Castle To Castle Part 3

He goes on and on! . . . a flood of tonic words! . . . he presses his proposition!

Why did Achille and Gertrut fall out? . . . in the first place? . . . n.o.body remembered . . . it went back too far . . . over a horse? . . . an actress? n.o.body knew . . . now it's over publishing . . . in the old days there were witnesses . . . and duels! . . . nowadays people fight over shops! . . . which would have more authors in his cellar? the foibles of two old fruitcakes! . . . I haven't told you about their looks . . . an antique vision, not much features left, it's the Period that counts! . . . do they date from before the Ferris wheel? or after? . . . Gertrut de Morny wore a monocle . . . a sky-blue monocle! . . . had he gone in for b.u.g.g.e.ry? It's possible . . . in addition to women . . . rich? . . . plenty . . . but Achille had a certain expression you could recognize him by . . . his smile . . . the terribly embarra.s.sed smile of an old chair-woman caught in the act, with her hand in the collection box . . . with Gertrut it was his monocle . . . the faces he made to keep it from falling off . . . to keep his wrinkledpouches from cutting off his eyesight . . . Achille's embarra.s.sed smile had been his main charm around 1900 . . . "the Irresistible," they called him . . . Watteau! . . . Fantin La-tour! . . . at the "Bazaar of Time" . . . on the bargain counter, all ancient articles look alike . . . monocles, grimaces, eyelids, wigs . . . smiles . . . old chair-women . . . old beaux . . .

But now it wasn't a question of ladies or the Dreyfus case! . . . this concerned me . . . his idea of appropriating my masterpieces . . . my immortal books that n.o.body reads any more (according to Achille) . . . they're so h.e.l.l-bent on doing each other dirt they don't care what they say! . . . h.e.l.l, they've got whole cellars full of Giants of the Pen! . . . much more breathtaking than me . . . alleged pederasts! alleged common-law criminals . . . alleged collaborators . . . alleged fellaghas . . . alleged s.a.d.i.s.tic maniacs . . . alleged Muscovites! . . . geniuses galore! . . . baby geniuses! . . . doddering geniuses! . . . female geniuses! . . . just plain geniuses! . . .

Let's get back to the facts of history . . . n.o.body'll ever convince me that Fred Bourdonnais, my first hustler, went out all alone in the moonlight on purpose to get himself b.u.mped off on the Esplanade des Invalides . . . people were being murdered there every day! that's right! . , . and he knew it . . . that was the fashionable Esplanade . . . he had his little vices? . . . of course! . . . but that was carrying vice too far, all by himself at midnight on the Place des Invalides! . . . what happened was bound to happen! . . . the funny part of it was that once Bourdonnais had given up the ghost at midnight on the Place des Invalides, I was sold down the river . . . like a slave . . . the Marquise Fualdes inherited me! . . . inherited, no less! . . . bandit's booty! . . . and I was sold again! . . . again! once more! . . . twice more . . . me and my immortal masterpieces! . . . No misgivings marred their pleasure! Male or female, the hustlers didn't leave me a thing . . . "he's in prison, let him croak!" I ought to know a little something about that . . . even in public school and later beyond "the blue line of the Vosges" . . . poetry was my downfall! and still is! Worse and more of it! Ah, sacrificial victim? your ugly mug! . . . your blood! your furniture! . . . your lyre! . . . your books! . . . off to the dungeon! b.a.s.t.a.r.d! the whole works . . . we're waiting for you! . . .

Do you think Brottin, who's winking at me now . . . him or Gertrut? what the h.e.l.l do I care? . . . or the Marquise? . . . ever pounded any sidewalks? Oh no, that's my job, the work is all for me . . . to think up something amusing, something . . . the pimps, male and female, who did their level best to let me croak . . . they didn't succeed . . . are still there, with their mouths wide open! waiting for a treat from me! . . . funnier! funnier! . . . demanding, stamping their feet!

Something funny? . . . that the day after the murder on the Esplanade des Invalides, I was collared! at the other end of Europe . . . and no punches pulled . . . for the count! . . . six years! . . . a melo-comic arrest! over the roofs! . . . cavalcade between the chimneys! . . . a whole commando unit of cops with revolvers drawn . . . Believe me, it was chilly on the roofs of Copenhagen, Denmark, December 22! . . . Go see for yourself . . . Tourists, take a look, nothing to fear . . . Ved Stranden Ved Stranden 20 ( 20 (tuve in Danish) you'll find . . . past the Bokelund grocery store . . . across the street, lit up day and night, the in Danish) you'll find . . . past the Bokelund grocery store . . . across the street, lit up day and night, the National Tidende National Tidende . . . the whole building . . . a newspaper . . . you couldn't get lost if you wanted to . . . well, anyway, at the end of December, the hunt for collaborators . . . the total house-cleaning frenzy was at its height . . . the Circus of Europe . . . like right now in Budapest . . . and here again tomorrow . . . like coitus, like lovemaking . . . the Great Purge is here today and someplace else tomorrow . . . it's a necessity! . . . what a windfall I was! . . . my carca.s.s! . . . I really came in handy, me and Lili and Bebert . . . from roof to roof! hunted beasts do wonders to escape the butchers! here! . . . there! . . . everywhere . . . the hunt is a sport! . . . okay, let's suppose you're avid tourists! . . . you can hunt memories! . . . the hunt is up! I know, everything gets forgotten . . . hasn't Verdun been forgotten? . . . or pretty near . . . Ypres doesn't mean a thing any more . . . but a little episode like our climb on . . . the whole building . . . a newspaper . . . you couldn't get lost if you wanted to . . . well, anyway, at the end of December, the hunt for collaborators . . . the total house-cleaning frenzy was at its height . . . the Circus of Europe . . . like right now in Budapest . . . and here again tomorrow . . . like coitus, like lovemaking . . . the Great Purge is here today and someplace else tomorrow . . . it's a necessity! . . . what a windfall I was! . . . my carca.s.s! . . . I really came in handy, me and Lili and Bebert . . . from roof to roof! hunted beasts do wonders to escape the butchers! here! . . . there! . . . everywhere . . . the hunt is a sport! . . . okay, let's suppose you're avid tourists! . . . you can hunt memories! . . . the hunt is up! I know, everything gets forgotten . . . hasn't Verdun been forgotten? . . . or pretty near . . . Ypres doesn't mean a thing any more . . . but a little episode like our climb on Ved Stranden Ved Stranden, Lili,myself, and Bebert, the roofs, the drains . . . the bulls armed, aiming their wicked rods . . . hide-and-seek around the chimneys . . . Christmas 1945! . . . seems to me they ought to remember it a little . . . Copenhagen, Denmark, Ved Stranden Ved Stranden . . . go take a look. I'd be surprised if people had forgotten all about it . . . but to tell the truth, it wasn't just the . . . go take a look. I'd be surprised if people had forgotten all about it . . . but to tell the truth, it wasn't just theNational Tidendethat stirred up the pack . . . and how! . . Berlingske! Berlingske! . . . . . . Land og Folk! Land og Folk! . . . . . . Politiken Politiken . . . their jackal press . . . the whole lot of them! . . . the whole organizations of Israelites I'd sold . . . in addition to the forts of Verdun! . . . and the estuary of the Seine! As long as I was there, as long as they had me available . . . I could pay for the King, for his . . . their jackal press . . . the whole lot of them! . . . the whole organizations of Israelites I'd sold . . . in addition to the forts of Verdun! . . . and the estuary of the Seine! As long as I was there, as long as they had me available . . . I could pay for the King, for his Dronin Dronin and the anti-Commintern pact! for the Frikorps! (their. L.V.F.!) . . . I was a gift from heaven! . . . I'd make up for it all! . . . Wipe out all the stains! . . . the blood on the keys! . . . anti-Macbeth! . . . and the anti-Commintern pact! for the Frikorps! (their. L.V.F.!) . . . I was a gift from heaven! . . . I'd make up for it all! . . . Wipe out all the stains! . . . the blood on the keys! . . . anti-Macbeth! . . .

