Chapter X

At nine o’clock one morning Solange had come rushing over to my place in a panic. I’d already left. My old mate Bourgoin was there‚ coding messages for that evening.

‘You’ve got to get in touch with him right away‚ at once: you’ve got to warn everybody. That Alsatian guy of yours‚ he’s a Kraut‚ with the Gestapo‚ a traitor. Now he’s got the address of this place‚ of your operations centre and your letter drops‚ he wants to round up the entire network in one go‚ and take charge of the raid himself in order to get the reward. He’s a real bastard!’

While they were searching for me in all the places that I might be‚ I was watching the unloading of phosphorus bombs and their transfer from the railway station to ‘my’ camp. Bourgoin carried off everything that needed to be moved somewhere safe: maps‚ documents and codes. The codes especially. But he left behind the revolver hidden in a guitar that had no back to it‚ hanging on the wall.

I arrived at the Gare D’Austerlitz at about four o’clock. Bourgoin was waiting for me there: Solange was posted at the station on Place St-Michel.

It had been a relatively easy job to clear out the operations centre. They sent a kid up to the floor above‚ to ring a doorbell and then go away‚ apologizing for having made a mistake. The kid spotted some guy studiously polishing the parquet on the landing right outside the door of our office. In the caretaker’s lodge‚ a fat guy smoking cigars was sitting by the door and had the caretaker trapped.

Our guys‚ having worked out in detail what they were going to do‚ went into the next-door building‚ terrorized a bewildered pianist who’d been taking a nap and couldn’t understand what they were doing using regulation Civil Defence pickaxes to break through the wall of his bedroom. They were able without difficulty to rescue the mailbag‚ documents‚ money and even the two typewriters.

But as far as I was concerned‚ it wasn’t such a picnic. I had fifty minutes to tip off the radio operators who were due to arrive just before five. Bourgoin positioned himself downstairs on the café terrace. I went up at four thirty. Debrive was already out on the roof‚ setting up the aerial. I signalled to him to get down between two chimney pots and wait to see what happened.

Just in case‚ I handed him one of my two bakelite grenades that look like sticks of shaving soap.

The only clothing I kept on were a pair of underpants and a dressing gown. I set up my amateur painter’s easel‚ and scattered about my tubes of paint. With some fresh stuff smeared on my palette‚ I started having another go at some wretched still-life I’ll never finish. Too bad for posterity.

Ten to five. A knock at the door: it was Heisserer.

He seemed cheerful‚ all spruced up. He’d brought along a half-bottle of brandy.

I said‚ ‘Pity there’s no ice here.’ I went to fetch some glasses and a carafe‚ and ran some water from the tap.

Heisserer boasted of his prowess.

‘Three times now I’ve been stopped in the street‚ and once in the metro‚ and each time I’ve avoided being searched. I think I’ve proved myself. But in case I get caught‚ I’d really like to be taken on officially. It could be useful. Later on.’

I say‚ ‘Absolutely. Do you have a pen?’ And I hand him a form to fill out his personal details. ‘You’ll be RJ1682.’ (That’s my own code name.)

He sat by the window‚ placidly writing.

There was a string hanging down from the roof which I was supposed to pull in case of emergency. Debrive‚ sitting above my head‚ was holding the other end of it.

I walked over to the far side of the room and took down the guitar. Without raising his eyes‚ Heisserer lit a cigarette.

‘Heisserer.’

He leapt up‚ caught off guard. His eyes dilated in the most amazing way. My 92 cylinder‚ held close against my hip‚ said it all. Nevertheless I spoke.

‘You’ve got fifteen seconds. If you behave. Look at Notre-Dame.’

He knew there was nothing he could do. The smallest movement and he’d have lost this respite.

Notre-Dame is in the background: nearby is the tower of St Jacques. You can see the top of a horse-chestnut tree between two gables.

I aimed at his lower back.

It wasn’t me‚ it was a machine‚ an automaton‚ a remote- controlled robot that walked over to that repository of sapped life‚ painfully collapsed on the badly polished wooden floor thirsty for his blood‚ and finished him off with a bullet in his ear.

