Night Rounds (6 page)

Avenue Kléber. I turn left. Cimarosa Square.
A tranquil square such as you find in the
16
th arrondissement
. The music shed is no longer in use, and the statue of Toussaint L'Ouverture has a coat of gray mold. The house at No.
3
bis
once belonged to M. and Mme de Bel-Respiro. On May
13
,
1897
, they gave a Persian costume ball there, and M. de Bel-Respiro's son received the guests dressed as a rajah. He died the next day in the fire at the Charity Bazaar. Mme de Bel-Respiro loved music, and especially Isidore Lara's "Farewell Rondel." M. de Bel-Respiro painted in his spare time. I really must mention all these details since everyone has forgotten them.

August in Paris calls forth a host of memories. The sun, the deserted avenues, the murmur of chestnut trees … I sit on a bench and gaze at the brick and stone façade. The shutters have been closed for a long time. Coco Lacour's and Esmeralda's rooms were on the third floor. I had the attic room at the left. In the living room,
a
life-size self-portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro in his Spahi
officer's uniform. For a while I stared at his face and the decorations studding his chest. Legion of Honor. Cross of the Holy Sepulcher. Danilo de Monténégro. Cross of St. George of Russia. Tower and Sword of Portugal. I had used this man's absence to appropriate his house. The nightmare will end, M. de Bel-Respiro will be back and turn us out, I told myself, while they were torturing that poor devil and he was staining the Savonnerie carpet with his blood. A number of very odd things went on at No.
3
bis
while I lived there. Some nights I was awakened by cries of pain, footsteps hurrying to and fro on the main floor. The Khedive's voice. Philibert's. I looked out the window. Two or three shadowy forms were being shoved into cars parked in front of the house. The doors slammed. The drone of a motor growing fainter and fainter. Silence. Impossible to get back to sleep. I was thinking of M. de Bel-Respiro's son and his ghastly death. He certainly wasn't equipped to face that. And Princess de Lamballe would have been equally astounded to learn a few years beforehand of her own assassination. And I? Who would have guessed that I'd turn henchman for a gang of extortionists? Yet all I had to do was light the lamp and go down to the living room, and the familiar pattern of things was at once restored. The selfportrait of M. de Bel-Respiro was still there. Mme de Bel-Respiro's Arabian perfume clung to the walls and made your head reel. The mistress of the house was smiling. I was her son, Lieutenant Commander Maxime de Bel-Respiro, on leave, and I was attending one of the parties that drew personalities from the arts and political circles to No.
3
bis
: Ida Rubinstein, Gaston Calmette, Federico de Madrazzo, Louis Barthou, Gauthier-Villars, Armande Cassive, Boufle de Saint-Blaise, Frank Le Harivel, José de Strada, Mery Laurent, Mlle Mylo d'Arcille. My mother was playing the "Farewell Rondel" on the piano. Suddenly I noted several small bloodstains on the Savonnerie carpet. One of the Louis XV armchairs had been overturned, the fellow who was screaming just a while ago must have put up a struggle while they were working him over. Under the console table, a shoe, a tie, a pen. In view of the situation there's no point in continuing an account of the delightful gathering at No.
3
bis
. Mme de Bel-Respiro had left the room. I tried to keep the guests from leaving. José de Strada, who was giving a reading from his
Abeilles d'or
, stopped short, petrified. Mlle Mylo d'Arcille had fainted. They were going to kill Barthou. Calmette too. Boufle de Saint-Blaise and Gauthier-Villars had disappeared. Frank Le Harivel and Madrazzo were no more than frantic moths. Ida Rubinstein, Armande Cassive, and Mery Laurent became transparent. I found myself alone in front of the self-portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro. I was twenty years old.

Outside, the blackout. What if the Khedive and Philibert returned with their cars? I was definitely unfit to weather such sinister times. To ease my mind, I went through every closet in the house until sunrise. M. de
Bel-Respiro had left behind a red notebook that was his diary. I read it over many times during those sleepless nights. "Frank le Harivel lived at 8 rue Lincoln. This exemplary gentleman is now forgotten, yet his profile was once a familiar sight to strollers along the Allée des Acacias…" "Mlle Mylo d'Arcille, an utterly charming young woman remembered perhaps by the staunch patrons of yesterday's music halls…" "Was José de Strada, 'the hermit of La Muette,' an unsung genius? No one cares about the question nowadays." "Armande Cassive died here, alone and impoverished…" This man certainly sensed the transience of things. "Does anyone still remember Alec Carter, the legendary jockey? or Rital del Erido?" Life is unjust.