I'd be surprised if they didn't remember! have a look see . . . Ved Stranden Ved Stranden tuve tuve . . . ground floor: Bokelund's grocery store . . . . . . ground floor: Bokelund's grocery store . . .

All their newspapers, headlines a mile high . . . their right-wing plutocrats as windy as their Commies, Bopa and company! you'll say I was an easy mark! . . . Just the thing to cement their sacred union . . . conservatives and Muscovites! . . . "do we impale him? . . . Christ, yes! . . . he's made to order . . ." No compunctions over my corpse . . . nothing but kisses! . . . I know how useful I am: the worst enemies makepeace! . . . magic! . . . magic! . . .

I have to laugh . . . Obviously I'd sold the plans of the Maginot Line . . . That was taken for granted! But the question was . . . for how much? the exact figure? . . . there were lots of suggestions . . . the widow Renault didn't sell a thing . . . for billions? . . . come, come . . . let's be serious . . . that's why there's so much talk about Louis, Emperor of Billancourt! . . . and his vertebra! and his martyrdom! I'm just as much a martyr, but no bread, you won't hear my widow or son demanding explanations! . . . there won't be any X-rays or embalming . . . h.e.l.l, no . . . your penniless martyr hasn't a leg to stand on! . . . the wells and furnaces are full of bigger martyrs than Renault! and n.o.body X-rayed them or recorded their agony . . . no Brothers of Charity . . . and their widows have remarried as quietly as can be . . . not a word out of them . . . and their sons are off fighting somewhere! . . . Dien-Pen-hu! . . . Oran! . . . and no fuss! So what do I look like griping that they've done me every conceivable wrong and that they're still persecuting me? it's an outrage, etc . . . "You cur, it serves you right!" . . . They'd do better to revive the flame . . . march up the Champs-Elysees! take the rue de Chateaudun by storm, oh, the beautiful bonfires they're planning! oh, the terrific super-Budapests! . . . not tomention all these irritations of the arteries! . . . these swollen little prostates! . , . howling tomorrows! . . . "a bottle of mineral water! . . . oh, oh, the blockheads! . . ."

Le Bourdonnais, who was murdered, was certainly a bad egg, a hypocrite and a pimp . . . oh, no more nor less than Achille or Gertrut . . . but snowed under as he was by debts, pending accounts and bad checks! . . . I've told you how it ended . . . if he'd been solvent, he'd still be alive, they wouldn't have taken him for a ride . . . but insolvent? his number was up, it was in the cards . . . Carbuccia, a flower of innocence, a tourist! . . . "According to who you are" . . . well, me and my white elephants . . . you can imagine what happened to me in all this! handed over . . . bag and baggage . . . to those depraved grocers! . . . they'd never stuffed their bellies so full! . . . pigs! . . . the worst thing about them is their weight, heavy heavy! . . . their deceit . . . big fat layers, their subtleties stick to your fingers . . . it takes you hours to get your hands clean . . . sticky! . . . Le Bourdonnais was washed up . . . young hippopotamus! three guesses whether they saw him coming . . . with his clumsy tricks! . . . on the Esplanade at night . . . a big hole in his back! . . . laid out cold! . . . in the moonlight! the Fualdes dame inherits . . . inherits me and sells me off . . . pa.s.s to Achille . . . that's football for you, my treasures! my geniuses! . . . rugby! . . . Fualdes receives, gets away! . . . Achille scores and wins! . . . takes the whole pot . . . stows me away in his cellar! . . . me and my white elephants! . . . I disappear from view! the Marquise de Fualdes digests . . . Old stuff! . . . The times have changed . . . Whoopee! Bagged and gagged . . . A laugh! see you next year on the ice!

A buck private in all that . . . a square like me! . . . spoiled darling! . . and, I repeat, it doesn't date from yesterday . . . ever since public school on the rue Louvois . . .which doesn't make us any younger . . . takes you back to the Impressionists, to the Dreyfus case! public school is the keynote of the people . . . Mauriac can talk "Communist," he'll never know what he's talking about! He's a hundred percent Chartron! Chartron! and will be to his dying day . . . Chartron! Chartron! I flatter him! I flatter him!

So just then . . . when the cold feet were hanging out flags . . . when the tremblers were looting, when the deserters were triumphant, when the gollywobblers were coming up strong, when forty million yellow-bellies were taking their vengeance, it wasn't exactly the time for me to show my face! It was as if Larengon the apostate or Triolette in her "double-duty bikini" were to cross the bridge in Pest . . . If I'd been at my mother's on the rue Marsolier, they'd have got me . . . like Le Bourdonnais! . . . bam! bam!. . . like on the rue Girardon . . . "you stink" . . . that's reason enough! "He's got it coming to him . . . that's all . . . Bring him out!" Vaillant, who's boasted plenty and still regrets bitterly that he missed me, and by so little . . . there he wouldn't have missed me . . . if I'd been at my mother's aged seventy-four . . .