The two Jerries that paid me a visit a quarter of an hour later didn’t really know what they’d come for. Their mates were searching the building‚ they were doing the same. They’d divided the task between them‚ floor by floor. I delayed them for a while. When they came in‚ they stepped over a rolled-up linoleum lying in front of the doorway into the main room. Inside it was Heisserer. As I had paint on my fingers I asked them to help themselves to my papers from the inside pocket of my jacket. I opened the brandy and offered them a drink.

One of them went over to the window and said‚ ‘You didn’t hear two shots fired?’

‘Sure I did. It came from the stairwell. I don’t know how your submachine-guns are designed but I think you need to be careful the way you handle them. What’s going on round here anyway?’

They made an evasive gesture‚ the Lance Corporal asked me how many neighbours I had on the same floor – I’ve still no idea – and wanted me to go with them and act as their interpreter. I said I didn’t really want to do that‚ I wasn’t a policeman and I didn’t really want to make myself unpopular in this building where I was a new tenant. They agreed I had a point.

They didn’t check the roof.

I was told they conferred at length on the ground floor with their commanding officer: they couldn’t work out how their informer had disappeared.

Once they’d left‚ Debrive was able to climb down from the zinc roof guttering where he’d been perched. We searched the body. The bastard wasn’t even a member of the SD‚ merely accredited at Avenue Foch: all he had was a Dienstausweis [service pass]. He wasn’t armed. Even the Germans didn’t trust him. He had only six hundred francs on him. In the end we spent five on a wicker basket and a poor quality cardboad suitcase. I sent Debrive home. Although he’d knocked back what was left of the brandy‚ he was spewing his guts out. He took away the dead man’s clothes and shoes‚ with instructions to destroy them.

I’d actually once taken courses in anatomy‚ dissection even – and my mind was extremely clear. But I acted like a totally inept child. Instead of disjointing my stiff neatly‚ at the hip and shoulders‚ I set about cutting him into pieces the way you’d saw up a treetrunk. I thought it would be quite simple. The butchering‚ packaging and cleaning took all night. Pensive‚ with one eye half shut‚ the severed head watched me take care of the rest. I’d placed it on a brass platter that I bought at Bicêtre.

The upper part of the body‚ that made the suitcase bulge slightly‚ has been deposited at the left luggage at Gare Montparnasse. The lower part at Austerlitz. We’ll see what happens.

Better beware of the newly dead

Of the white-handed ghost

And the brightness of these lamps …

wrote Luc Berimont in 1940‚ in Reign of Darkness.

I’ve always felt the greatest reluctance to go anywhere near‚ to touch‚ a fresh corpse. For me‚ it’s an unseemly thing. Useless. Hostile. Cunning. Dangerous. The ‘presence’ is much stronger‚ more perceptible one hour after death than one hour before. By my observation‚ this was not the case with Heisserer.

He was entirely absent from his head‚ his hands‚ his quivering body. He was gone instantly‚ unburdened of his absurd life‚ released.

It’s no good my friends telling me the execution of Heisserer was a remarkable feat‚ trying to persuade me it averted a whole chain of disasters; this mental obsession‚ my shame and distress are beyond‚ beneath‚ the judgement of men. I don’t need to reflect‚ calculate‚ weigh up my rights and obligations‚ to find myself guilty of an offence against human nature itself. I shouldn’t have taken part in this battle‚ got bogged down in this mire. I’m stricken with remorse of a melodramatic kind: I think of his aged parents waiting for their weekly letter. Of course‚ it’s ridiculous. But no argument‚ no logic will pacify me.

It’s the act in itself that’s vile. I should have left to others the task of carrying it out. What’s excusable for anyone else‚ I myself can never be forgiven for.

The next evening I went over to see Solange. The tiredness‚ delayed shock‚ disgust had caught up with me.

I threw myself on her bed fully dressed. She sat beside me on a low chair and took my hand.

