, sinks down, gets up again, tries the fine brushed-leather sofa, distractedly rearranges the English magazines on the low table, what should he do about the pretty little housemaid? Whisper something in her ear as he leaves? Or, better still, come back, pretend he has forgotten something, ring the doorbell, and press a bill into her hand with . . . what? His address? And besides, what could he have forgotten? He does not even have an umbrella. Still standing, he leafs through issues of Harper’s Bazaar, the Gazette des Beaux Arts and L’Officiel de la mode. He sits on the sofa. Maybe waiting around until the end of her shift would be best, make her laugh the way he did earlier. On the edge of the coffee table, an album of photographs bound in silky, fine-grained calfskin. If he invited her for dinner, how much would it cost? And where would he take her? Another dilemma. He picks up the album, opens it, Duval’s café is fine for him, but he could not possibly take a young woman there, not one who works in a great house, even in the kitchens they probably use silver cutlery, suddenly he feels a knot in his belly, his hands are sweaty, he swallows hard to stop himself from retching, he tastes bile in the back of his throat. In front of him is a wedding photograph: Madeleine Péricourt is standing next to Capitaine d’Aulnay-Pradelle.
It is him, there is no doubt, Albert would know him anywhere.
Still, he needs to check. He thumbs quickly through the book. Pradelle is on almost every page, the photographs as large as the pages of a magazine, there are crowds of people, mountains of flowers, Pradelle is smiling modestly, like a lottery winner who does not want to make a fuss but is happy to be gawked at; on his arm, a radiant Madeleine Péricourt is wearing the kind of dress no one wears in real life, bought to be worn just once, and there are morning suits, tailcoats, low-backed dresses the like of which he has never seen in life, brooches, necklaces, pale-yellow gloves, the happy couple are greeting their guests—it is him, it is Pradelle—sideboards groaning with gifts and next to the blushing bride, it must be her father, M. Péricourt, even smiling the man looks fearsome, and everywhere there are patent leather shoes, starched shirt-fronts, in the background, silk top hats hang from copper hooks, in the foreground, pyramids of champagne flutes, the liveried waiters wearing white gloves, the waltzes, the orchestra, the happy couple flanked by the guard of honor . . . Albert is turning the pages feverishly.
An article from Le Gaulois:
A Glorious Wedding
We held great expectations of this quintessentially Parisian event, and we were not disappointed by a wedding day on which grace and beauty were wedded to courage. To explain, for those few readers who do not already know, this was the wedding of Mlle Madeleine Péricourt, daughter of the celebrated industrialist Marcel Péricourt, to Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle, patriot and hero.
The ceremony itself, at Notre-Dame d’Auteuil, was a simple, intimate affair, and scarcely two dozen friends and family members will have heard the stirring homily by Monsignor Coidet. The reception was held in the Bois de Boulogne, in the 18th-century Pavillon Armenonville, whose graceful Belle Époque architecture is matched only by the modernity of its fittings. The terraces, the gardens, and the salons of this royal hunting lodge teemed with the most elegant and eminent people in society. Some six hundred guests, we are told, greeted the young bride, whose dress (in tulle and duchesse satin) was personally designed as a gift by the celebrated couturière Jeanne Lanvin, a close friend of the family. The lucky man, the dapper Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle, scion of one of France’s oldest aristocratic families, is none other than the “Capitaine Pradelle.” whose numerous heroic feats include the capture of Hill 113 from the Boches on the eve of the armistice, and whose many acts of courage have seen him decorated four times.
The président de la République, M. Raymond Poincaré, a personal friend of M. Péricourt, made a brief, discreet appearance before leaving the distinguished guests—senior political figures, including M. Millerand6 and M. Daudet,7 and a number of great artists, including Jean Dagnan-Bouveret and Georges Rochegrosse,8—to enjoy a celebration that will, we have no doubt, long be remembered.
Albert closed the book.
The loathing he felt for Pradelle had become a form of self-loathing; he hated himself that he was still afraid of this man. The very name Pradelle made him quiver. How long would this carry on? It had been more than a year since he had heard the capitaine mentioned, but he still thought about him. He could not forget him. Albert had only to look around to see the damage that man had wrought in his life. And not only his own life. Édouard’s face, his every gesture, everything about him bore the mark of that single moment when a man runs through an apocalyptic wasteland, eyes blazing, a man who sets little store by the deaths—or the lives—of others, summoning all his strength he crashes into a helpless Albert, and what follows, we already know: a miraculous rescue and the gaping void that cleaves Édouard’s face. As though war were not misfortune enough.
Albert gazes blankly ahead. So this is how the story ended. With this wedding.
Though not a philosophical man, he thinks about the nature of his existence. And about Édouard, whose sister has unwittingly married the man who murdered them both.
He sees flickering images of the cemetery, the darkness. And images of the day before, when the young woman with an ermine muff appeared with the great Capitaine Pradelle by her side, her knight in shining armor. He remembers the journey to the cemetery, Albert sitting next to the sweaty driver who shifts his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with a flick of his tongue while Mlle Péricourt and Capitaine Pradelle follow in the limousine. He should have suspected something. “Albert never could see the nose in front of his face, if it was raining soup he’d be out there with a fork. Makes you wonder if that boy will ever grow up, he’s come through a war and he’s learned nothing, it’s enough to drive you to distraction.”
A moment ago, when he saw the first picture of the wedding, his heart was beating fit to burst, but now he can feel it slowing, dissolving, ready to stop.
Bile at the back of his throat . . . Again he feels an urge to retch that he manages to stifle only by getting up and rushing out of the room.
The penny has just dropped. Capitaine Pradelle is here.
With Mlle Péricourt.
He has been lured into a trap. A family dinner.
Albert will have to sit across the table, suffer the same withering stare he endured in Général Morieux’s office when he almost ended up before a firing squad. There is nothing to be done. Will this war never be over?
He needs to leave now, to lay down his arms and surrender, otherwise he will die again, be killed again. He has to get away.
Albert leaps to his feet, rushes across the room, and just as he reaches the door, it opens.
Madeleine Péricourt is smiling at him.
“So you’re here,” she says. She sounds almost impressed, though why he cannot tell. That he found his way, that he found the courage?
Instinctively, she looks him over from head to foot. Albert too looks down, and now he sees it plainly: the shiny new shoes combined with the threadbare suit a size too small, it looks tawdry. He had been so proud of them, had wanted them so desperately . . . The shoes scream poverty.
All his absurdity is here, he despises them, he despises himself.
“Come,” Madeleine says, “come with me.”
She takes his arm, as though he were her friend.
“My father will be down in a moment, he’s very eager to meet you . . .”