They left me nothing . . . not a handkerchief, not a chair, not a ma.n.u.script . . . if I'd been a stiff I would have stunk . . . I'd have inconvenienced them . . . like this I wasn't in the way, they were able to cart everything off and sell it at the Flea Market! at the Auction Rooms! . . . coming up hard with the joy of it! . . . Sold out . . . I'm like France . . . sold out, bag and baggage! . . . birth certificate and all! . . . sixty-three in a week! . . . a.s.sa.s.sins, you've got him by the b.a.l.l.s! . . . diving off the Budapest bridge? how many like me?

It'll be mighty amusing someday if a future Lenotre digs up our tombs and our statues, our halos and our bank deposits . . . to see how much the "pure" took in . . . how many de Beers shares? How many Rhone shares? How many castles, wh.o.r.es, treasures, stables, emba.s.sies? . . . more than in '89? . . . less? . . . What debates! . . . at the Sorbonne! . . . at the Trois Magots! . . . in the Annals! Annals! . . . and if Hitler had won . . . Aragon joining the S.S.? Triolette a charming Walkyrie? . . . ah, those lectures! . . . an earful! . . . In the . . . and if Hitler had won . . . Aragon joining the S.S.? Triolette a charming Walkyrie? . . . ah, those lectures! . . . an earful! . . . In the Annals Annals for the year 2000 . . . the grand Communist marquises fighting for seats for fear of missing a single session! . . . a single one of their super-super Herriot's dazzling fights . . . with his rear end ten times as big as our Herrioet's . . . not to mention the sensa-a-ational Abbe Pierre . . . ten revolvers! for the year 2000 . . . the grand Communist marquises fighting for seats for fear of missing a single session! . . . a single one of their super-super Herriot's dazzling fights . . . with his rear end ten times as big as our Herrioet's . . . not to mention the sensa-a-ational Abbe Pierre . . . ten revolvers!

To h.e.l.l with the future . . . let's get back to our own affairs! that Gertrut should screw Brottin? . . . h.e.l.l, why not? . . . that they should cut each others throats! by all means! if you see him with his eyes hanging out, be sure to tell me about it for kicks . . . I'm speaking of Achille . . . let them skin each other alive . . . both of them . . . bright red, scarlet . . . peeled! . . . a good show! but before they fix each other up, listen to this! . . . it's funny! . . . in the days of the Hippodrome on the Place Clichy, Gertrut and Achille both had a hard-on for the same woman, one of those eaters of gold francs! a rival of the Bank of France! . . . anybody who remembers those "good old" days remembers Suzanne . . . what a screen artist! and her vaporous negligees against a background of "soft blue light!" of "moonlight" . . . what a sublime artist, absolutely silent, no talkies in those days . . . it's the word that kills! . . . a woman that talks softens your p.e.c.k.e.r, ah, theycame up hard at the silent pictures! . . . Take a look at the movie houses today! the trouble they have filling up! . . . blah-blah-blah . . . crushing, soporific . . . gloomy b.a.l.l.s . . . soft c.o.c.ks! . . . smiles, vaporous negligees! tender music! well be going back to all that! . . . and moonlight! I can safely say that you'll never find an idol who can hold a candle to Suzanne . . . not even with floods of money, tomtoms, and scandal . . . it's no use trying . . . I who had no time to spare, h.e.l.l, no! . . . between deliveries . . . I still managed to gallop out past Becon to see Suzanne in person on the set! . . . gives you an idea what an idol she was! . . . between La Garenne and Nanterre . . . whenever it stopped raining, they took advantage! . . . between the rubble heaps . . . hiring on the spot . . . we made up the crowd . . . I was a kid in the crowd . . . between showers, five francs! . . . two francs . . . a whistle blew! . . . everybody take shelter! . . . the first drop! under the bridge! save the equipment from the rain . . . and the dresses with their muslin trains! and the stars' makeup, carmine and oil and plaster of Paris! . . . beauties that had warmth . . . Did we help! . . . we husky extras weren't the only ones to help them to the shelters! the sightseers helped too! . . . the crowd! . . . when the whistle blew! and the first drop fell! everybody! and Suzanne!

What's become of all that? . . . I ask you . . . the stars and the extras? . . . and the crowd? . . . and the rain . . . what rain! . . . speaking of those far-off days I can say one thing: The real thing is dead! . . . I know . . . a fellow like me, still attentive to the real thing . . . looks like an a.s.s! . . . For no reason at all . . . and they're proud of it . . . they crushed the wh.o.r.ehouses and street fairs . . . some jerk-off! . . . now the juice squirts all over the place! . . . the whole place is a wh.o.r.ehouse . . . and a street fair . . . from cradle to grave . . . all f.u.c.ked up! The real thing is dead. Verdun killed it! Amen! . . .

Maybe I'm going to bore you . . . something funnier? . . . more t.i.tillating? . . . Maybe . . . ? All I care about . . . you know that . . . is giving you a laugh . . . Even before the days of Suzanne, I knew the Hippodrome with its horsesand wild animals! the big stable! and what mobs! . . . such crowds that the omnibus gave up! . . . at La Trinite . . . couldn't even get started! jam-packed with enthusiasts. And what a show! men, lions, and horses, Marines, Boxers, the capture of Peking! Those are the things that give you the right frame of mind! a sense of art! I don't know many writers of the so-called left or right, holy-water addicts or Commies, conspirators of the cellar cafes or of the Lodges, who ever saw the storming of Peking like I did on the Place Clichy . . . and the bayonet charge of our little Marines! the storming of the wooden ramparts . . . the clouds of powder smoke! . . . and boom! . . . at least twenty cannon . . . all at once! . . . Sergeant Bobillot taking on a hundred Boxers singlehanded! . . . grabbing their flag! . . . and planting ours, our tricolor! on their pile of corpses . . . square in the middle! . . . Peking was ours! And the fleet! coming down from the grid! the Courbet Courbet on canvas! . . . the works . . . those were the shows! Those shows formed the spirit! on canvas! . . . the works . . . those were the shows! Those shows formed the spirit!