‘You see‚ he spent his last night here‚ lying where you’re lying now. He hardly slept. He was dreaming out loud‚ making plans. He said he’d soon have lots of money‚ that afterwards he’d go to South America‚ he’d take me if I wanted to go with him. And then all this (gesturing with both hands‚ she indicated the walls and the ceiling) must have got to him. In the morning he talked‚ he got it all off his chest. Then he fell asleep for an hour. When he left‚ he was worried‚ he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said to me. I told him‚ “When you started snoring‚ we were in Brazil together.” That reassured him. You shouldn’t let it prey on your mind so much. I know it was no joke having to bump him off‚ but that’s Paris taking its revenge. Think of Keep-on-Dancin’.’

The Sleeper on the Pont-au-Double

July

I was now in increasingly acute pain all of the time. In desperation‚ I turned to the Sleeper‚ having got myself an introduction from Lassenay the sapper. The brother examined my torso with probing fingers‚ asked me some questions so pertinent that I suspect he’s pursued some extremely serious medical studies.

Then he said to me‚ touching his forehead‚ ‘Things don’t seem to be quite right in there. You must be very stressed.’

If he only knew.

He placed the Sleeper’s hands on my painful side and on my head. I’m down for the third session on Sunday. I’m amazed to feel the real benefits of this mysterious therapy. It was high time I returned to form: we’re overwhelmed with work.

September

Phew! The Germans have left. Without too much devastation‚ which is a miracle. I’m working as both journalist and officer – in uniform‚ at last – redeployed to military security. I’m on celebratory duty at the paper every evening. More specifically‚ I’ve been given the task of retelling in instalments the epic story of the liberation of Paris.

If I wrote down what I really think‚ I’d be hacked to pieces. I saw a body gathered up at Les Halles – a kid in short trousers‚ fifteen years old at most. He’d attacked a Jerry truck that was flying a white flag. The kid was armed with 5.5 pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip: a 1924 lady’s handbag accessory. The real criminals weren’t in the truck.

My old neighbourhood’s been invaded by blacks from the plantations. They’re nice guys when they’re sober‚ terrible when they’re drunk.

Léopoldie and her girlfriend‚ Alice‚ are making up for lost time. They’re having a ball. Every night‚ at one of the gates of Paris‚ they smuggle themselves into the precincts of a car park‚ and make love with the blacks under their trucks. They’re doing so much ‘work’‚ they’re getting blisters on their buttocks and their shoulderblades. They’re buying everyone drinks. Pépé the Pansy regrets the departure of our former occupiers: the Yanks don’t appreciate his charms. One of them told him he smelt too bad. He’s been dousing himself with violet perfume ever since‚ which is the reason the Pignols decided to throw him out. He was making the place stink.

At Place Maubert‚ the worst scum have taken advantage of some quieter moments to get themselves photographed on the barricades‚ dressed up like buccaneers‚ striking the most heroic poses.

I cut a sorry figure in my uniform: I display my usual rank of lieutenant. Here everyone is at least a major. Only the under-twenties are mere captains.

The cops – whom we now have to glorify – have even arrested two six-pip ‘colonels-in-chief’‚ on Rue Monge. One of them was Armenian.

I’ve noticed that the flash-points in the old part of Paris have been the same since the Middle Ages. The first barricades that sprang up corresponded to only very vague strategic objectives: Rue de l’Arbre-Sec‚ for instance. But‚ it was there‚ it was on Rue Pernelle‚ Rue du Fouarre‚ Rue de la Huchette‚ Le Petit-Pont‚ true to its age-old traditions‚ that trouble broke out in the City.

My bohemian friends more wisely kept out of harm’s way on the first floor at the Quatre-Fesses‚ where Elisabeth prepared meals for them. No change has entered their lives‚ except for Théophile‚ who has returned to the priesthood. He wants to go to Black Africa as a missionary.

December

Marius Labadou‚ known as the Commander‚ was a comic character in his fifties‚ a house painter by profession‚ fond of fruity-flavoured beaujolais.

Between the wars‚ Marius Labadou belonged to that glorious band of reenlisted NCOs who carried to deprived populations in different latitudes the message of Sweet France‚ and asserted with hobnailed-booted conviction the universal brilliance of our culture.