In the drawers, two or three yellowed snapshots, old letters. A withered bouquet on Mme de Bel-Respiro's desk. In a trunk she left behind, several dresses from Worth. One night I slipped on the most beautiful among them: a peau-de-soie with imitation tulle and festoons of pink morning-glories. I've no penchant whatever for transvestism, but at that moment my situation seemed so hopeless and my solitude so vast that I determined to cheer myself up by putting on some nonsensical act. Standing in front of the Venetian mirror in the living room (wearing a Lambelle hat replete with flowers, plumes, and lace), I really felt like laughing. Murderers were reaping a harvest in the blackout. Pretend you're playing their game, the Lieutenant had told me, but he
knew perfectly well that one day I'd join their ranks. Then why did he desert me? You don't leave a child all alone in the dark. It frightens him at first; he gets used to it and winds up shunning the sunlight altogether. Paris would never again be known as the City of Light, I was wearing a dress and hat that would have made Emilienne d'Alençon green with envy, and thinking about the aimlessness and superficiality of my existence. Wasn't it true that Goodness, Justice, Contentment, Freedom, and Progress called for far more effort and vision than were mine to give? Musing thus, I began to make up my face. I used Mme de Bel-Respiro's cosmetics: kohl, and an Oriental type of henna which, so they say, gives the courtesans their fresh and velvety skin. Professional zeal carried me to the point of dotting my face with beauty marks, heart-, moon-, or comet-shaped. Then, to while away the time, I waited till dawn for the apocalypse.

Five in the afternoon. Sunlight, vast curtains of silence descending on the square. I thought I saw a shadow at the only window where the shutters were not drawn. Who's still living at No.
3
bis
? I ring the bell. Someone's coming down the stairs. The door opens a crack. An old woman. She asks me what I want. To walk through the house. She snaps back that this is out of the question, since the owners are away. Then shuts the door. Now she's watching me, her face hard against the windowpane.

Avenue Henri-Martin. The first paths entering the Bois de Boulogne. Let's go as far as the Lower Lake. I often went over to that island with Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Ever since then I pursued my ideal: examining from afar – the farthest possible – people, their ceaseless activity, their pitiless scheming. The island seemed a suitable place, with its lawns and its Chinese pavilion. A little farther on. The Pré Catelan. We came there the night I denounced the whole ring. The orchestra was playing a Creole waltz. The elderly gentleman and the elderly lady at the table next to ours … Esmeralda was sipping a grenadine, Coco Lacour was smoking his cigar… Soon the Khedive and Philibert would be badgering me with questions. A chain of figures dancing round me, faster and faster, clamoring louder and louder, and I'll finally give in so they'll let me alone. Meanwhile, I didn't waste those precious moments of respite. He was smiling. She was blowing bubbles through her straw … I see them as dark silhouettes against the light. Time has passed. If I didn't record their names, Coco Lacour, Esmeralda, there'd be no trace of their presence on earth.

A little beyond, to the west, La Grande Cascade restaurant. We never went that far: there were guards on the Pont de Suresnes. It must be a bad dream.

Everything is so still now all along the path bordering the water. Someone on a barge waved to me … I remember feeling sad when we came exploring this far. Impossible to cross the Seine. We had to come back into the Bois. I realized that a hunting party was on our track and they'd finally drive us into the open. The trains weren't running.
Too bad. I would have liked to get them off my back once and for all. Reach Lausanne, in a neutral country. Coco Lacour, Esmeralda, and I are strolling along the Lake of Geneva shore. There in Lausanne, all our fears are gone. It's the end of a lovely summer afternoon, like today. Boulevard de la Seine. Avenue de Neuilly. Porte Maillot. After leaving the Bois we sometimes stopped at Luna Park. Coco Lacour liked the ball-throwing stands and the gallery of distorting mirrors. We got into the "Sirocco" caterpillar that whirled faster and faster. Laughter, music. A platform with an inscription in luminous letters:
"
ASSASSINATION OF THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE
.
"
You could see a reclining woman. Above the bed, a red target at which the would-be marksmen were aiming their revolvers. Each time they hit the bull's-eye, the bed teetered and out fell the shrieking woman. Other bloody attractions. We weren't old enough for those things and became frightened, like three children abandoned at the height of some lunatic affair. What's left of all this frenzy, tumult, and violence? A wasteland adjoining the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I know the district. I used to live there. Place des Acacias. A sixth-floor room. In those days everything was rosy: I was eighteen, and I was drawing a naval pension with forged papers. Apparently no one wished me ill. A handful of human contacts: my mother, a few dogs, two or three old men, and Lili Marlene. Many an afternoon spent reading or walking the streets. The boys my age, so full of life, astounded me.
They held nothing back. Their eyes sparkled. My idea was that the less one was seen, the better. Painfully shy. Neutral-colored suits. That's what I thought. Place Pereire. On warm evenings I'd sit outside at the Royal-Villiers café. Someone at the next table smiled at me. Cigarette? He held out a package of Khedives and we started to talk. He and a friend of his ran a private detective agency. They offered me a job at their place. They liked my honest looks and good manners. My job was shadowing. After that, they put me to work in earnest: investigations, information-gathering of all sorts, confidential missions. I had an office all to myself at the agency's headquarters,
177
Avenue Niel. My bosses didn't have an ounce of respectability: Henri Normand, known as "the Khedive" (because of his brand of cigarettes), was a former convict; Pierre Philibert, a top police inspector who'd been cashiered. I realized that they were giving me "slightly offcolor" jobs. Yet it never occurred to me to quit the place. In my office on the Avenue Niel I took stock of my responsibilities: first and foremost, to look after Mama since she had little to live on. I was sorry I had neglected my role as family provider up to that point, but now that I was working and bringing in a steady salary, I'd be a model son.