Oh, wait . . . something even more terrific than Peking! . . . the attack on the stagecoach . . . by three tribes of mounted Indians . . . bareback . . . you need to have seen those things! Where would you find two hundred Indians riding bareback today? . . . plus Buffalo Bill in person! . . . shooting an egg in mid-air . . . in full gallop! you won't find that in a hurry . . . no Hollywood hok.u.m! . . . that egg in mid-air . . . Buffalo Bill and his boys . . . the genuine article, spitting flames! . . . ah, and the best of all! . . . I forgot to tell you . . . Louise Michel! . . . Nowadays they talk about sensations! suspense! what have they got? Nothing! . . . there on the Place Clichy you didn't talk, you just looked and trembled . . . look . . . the main attraction! Louise Michel rising out of the darkness! deathly pale! all the spotlights converging . . . for half a second! "Bow-wow!" . . . she seemed to be climbing on a chair . . . bow! wow! bow! wow! . . . Angry! . . . out with the lights! . . . my grandmother had lived through the Commune on the rue Montorgueil she knew . . . "That's not Louise Michel, my boy . . . it's not her nose or her mouth!" . . . you couldn't fool my grandmother . . . . . . Angry! . . . out with the lights! . . . my grandmother had lived through the Commune on the rue Montorgueil she knew . . . "That's not Louise Michel, my boy . . . it's not her nose or her mouth!" . . . you couldn't fool my grandmother . . .

Nowadays it's out of the question, you won't see Khrushchev, Pica.s.so or Triolette climbing on a chair . . . the Desmoulins-Palais Royal effect! . . . not those pallid shouters . . . appearing under the spotlights "bow! wow!" . . . Th.o.r.ez perhaps? Mauriac? . . . Th.o.r.ez perhaps? Mauriac?

One thing is sure, nose or no nose, Louise had a perfect right! "bow! wow!" . . . and angry! . . . and how! . . . I say it and I'll say it again louder . . . later on! . . . when I have time to think about it . . .

I've known him since the Dreyfus case! . . . he gets worse every year! . . . every month! . . . the crustiest pirate of them all! of the whole publishing trade! . . . him and his whole gang . . . there's nothing lower . . . You're the laughing stock of his whole shop! . . . the whole b.u.g.g.e.ring mob! . . . the way they fleece you . . . champion sucker . . . only too happy to be sabotaged, looted, and insulted! . . . what a crew! . . . him and his head eunuch Loukoum!"

Gertrut of the sky-blue monocle, naturally he wasn't telling me anything new . . . h.e.l.l, no . . . Gertrut Berengeres, I could have sold him some dirt . . . I knew Achille was crossing me up, I knew all about it! my, oh, my! When you come to think that he . . . old Gertrut . . . had plenty of time to spare and money coming in . . . he could afford to dig up scandals that were of no interest to anybody, except maybe himself . . . the bilious chit-chat of 1900.

To h.e.l.l with all that! Gertrut! Achille! those crooks . . . I only had one thing on my mind . . . cold cash and good-bye! . . . what was I going to leave Lili? . . . quid quid? . . . how? . . . what? . . . that little nest egg? . . . but there's the rub! . . . nest egg, it's easy to say! . . . with me gone? my last gasp? I could see the rush of "claimants''! . . . the mob! . . . once the animal is dead, you see them swarming, stampeding . . . those jaws! . . . all with claims . . . with papers, without papers . . . seals, stamps . . . or without! . . . pouring out of every Metro station! . . . crocodiles with tears . . . without! . . . those teeth! all with claims! Lili will be evicted p.r.o.nto. . . . out on the street . . . I can see it as if I was there . . . she's incapable of defending herself! . . . exactly the same story as on the rue Girardon . . . or in Saint-Malo . . .or Copenhagen, Ved Stranden Ved Stranden 20 (tuve) 20 (tuve) . . . the same sect . . . the claimants . . . absolutely international . . . adapted to every climate . . . the same crooks . . . wherever you go . . . regardless of regime, philosophy, creed, or color . . . any pretext will do . . . they descend in swarms . . . like locusts . . . and you won't see Lili defending herself! . . . no! . . . the exact opposite . . . it's sad . . . romantic-sad . . . a dancer . . . . . . the same sect . . . the claimants . . . absolutely international . . . adapted to every climate . . . the same crooks . . . wherever you go . . . regardless of regime, philosophy, creed, or color . . . any pretext will do . . . they descend in swarms . . . like locusts . . . and you won't see Lili defending herself! . . . no! . . . the exact opposite . . . it's sad . . . romantic-sad . . . a dancer . . .

Why kid myself . . . Private worries, you'll say . . . but even so . . . n.o.body . . . Gertrut, Brottin, or anyone else . . . will advance me a plug nickel for a book like Normance Normance, and that's that . . . what the readers want is a laugh . . . in the first place Paris was never bombed . . . not a single commemorative tablet, isn't that proof enough? . . . I'm the only one who still remembers two, three families buried under the nuns . . . as far as sales are concerned, Normance Normance was a total flop . . . for one reason or another . . . in addition to being sabotaged . . . and then some! . . . by Achille, his clique, his ferocious lackeys, and the hatchetmen of the press! . . . I was expected to be provocative, to grind up some more Palestinians, to run myself back into the cooler! and for good! . . . "benefactors" they call themselves . . . chin up, boy . . . a rap to end all raps! . . . twenty years, my dear sir . . . life . . . oh oh, they've got the wrong slant! . . . I'm waiting to see them all pulled in . . . thugs, all flirting with the guillotine, hard labor, and solitary! to see our beautiful Guyana reopened for them! Devil's Island restored . . . with a little bonus thrown in, a little something on the tongue for each one of them . . . an epithelioma or two . . . a whole a.s.sortment . . . between the carotid and the pharynx . . . was a total flop . . . for one reason or another . . . in addition to being sabotaged . . . and then some! . . . by Achille, his clique, his ferocious lackeys, and the hatchetmen of the press! . . . I was expected to be provocative, to grind up some more Palestinians, to run myself back into the cooler! and for good! . . . "benefactors" they call themselves . . . chin up, boy . . . a rap to end all raps! . . . twenty years, my dear sir . . . life . . . oh oh, they've got the wrong slant! . . . I'm waiting to see them all pulled in . . . thugs, all flirting with the guillotine, hard labor, and solitary! to see our beautiful Guyana reopened for them! Devil's Island restored . . . with a little bonus thrown in, a little something on the tongue for each one of them . . . an epithelioma or two . . . a whole a.s.sortment . . . between the carotid and the pharynx . . .