Marius Labadou returned home with the rank of sergeant- major.

Marius Labadou‚ whom the military authorities‚ doubtless under pressure of other concerns‚ had neglected to consult before negotiating the armistice of June 1940‚ was foaming with rage at the sight of the Teutonic hordes who came streaming inside our walls. And Marius Labadou was one of the first to found a resistance organization within occupied Paris. He set about it in a prudent manner: he gathered together a group of five or six Hitler-phobic wine-lovers‚ people who could be trusted. And for four years the private back rooms of Rue de la Huchette became familiar with the regular presence of some eminently patriotic figures: Doudou the Gentle Verger‚ Lucien Domaom and his pal Collard‚ known as Teddy Bear‚ a few others‚ and Fralicot‚ nicknamed Les Eparges because of his truly epic 1914–18 war experiences. Under the enthusiastic but circumspect authority of Marius Labadou‚ these honest folk held a daily reunion‚ during which they would bring each other up to date with the latest rumours to have reached their ears that day. A discussion would follow. Bottles of increasing rarity were cheerfully drained – yet another one the Germans wouldn’t get hold of!

Domaom‚ who set great store by reaching firm conclusions‚ would grab each of his mates‚ one after the other‚ by the lapels. ‘So‚ tell me‚ d’homme à homme‚ man to man [hence his nickname]‚ that you haven’t lost hope?’ It’s partly thanks to the Labadou group that the most heartening tall stories came into being‚ circulated round Paris and reached the provinces with blitzkrieg speed.

This was the group’s main activity. I recall the day when news reached France of the outcome‚ for a long time uncertain‚ and as it turned out disastrous for the Germans‚ of a tremendous battle between armoured units somewhere on the Russian front. The Propaganda Staffel had instructed the press to emphasize the scale of military resources brought to the engagement by both sides. The newspaper Aujourd’hui appeared with this banner headline across six columns:

LA BATAILLE FUT GIGANTESQUE.

[THE BATTLE WAS GIGANTIC.]

Which set everyone on the left bank humming the rest of that classic De Profundis:

Tous les morpions moururent presque

A l’exception des plus trapus

Qui s’accrochèrent aux poils du cul.

[The crab lice nearly all died

The hardiest few alone pulled through –

It was the pubic hairs that saved them.]

(Desnos was involved in the page layout.) Oh‚ Labadou’s lot certainly had a good laugh that time. In short‚ while this team’s activity was almost nil and never caused the least harm to Axis forces‚ at least our brave tipplers had excellent intentions. I’d never concealed from Labadou the possibilities available to me of communicating with London. He asked me to pass on the news of the existence of his group‚ ‘Le Chat Qui Pêche’. Why not? I made a report to BCRA and the war went on.

During the street battles Labadou and his team were careful not to venture outside for any other reason but to stock up‚ on wine especially. ‘We have other things to do‚’ they would say archly. Discipline being the chief force of the worst shambles‚ everyone regarded this as normal. So as soon as everything had more or less calmed down‚ and a few poor wretches had been bumped off for reasons that had nothing to do with national interests‚ and the splendid falangist police so hated only the day before had been feted‚ and the whores and the blacks from the Mid-West had through a process of mutual compromise invented their own curious Anglo-Saxon dialect‚ Franco-Allied pen-pushers took over from Wehrmacht- Gestapo pen-pushers.

Marius Labadou got himself and his group ‘recognized’. A colonel who’d waged war from the safe distance of London offices‚ and a reenlisted NCO who selflessly kept up morale in the bars on Rue de la Huchette were destined to see eye to eye.

Marius Labadou was promoted to major without further ado‚ Fralicot and Domaom to captains‚ the rest to two-pip lieutenants. Who knows where they found the extremely smart‚ non-regulation uniforms with which they immediately rigged themselves out. Goering would have paled at the sight of what they displayed on their chests.

They didn’t sober up for a whole week. Marius Labadou cut a fine figure in his uniform. And that’s what brought about his downfall.