Avenue de Wagram. Place des Ternes. The Brasserie Lorraine on my left, where I'd made an appointment with him. He was being blackmailed and counted on our agency to get him off the hook. Myopic eyes. His hands trembled. Stammering, he asked me whether I had "the papers." Yes, I replied, very softly, but he'd have to give me twenty thousand francs. Cash. After that we'd see. We met again the next day at the same place. He handed me an envelope. Everything was there. Instead of turning over "the papers," I got up and took off. You don't like to use those tactics, but they become a habit. My bosses gave me a
10
per cent commission on this type of business. In the evening I'd bring Mama tumbrels of orchids. My affluence worried her. Perhaps she guessed that I was wasting my youth for a handful of cash. She never questioned me about it.

Le temps passe très vite, et les années vous quittent.

Un jour, on est un grand garcon…

I would rather have devoted myself to a worthier cause than that so-called private detective agency. I'd have liked to be a doctor, but open wounds and the sight of blood make me ill. On the other hand, moral ugliness doesn't bother me. Innately suspicious, I'm apt to single out the worst side of people and things so I won't be caught off guard. I was perfectly at home then at the Avenue Niel, where there was talk of nothing but extortion, breach of confidence, larceny, swindles, corruption of all sorts, and where the customers we dealt with were real sewer rats. (On this last score, my employers came no better recommended.) The only positive factor: I was earning fantastic sums of money, as I've already said. It's important to me. It was in the pawnshop on the Rue Pierre Charron (my mother and I often went there; they refused to take our imitation jewelry) that I decided once and for all that poverty was a pain in the neck. You'll think I have no principles. I started out with infinite innocence of heart and mind. It gets lost along the way. Place de l'Étoile. Nine in the evening. The lights along the Champs-Élysées sparkle as they always have. They haven't kept their promise. This avenue, so seemingly majestic from afar, is one of the vilest sections of Paris. The Claridge, Fouquet, Hungaria, the Lido, the Embassy, Butterfly… at each stop I met new faces: Costachesco, the Baron de Lussatz, Odicharvi, Hayakawa, Lionel de Zieff, Pols de Helder… Adventurers, abortionists, sharpers, bogus journalists, sham lawyers and accountants who gravitated toward the Khedive and Mr. Philibert. Supplemented by a whole battery of demimondaines, strip-teasers, drug addicts… Frau Sultana, Simone Bouquereau, Baroness Lydia Stahl, Violette Morris, Magda d'Andurian… My two bosses launched me into this underworld.
Champs Élysées
: the Elysian Fields. That's what they called the joyous abode of the righteous and heroic dead. So I wonder how the avenue where I'm standing came by that name. I do see ghosts there, but only those of Mr. Philibert, the Khedive, and their acolytes. Walking arm in arm out of the Claridge come Joanovici and the Count de Cagliostro. They wear white suits and platinum rings. The shy young man crossing the Rue Lord Byron is Eugene Weidmann. Motionless in front of Pam-Pam stands Thérèse de Païva, the Second Empire's most beautiful whore. On the corner of the Rue Marbeuf, Dr. Petiot smiled at me. The Colisée's outdoor café: a group of black marketeers are gulping down champagne. Including Count Baruzzi, the Chapochnikoff brothers, Rachid von Rosenheim, Jean-Farouk de Méthode, Otto da Silva, a host of others … If I can reach the Rand-Point, maybe I can lose these phantoms. Hurry. The silence and greenery in the gardens of the Champs-Élysées. I often used to stop there. After working all afternoon in bars along the avenue ("business" appointments with the above-mentioned persons), I'd walk over to this park for a breath of clean air. I'd sit on a bench, short of breath. Pockets full of cash. Twenty thousand, sometimes a hundred thousand francs.