That's all very well . . . But in the meantime Brottin gives me the lowdown: no soap! . . . "You sell less and less . . . your Normance Normance? . . . a disaster . . . nothing in it to put you back in the clink . . . no p.o.r.nography . . . no fascism . . . poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d! . . . the critics, though . . . poison fangs! the whole works! all ready! . . . it's impossible . . . they're disgusted with you! . . . what about their their hamburger? . . . heartless! . . . their pay envelopes? . . . their families? . . ." hamburger? . . . heartless! . . . their pay envelopes? . . . their families? . . ."

"Stop writing," you'll say . . . you're perfectly right . . . but what about Lili, the dogs and cats, the birds, and the snowdrops . . . we had some this winter . . . maybe you've got some idea?

In fact, I can a.s.sure you: even living at rock bottom . . . cutting down on everything . . . it's a hard fight with the elements, winds, drafts, humidity, coal bills! . . . cauliflower, smoked herring! the fight to go on living! . . . carrots! . . . or even crusts of bread!

But what about my style and my masterpieces? . . . cabala, boycott . . . naturally! I say string up all the plagiarists! and not only the plagiarists, the incompetents too! G.o.d knows! . . . at Achille's alone, thousands of them . . . for my money Dumel, Mauriac, Tartre, same noose! . . . the dozen Goncourt prize winners on the next tree! . . . oh, and I forgot the Archbishop of Paris! before the "due process" crowd . . . we wouldn't want that . . . start asking for his head at the Porte Brancion.

Talking about gas and such trifles, the bill's due tomorrow . . . I owe for two "readings" . . . I owe the tax collector, too . . . I owe for coal . . . I repeat myself? . . . h.e.l.l . . . in the same situation . . in the same mess . . . you'd be yelling so hard they could hear you in Enghien . . . they'd have to come and get you . . . with sedatives and straitjackets! Lili and I've been going on like this for fifteen years . . . with the pack at our heels . . . Fifteen years is a long time . . . the ferocious Teutonic occupation was only three years at most . . . think it over!

I see that I'm boring you . . . change the record! . . . string up the bourgeoisie? . . . the bourgeois of all parties . . . I'm all for it, posolutely! A bourgeois is a hundred percent stinker . . . I'm thinking of one in particular, Tartre! the cream of the sewer! the way he slandered me, moved heaven and earth to have me drawn and quartered, I vote him five . . . or six nice malignant tumors between the esophagus and the pancreas . . . top priority!

Tartre robbed me and slandered me . . . don't try to tell me different . . . but no worse than my relations . . . and he'snot amusing like my aunt! . . . far from it . . . my aunt's shock . . . practically a stroke . . . at seeing me again! . . . that I wasn't dead! . . . that they hadn't executed me! . . . "You? Your . . . she couldn't believe it . . . "You here?"

As you can imagine, she'd helped herself . . . walked off with three pairs of curtains, six chairs, and all the enamel saucepans . . . not that she needed any of it . . . h.e.l.l no! . . . she had two . . . three . . . of everything . . . but as long as everybody was helping himself and I was her nephew, why shouldn't she too? . . . she, empty-handed? . . . when my joint was being sacked . . . by total strangers . . . and she was my aunt after all . . . In the first place I had no business coming back . . . I was supposed to die in prison . . . hanged . . . impaled . . . naturally she should inherit . . . the most natural thing in the world . . . Tartre inherited from me, too . . . and plenty of others! . . . "h.e.l.lo, auntie" . . . she jumps out of her bed in her nightgown to look at me! me! "He murdered his mother! . . . arrest him! . . . arrest him!" . . . Her first words . . . straight from the heart! so overcome with emotion that she ran out screaming, denouncing me: "Monsieur le Prefet! Help! Help! arrest him! He killed his mother! Monsieur lePrefet! Help!" . . . down the Faubourg Saint-Jacques and along the Quais . . . "Help! . . . help!" The cops caught her on the run, beat her up at the police station . . . took her to a different station . . . released her . . . beat her up again! 'It's him, it's him! . . ." She started in again . . . in the middle of the night on the Quai des Orfevres . . . she wanted the prefect of police to step in . . . to throw me back in stir . . . so I'd never come around asking for a chair . . . That was my aunt! . . . friends, relatives, all the same! . . . scavengers when you're outlawed! . . . after spending the rest of the night running around the Food Market, shouting that I had murdered my mother, galloping from one stall to another, she finally collapsed in a pile of leeks! . . . that time they trussed her up . . . took her to the hospital . . . she was still yelling that I was this . . . that . . . any d.a.m.n thing . . .

Once they've stolen everything you own . . . your furniture,ma.n.u.scripts, knicknacks, curtains . . . you can expect the worst . . . especially from relatives and friends . . . your vicious benefactors! . . . meaner than, a sawed-off shotgun . . . the pa.s.sion they put into tracking you down . . . my aunt in the bughouse . . . Tartre gone Commie . . . every last one of them ready to throw an epileptic fit if I even looked at them . . . As I said, Auntie wanted for nothing! Or Tartre! . . . well-heeled . . . everything in duplicate! in triplicate! . . . in town . . . in the country . . . frigidaires, automobiles, lackeys . . . the horn had been sounded for me . . . they were in on the hunt . . . that's all . . . Anything for me to be surprised about? . . . stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d! . . .

I'm sidetracking you with trifles . . . I was telling you about Gertrut Morny . . . his keen interest in me . . . Tartuffe! . . . that I should leave Achille, that contemptible, scheming saboteur, for the Editions Berengeres . . . that Achille was my ruin . . . that Loukoum's greatest joy . . . him and his whole tribe . . . was reducing me to nothing . . . at the bottom of their cellar . . . me and my white elephants . . .

But what about Gertrut? . . . I've told you about his face . . . not an old chair-woman like Achille. More the musketeer type, with a musketeer's goatee . . . plus the big sky-blue monocle . . . sure . . . he handed me a line, promised me the moon . . . the sales I'd have . . . I'd recapture the "public favor"! It's true I hadn't much to lose! I couldn't have found a bigger crook than Brottin! . . . for eighty years and then some whole generations of authors had been trying to make a dent in his pocketbook, he'd never coughed up, not twenty francs! . . . in the battle for advances! . . . Achille put up the resistance of a Hercules! but maybe there was one little ruse that might work . . . get him to fork out ten thousand . . . twenty thousand . . . No harm in trying. "So long, Achille! I'm leaving . . . sick of your face . . ." He runs after you . . . with his sweetest smile . . . what hatred! Suits me! Let him hate me!