He was a widower. For some years he’d been living with a middle-aged woman‚ as husband and wife. She‚ Madame Félicienne‚ had a rather arrogant manner and was extremely houseproud. Her two-roomed apartment was crammed with knick-knacks‚ picked up here and there on Sunday strolls along the riverbanks or at fun fairs. And the china swans‚ Japanese tea cups‚ finicky brass ornaments‚ polished and buffed and patinated‚ gleamed with a heartwarming lustre. But Madame Félicienne seemed to reserve for these trinkets‚ embroidered tasselled cushions‚ and flower vases‚ an affection she withheld from human beings. With great thrift and capability she managed the household budget and took a dim view of ‘her man’ spending all his time in the company of his friends. For her‚ the Liberation should have marked the end of a dissipated existence she abhored. Whereas Labadou‚ elated by his unexpected acclaim‚ saw things differently: in no hurry to take up his paintbrushes again‚ he preferred to saunter about in uniform‚ with one or two of his cronies at his side‚ and to keep the whole neighbourhood agog with his account of feats of arms no less astounding than imaginary.

So it was that he won the heart of Louisette‚ a former model turned barmaid. Quite pretty‚ though looking prematurely the worse for wear‚ Louisette managed to transform Marius’s guardian angel into the demon of middle-aged lust.

The Major neglected his professional duties. Fed up with listening to Madame Félicienne’s recriminations every day‚ he took advantage of a row between them to pack his lightweight suitcase and clean shirts at once and move in with the infinitely younger and more desirable Louisette. The newly-formed couple were now living together within a few hundred metres of the home he had forsaken. But such were the manners and morals of the neighbourhood‚ no one took any exception to this. Life resumed its humdrum routine. Madame Félicienne bided her time. She pretended to be on good terms with her rival‚ but those who knew her warned against putting too much trust in this. Especially as Marius was now getting a pension which meant that‚ come what may‚ there was always that little extra.

Meanwhile‚ Marius Labadou lost a bit of his swagger. He caught a chill that he didn’t nurse properly. He was always doubled-up‚ coughing. His new mistress looked after him as best she could‚ but he drank far too much.

Until one dreadful morning during a spell of terribly cold weather that seemed to go on and on‚ when Marius‚ running a very high fever‚ had to be admitted to the Hôtel-Dieu where he was diagnosed with double broncho-pneumonia.

That same evening the sick man’s friends met up at Le Chat Qui Pêche. They had fallen into two camps: the supporters of Madame Félicienne‚ with a respect for time- honoured conventions‚ in other words ‘decent behaviour’; and those who saw in Louisette another chance for Marius to be young again.

Madame Félicienne and Louisette arrived separately. Louisette seemed terribly upset. Her rival by contrast looked calm and resolute. The situation was discussed.

Domaom suggested‚ ‘Since there’s nothing more we can do for Marius in terms of his medical treatment‚ the only chance we have of speeding his recovery is to go to see the Lancelin brothers and have him slept.’

Madame Félicienne expressed reservations. But she was easily persuaded there could be no serious objection to the Sleeper’s letting his thoughts dwell for two hours a day on the man whose life they wanted to save.

‘It’s like praying for the dead‚’ said Fralicot. ‘It may not do any good‚ but it certainly doesn’t do any harm.’

This argument clinched it.

The evening wore on. Everyone related stories‚ embellished to the best of the narrator’s ability‚ of miraculous cures brought about by the Sleeper and his brother. They all but resuscitated the dead. Madame Félicienne‚ however‚ had her own idea.

‘And afterwards‚ when he comes out‚ he won’t be fully recovered. What will he do‚ and whose place‚ eh‚ whose place‚ will he go back to?’

Louisette remained silent. Embarrassed‚ the others shook their heads. ‘That’s up to him‚’ said Old Collard. ‘We’re his friends‚ and we’re friends of both of you. It’s none of our business. You sort it out between yourselves.’

Domaom intervened.