I didn't trust Gertrut around the corner . . . guess I've told you . . . but he was really rich, never a dull moment, when you got him started on Achille . . . the anecdotes, going back thirty! forty! years . . . the rottenness of that man . . .showed me what I could expect of him! he cheated right down the line . . . at everything . . . at cards, at the races, at Enghien, at the Stock Exchange . . . he couldn't help it . . . the way he hornswoggled his authors, his employees, his maids . . . the bogus loans . . . that they never saw . . . vouchers, contracts . . . flimflam . . . made them sign releases . . . receipts! . . . how many had committed suicide, fished out of the dam at Suresnes? . . . including giants of the pen and ladies once famous who'd be a hundred and thirty years old today!

Enough chit-chat . . . here comes the man to read the water meter . . . I'd better be thinking about that kilo of noodles, that smoked herring . . . Hatred or not, Gertrut had the faraway "don't-bother-me" look of the rich . . . he didn't understand about noodles . . . they were brutes of a feather . . . the same exasperation . . . you, yes you, stupid, how dare you mention noodles to them . . . rich people are only interested in sport . . . the Stock Exchange, the paddock . . . the sport of making their Suez stock go up . . . of swiping each other's actresses, having them mounted by their jockeys . . . the sport of pa.s.sing red lights . . . every known sport . . . they drool, they're coming apart at the seams, but never a charity ball without them . . . and the little c.o.c.ksuckers . . . and kidnapping each other's authors . . . but there is one sport they avoid like the plague . . . writing . . . they'd sooner s.h.i.t in bed . . . publishers aren't crazy! Writers die of toil? What of it? . . . so do donkeys . . . what would Achille do with a piece of paper? Just tell me that . . . what sport? . . . what rotten thing would he make? Or Gertrut? . . . paper dolls? . . .

If only, for instance, I could count on the critics . . . just a little publicity . . . even insulting . . . not Mauriac's whole circus, of course not . . . confessionals and playful urinals! . . . or Trissotin Tartre . . . the united survivors of twenty years of blah-blah-blahl . . . no . . . I'd be satisfied with a few murmurs . . .

I can do without? Think so? . . . But don't say I didn't try.

Time to take action . . .

When it comes to action, I'm Napoleonic . . . Let's go. Arlette on one arm . . . Simon on the other . . . and forward march! Is that the studio up ahead? . . . we'll take it by storm . . . here we go . . . rejoice and take heart! . . .

Alas! . . . this cavern? The ruins and leftovers of three . . . maybe four Expositions! funereal bric-a-brac . . . and under that vaulting? higher than three . . . four Notre-Dames . . . all papier-mache, stucco, giant canopies . . . This is it . . . this is the place . . . Oh, solemn moment . . . our voices . . . no good! we start all over . . . another recording . . . First Simon! . . . I've got to admit, I was moved. . . the phony vaulting resounds! . . . or if it's not the vaulting it's an amplifier! and myself, usually so soft-spoken, my voice is so horrendous it almost puts me to flight . . . what an effect! . . . I wouldn't have believed it . . .

Not at all, they say . . . you won't leave without singing something? . . . no false modesty if that's what they want . . . here we go . . . one! two! . . . vaulting or no vaulting . . . I ask the M.C., the one who speaks French a little . . . if the idea is to put them on sale? . . . my songs, my harmonies and false notes? . . . If maybe I could . . . ? Just a little record? . . .

"Oh no, Maitre! No, later! . . . much later, I hope! . . . for our discotheque . . . your necrological recording!"

I saw what they were after! Later? later? . . . I disagree! . . . the prose, the readings . . . perhaps . . . but the songs, oh no, just as they are and right away . . . a bit of eternity on the wing.

I wasn't going to tell them that.

I won't go macabre on you and start in on waiters, undertakers, etc. . . . not . . . I was talking about paupers' graves . . . not the local cemetery . . . further out . . . in Thiais . . . or even further . . . but once I'm gone . . . what about Lili? . . . the cats . . . the dogs . . . I can't see Lili taking care of herself . . . she's not made that way . . . all those "claimants" swooping down . . . friends, relatives, bailiffs, vultures of all kinds . . . oh, it's nothing new to us . . . we've seen pillage . . . here, there, everywhere . . . But Lili all by herself?

"He got everybody down on him . . . Lousy racist, we didn't loot him enough . . . let's ma.s.sacre his widow!"

I protest too much? . . . not at all . . . my racist ideas haven't anything to do with it! Gang of Tartuffes! . . . The white race went out of existence long ago . . . look at Ben Youssef! . . . Mauriac! . . . Monnerville! . . . Jacob! . . . tomorrow Coty . . . What's all the fuss about . . . It's the Journey Journey that got me into all this . . . My most relentless persecutors date from the that got me into all this . . . My most relentless persecutors date from the Journey Journey . . . n.o.body's forgiven me for the . . . n.o.body's forgiven me for the Journey Journey . . . it was the . . . it was the Journey Journey that cooked my goose . . . Maybe if my name had been that cooked my goose . . . Maybe if my name had been Vlazine Vlazine . . . Vlazine Progrogrof . . . If I'd been born in Tarnopol on the Don . . . but in Courbevoie, Seine . . . Born in Tarnopol on the Don they'd have given me the n.o.bel Prize years ago . . . but coming from right here, not even a Sephardim . . . they don't know where to put me . . . to blot me out . . . what dungeon to hide my shame in . . . what rats to invoke . . . France for the French! . . . Vlazine Progrogrof . . . If I'd been born in Tarnopol on the Don . . . but in Courbevoie, Seine . . . Born in Tarnopol on the Don they'd have given me the n.o.bel Prize years ago . . . but coming from right here, not even a Sephardim . . . they don't know where to put me . . . to blot me out . . . what dungeon to hide my shame in . . . what rats to invoke . . . France for the French!

If I were a naturalized Mongol . . . or a fellagha like Mauriac, I'd be driving a car, I could do what I pleased . . . secure in my old age . . . coddled and fussed over . . . my standardof living, boy oh boy! . . . I'd pontificate from my hilltop . . . To hand out enormous lessons in virtue, in intransigence . . . in mysticism! . . . I'd be on television every day, you'd see my icon all over the place . . . I'd be worshiped by all the Sorbonnes! . . . If I'd been born in Tarnopol on the Don, my old age would be one happy holiday, I'd average two-hundred thousand a month on the Journeyski Journeyski alone! Altman won't say different . . . neither will Triolette or Larengon . . . alone! Altman won't say different . . . neither will Triolette or Larengon . . .