‘You both want to see him come out of there‚ don’t you? Well‚ better do the same as in wartime: make an alliance to achieve your objective. For the time being‚ you should be working together. Come on now‚ Fralicot‚ as man to man …’

‘You’re something of an authority on the subject‚’ agreed Fralicot.

With their moist-eyed comrades looking on‚ the two men hugged each other.

‘I’d love to know what dirty trick she’s plotting‚’ said a voice.

Madame Félicienne’s devotion exceeded all expectation. She’d rushed over to the Lancelin brothers’ neighbourhood at the crack of dawn‚ and found out where they lived. She had to beg them: and so successful was she that when the wards opened to visitors the Lancelins were at Marius’s bedside. He seemed very low. The Sleeper laid his hands on his torso for a long time‚ so long the patient complained‚ ‘No more‚ it’s tiring.’

As they were leaving Frédéric Lancelin‚ who was supporting his brother‚ said to Madame Félicienne‚ ‘You know‚ we’ll do our utmost‚ but it’s going to be difficult.’

‘You do everything you can‚ and I’ll take care of you … For a start‚ come and have your meals at my house.’

And while Louisette did the washing-up‚ Madame Félicienne meanwhile busied herself preparing appetizing dishes. She fed the Sleeper most carefully.

‘Truly‚ I wouldn’t let anyone else but you do it‚’ said Frédéric‚ genuinely moved. ‘Since he became paralysed‚ I’ve always been the one to look after him.’

The first day Marius was conscientiously slept for several hours.

Everyone at Le Chat Qui Pêche came by for news. Marius seemed better. His fever hadn’t dropped but he was breathing more deeply and able to talk without too much effort. His eyes had brightened. And everyone was delighted. But whereas Madame Félicienne seemed mostly excited by the Sleeper’s capabilities‚ Louisette couldn’t conceal her joy: Marius was getting better. She was radiant.

This greatly vexed Madame Félicienne‚ who wasted no time in putting her rival in her place.

‘You tried to steal my man. You see where that’s led. Well‚ just you give him back to me. I’ve a rightful claim on him. For a start‚ he’s still legally resident with me. He hasn’t registered any change of address. You don’t seriously believe‚ do you‚ that I’m just going to let you pocket his pension?’

‘I don’t give a damn about his money!’ said Louisette.

Collard‚ you could tell‚ didn’t much care for Félicienne.

‘In any case‚’ he ventured‚ ‘even if he does peg out‚ you can’t count on getting the money. You’d only be his mistress‚ not his widow.’

‘That’s open to discussion. There have been similar cases brought to trial. The law isn’t the same as before‚’ Félicienne declared authoritatively‚ a little put out nevertheless.

Fralicot‚ alias Les Eparges‚ who had reason to be well informed‚ said‚ ‘Well‚ I wouldn’t be so sure myself.’

Félicienne looked thoughtful. Her expression hardened. She directed a spiteful gaze at Louisette.

‘One way or another‚ my girl‚ I’ll get my own back on you‚’ she muttered to herself.

Félicienne only very rarely went to Pignol’s. She happened to be there when Dr Troquemène was called out to see one of the lodgers.

‘Will you have something‚ doctor?’

‘No thanks. I never drink.’

‘Listen‚ you couldn’t tell me … I don’t know what’s wrong with me‚ I’ve not been able to stay awake for the past two days.’

‘Do like me‚ drink less.’

‘That’s not the problem‚ I swear.’

Not bothering to answer‚ the doctor went off shrugging his shoulders. Suzanne‚ proprietress of the Sommerard hotel‚ was there.

‘Oh‚ that guy’s so disagreeable. I’ll ask young Claude‚ one of my lodgers‚ this evening. He’s a medical student.’

‘Oh‚ that’s really sweet of you. I’ll drop by for a little chat later on.’

The next day the patient seemed to be out of danger. And the whole gang‚ confident of the virtues of the two treatments combined – that of the medical staff‚ and that of the Sleeper – drank to Marius’s health and his speedy return. But all was not well. Along came the Lancelin brothers‚ one supporting the other. The Sleeper looked much weaker than usual. Obviously worried‚ Frédéric sat him down as if he were made of some extraordinarily delicate substance. The Sleeper was shivering slightly. He muttered in gasps‚ ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve not been able to sleep. Not at all.’