I'll try it one of these days . . . well see.

But born in Courbevoie-sur-Seine, you see, they don't let anything by . . . they never will . . . the only resister in the place! that's outrageous . . . can I prove it? the proof is that you won't find me in the dictionary . . . under doctor-authors . . . or at the stationery store . . . or anywhere else . . . same with the Brottin Ill.u.s.trated Brottin Ill.u.s.trated . . . the "Punctual Review of Bromidics" . . . absolutely not . . . Norbert Loukoum wanted to put me in but a.s.s backwards . . . that was his idea . . . words, text, pages, all upside-down . . . I called him a c.o.c.ksucker and worse! told him he had an incestuous mouth, etc. . . . that he was one big lump of s.a.d.i.s.t-bite-me . . . we parted on those words . . . "My 'Excremental Review' is closed to you!" . . . which was what I expected . . . oh! the Bromidic Review! . . . not for me . . . there were other ways of fishing for noodles . . . other strings to my bow! Help me, Hippocrates . . . yes, the patients are few and far between . . . I've told you that . . . but you can never claim to have lost every single patient . . . the chiropracters, faith healers, nurses, ma.s.seurs, and so on always let a few slip through their nets . . . oh, not enough to pay for my license . . . or my dues to the Medical a.s.sociation, or my life insurance . . . or to pay the plumber . . . or buy me a subscription to the Medical Review . . . which gives you an idea of our economic situation! my oh my! the poorest of the poor are spendthrifts by comparison . . . . . . the "Punctual Review of Bromidics" . . . absolutely not . . . Norbert Loukoum wanted to put me in but a.s.s backwards . . . that was his idea . . . words, text, pages, all upside-down . . . I called him a c.o.c.ksucker and worse! told him he had an incestuous mouth, etc. . . . that he was one big lump of s.a.d.i.s.t-bite-me . . . we parted on those words . . . "My 'Excremental Review' is closed to you!" . . . which was what I expected . . . oh! the Bromidic Review! . . . not for me . . . there were other ways of fishing for noodles . . . other strings to my bow! Help me, Hippocrates . . . yes, the patients are few and far between . . . I've told you that . . . but you can never claim to have lost every single patient . . . the chiropracters, faith healers, nurses, ma.s.seurs, and so on always let a few slip through their nets . . . oh, not enough to pay for my license . . . or my dues to the Medical a.s.sociation, or my life insurance . . . or to pay the plumber . . . or buy me a subscription to the Medical Review . . . which gives you an idea of our economic situation! my oh my! the poorest of the poor are spendthrifts by comparison . . .

But since this phony Bolshevism started up you can't say a word . . . Pica.s.so! . . . Boussacle Tartre! another Commie! . . . billions all over! . . . all prisoners of starvation! . . . no time for you . . .The fatter their belly, their a.s.s . . .their jowls, the bigger "prisoners of starvation" they are! Don't laugh! They'll cut off your head . . .

I'm suspicious of everybody! I don't laugh! . . . our dogs sniff and "grrr!" . . . drive everybody away . . . Becart said to me, must have been two days before he died: "You're stubborn, Ferdinand! . . . dogs are carnivorous, didn't you know that? . . . you're looking for trouble! . . ."

Let's get back to my difficulties . . . the long and the short of it . . . without exaggeration . . . the most unskilled laborer down there on the island, at Renault's, works less than I do, and eats and sleeps more . . . and in two days I'll be sixty-three . . . And respect? . . . I'm lucky if they don't chop me into little pieces! "Stinker! Stalinist! . . . n.a.z.i . . . p.o.r.nographer! . . . charlatan! . . . menace! . . ."and these kind words aren't whispered! . . . they're written in black and white! . . . all over the billboards! . . . And another capital crime: I give free consultations . . . does that make them hate me! . . . only garbage is free! "Ah, he wants to be forgiven! the lowest stinker of them all!"

I think it over . . . the amusing side . . . my fall from the heights . . . my dear old professor Etienne Bordas wrote me only the other day . . . "You, so distinguished a mind! born to the elite! . . . my best pupil!"

h.e.l.l! . . . lucky he's gone away! "Elite!" Ah, that's not the opinion of Lower Meudon . . . or of Upper Meudon either, for that matter . . . he'd have seen the posters! "Traitor, quack, Stalinist, p.o.r.nographer, drunkard . . ." But maybe the worst of all for my reputation: "He hasn't got a car!"

The butcher, the grocer, the carpenter don't make their rounds on foot! A doctor on foot? . . . No wonder they talk . . . No car? The crust of that b.u.m . . . dangerous charlatan, fit to be hanged . . . the sidewalk is for thugs . . . for wh.o.r.es . . . going to see a patient on foot? . . . an insult . . . naturally he throws you out! . . . and you complain!

Versailles isn't very far away, for instance . . . Can you conceive of a doctor . . . any doctor . . . going to Versailles on foot . . . f.a.gone on foot? . . . and a patient conscious of his rights. Social Security, union card, subscriber to three, four,five newspapers, cousin to two, three hundred millionaires, thinks a d.a.m.n sight more of himself than King Louis! XIV! . . . XVI . . . or XVI! . . .

On top of all this . . . the last straw! . . . the end of the world! . . . the shopping! they see me with my two shopping bags! . . . one for bones . . . the other for vegetables . . . mostly carrots!

In view of my age, my little tremor, my gray hair, I could pa.s.s for Professor Something or other in a pinch . . . Professor Nimbus Nimbus, I'd hand people a laugh . . . they'd help me! but these posters! That's serious, inexpiable . . . and being born in Courbevoie . . . makes me feel like an adventurer . . . lower, much lower than a chiropracter . . . somewhere between a herborist and a condom . . . lower than Bovary . . . a coolie . . . coolie of the Occident . . . the future! . . . bearer of packages, crates, shopping bags . . . and garbage cans . . . bearer of crimes . . . of taxes . . . bearer of theMedaille Militaire . . . bearer of my seventy-five percent disability . . . the complete bearer . . . . . . bearer of my seventy-five percent disability . . . the complete bearer . . .