‘It’s a disaster‚’ Frédéric lamented. ‘For him and for our patients.’

‘The best thing is for him to come and stay with me‚’ said Félicienne. ‘I’ll take good care of him. We’ll sit up all night with him if necessary.’

Over the following days Marius’s condition seriously worsened. But everyone’s attention – except Louisette’s – was somewhat distracted by the state of the paralytic. The Sleeper wasn’t sleeping any more‚ was unable to sleep! By day or night. He complained of palpitations. He was no more than a shadow of his former self.

Félicienne made him swallow some gruel.

‘He needs to keep his strength up.’

Louisette offered to help.

‘No‚ no‚ I manage better by myself‚’ the older woman protested peevishly.

When she was told at the Hôtel-Dieu of Marius’s death‚ Félicienne sobbed dry-eyed. Frédéric had stayed behind to look after his brother‚ who was practically unable to breathe. When the women returned he’d go and fetch a doctor – a good one. Maybe a shot of some kind of antispasmodic might bring some relief to the sleep-deprived Sleeper on the verge of exhaustion.

Frédéric went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water‚ some sugar and a teaspoon. He opened a drawer.

When the two women got back‚ Félicienne said‚ ‘It’s all over.’ She snivelled.

‘It’s all over‚’ echoed Louisette‚ pasty-faced and devastated.

Félicienne went to look for something in the room next door. Frédéric took the opportunity to signal to Louisette that he had something to tell her. He took four metal tubes out of his pocket – three empty and one half consumed. ORTEDRIN. Louisette didn’t understand straightaway. Frédéric pointed to his brother.

‘It was to stop him sleeping. She could have killed him as well.’

Louisette fainted.

The subsequent rumpus roused the neighbourhood. No one could make much sense of it. The temporary fit of madness that overcame Louisette and caused her to round on her rival with unbelievable violence was put down to despair. She tried to attack the older woman. Frédéric restrained her. Incoherent utterances were also heard‚ in which the words ‘murder’ and ‘criminal’ recurred amid sobs and rasps of rage.

Frédéric Lancelin demonstrated remarkable self-control and authority. Having calmed down Louisette‚ he asked her to help him take his brother home. Which she did‚ seemingly brought back to her senses. A car was found for them.

The next day Félicienne and Louisette ran into each other at Le Chat Qui Pêche. For a moment there were fears of another row.

To everyone’s astonishment‚ it was Louisette who apologized.

‘I don’t know what came over me. I don’t really remember. You know‚ I can’t hold my drink very well.’

And for the second time Félicienne and Louisette made peace with each other. Or pretended to.

Friends in the neighbourhood turned out in full force to accompany Marius Labadou’s hearse to Thiais.

People inquired after the Sleeper: he was able to sleep again and was back on the bridge‚ just as before. He had resumed his ‘consultations’. But it was Félicienne who began to fall apart. She often wept without rhyme or reason‚ got drunk and fell into deep depressions.

‘What have I done? What have I done?’

The neighbours would console her and take her home.

Louisette became her closest friend. One day she said to Félicienne‚ ‘You’re becoming a nervous wreck. I think you too should get yourself “slept”.’

Félicienne refused with horror. But she’d lost her willpower. Louisette kept insisting‚ slowly and surely wearing her down. It was on the nape of Félicienne’s neck‚ on her eyes and ears that the Sleeper laid his hands this time. Frédéric observed the procedure with a hardened expression no one recognized in him.

Félicienne has just been admitted to Ste-Anne. She’ll be there till the end of her days – which are numbered. She vegetates‚ sunk in a mindless state of almost permanent lethargy. Which is just as well: whenever she comes to‚ nightmares and hallucinations cause her to utter dreadful cries.

I still go and see Pierre-Luc my friend on the embankment‚ but whenever we’re obliged to walk past the Sleeper‚ I don’t know what makes me take a huge detour.