Loukoum is certainly not going to help me . . . I don't argue . . . the impression is enough . . .

And there's more to it than my age and the wall inscriptions . . . the state of our house . . . "What keeps it standing?" . . . and my opening the gate in person . . . unlocking . . . locking up again . . . that's the end . . . it does look bad, I admit . . . and the location . . . I haven't told you? . . . in the middle of the hill . . . really an impossible place to live! the path! . . . the muck! . . . my poor patients in the winter . . . climbing, sloshing, breaking their necks . . . and I have the nerve to complain . . . naturally they don't come up . . . they never will . . . they follow the riverbank to Issy . . . everything in one place . . . baker, butcher, post office, drugstore, noodles, barber, wine . . . and the Grand Rio Grand Rio, 1,200 seats . . . triple-width screen . . . and G.o.d knows how many doctors! . . . what can I expect in me middle of my hill? the sick people up top stay up top, they're not crazy! the few chronic cases who risk it are questioned at the bar . . . am I really as crummy as people say? am I really the Petiot type?. . . did they see any pieces of victims? . . . ovens for torturing the patients? . . . etc. etc. . . .

Now and then the rain sends me patients . . . not very many . . . a few . . . who start up to the real Meudon . . . and weaken half way . . . oh, only in winter . . . they're making a big mistake, in the summer they'd enjoy the view . . . it's unique . . . and the trees and the birds . . . not just dogs . . . the way they sing! . . . you can see everything . . . as far as Taverny at the far end of the department . . . from my garden, from the path . . . yes, a garden . . . a little Eden three months out of twelve . . . what trees! . . . and hawthorn and clematis . . . you'd never think it was hardly a couple of miles from the Pont d'Auteuil! the woods, the tail end of the Bois d'Yveline . . . then comes Renault . . . right below us! you can't go wrong . . . where the bush is thickest, that's us! the dogs will leap out at you, the pack! . . . don't let yourself be intimidated . . . pretend not to hear them . . . look at the view! the hills, Longchamp, the grandstands, Suresnes, the loops of the Seine . . . two . . . three loops . . . by the bridge, right next to Renault's island, the last clump of pines, on the point . . .

Of course it was a lot more countrified when we came out here delivering lace and fans . . . around 1900 . . . same paths . . . oh, we had plenty of customers in Meudon . . . "it will give him some air!" We breathed in the air . . . I breathed in the air . . . we were suffocating in the Pa.s.sage Choiseul . . . three hundred gas jets . . . child-raising by gas! . . . We started after the office . . . my father left his Coccinelle Fire Insurance Co. on the run! And off we went . . . the bus, we sat on top with our packages . . . we were never back at the Pa.s.sage before nine, ten o'clock at night . . . the paths in Meudon haven't changed at all . . . serpentines, corkscrews, precipices . . . it was something to find the customers in that tangle . . . very difficult ladies, and their difficult daughters . . . "it's not right . . . it's too expensive," etc. . . . anything they could dream up to make us take back the bill but leave the merchandise! small repair job: ten francs . . . anything to get out of paying . . . our customers in anutsh.e.l.l . . . what's become of those families? . . . the houses are still here, just about the same . . . and the paths . . . not too safe at night . . . It's all right for me, I never go out without my dogs . . . not one . . . three . . . four of them . . . and vicious! . . .

"And your patients?"

"No bargain . . . no easier to satisfy than the swellegant ladies of 1900!. . . our griping, cheating, thieving customers . . . enough to disillusion St. Vincent . . . If I'm the way I am, so poison hateful of all dealings with money, Communist at heart, a thousand percent, with sick people and well people, same difference, I believe it's my mother's customers who turned my stomach . . . the floozies and countesses of 1900 . . . the whole crew . . ."

But human nature doesn't change in the slightest . . .immutable gametes . . . the "changing" menopausal lady with a social security card can treat you to worse rages and tantrums than Madame de Maintenon . . . I've never been treated so brutally, called such names, and chased out with a broom except by a social-security "changer" whose feelings I was trying to spare . . . I didn't bring up the question of an operation . . . not yet . . . fibroma? . . . cancer . . . I didn't want to upset her . . . ah, my G.o.ddam delicacy . . . my tact . . . my menopause girl had no hesitation about unloading wagonloads of insults! . . . the neighbors heard it all . . . two or three of them stepped outside . . . I knew them by sight . . . "Oh, don't mind her, doctor! . . . she's highstrung! . . ." I think it was mosdy my not having a car . . . if I'd had one as big as a house . . . with an enormous hood . . . she wouldn't have said a word . . . and turned it in once a year . . . I could do as I pleased . . . bigger and bigger . . . it's not a Communist world . . . h.e.l.l no! but plenty materialistic . . . period! . . . disgustingly! Down to the last atom!

Drive a car, Suez or no Suez, and you exist . . . in Versailles it was how many carriages, today it's how much horse-power . . . Versailles, Kremlin, or White House . . . are you somebody? or aren't you? . . . Professor, Commissar, Minister . . . how much horse-power? . . . you a success? . . . yes or no?. . . fibroma? . . . who cares? . . . cancer? . . . no, what type of body? that's what counts . . . what type of suspension? . . . Versailles . . . Windsor . . . White House . . . Cairo . . .

I'd like to see Louis XIV with a social security card-holder . . . he'd see if the State was him . . . think of the millions that the smallest subscriber represents . . . ah, Louis Drag-a.s.s . . . think of it, Louis Soleil, scared even to change his surgeon! more dead than alive! . . . question of etiquette! . . . your social security slob thinks nothing of firing you . . . of calling you a putrid fish! . . . your recommendations? . . . don't make me laugh, you old clown . . . all I want out of you is "sick leave"! sign . . . affix your stamp and good-bye . . . you old parasite! "A week, see . . . a month . . . and step on it . . . d.a.m.ned old clown! your stamp! . . . your prescriptions? . . . ha ha! . . . I've got whole drawers and s.h.i.t-houses full of prescriptions . . . and better than yours . . . the greatest masters and professors and chiropracters of Neuilly, St. James, and Monceau! . . . you should see their waiting rooms . . . the carpets! the lawns! . . . the nurses . . . twenty dictaphones . . . well, even those demiG.o.ds . . . we wipe our a.s.s with their prescriptions . . . where does that leave you? you? . . . your stamp! . . . quick! don't look! . . . sign! . . . so long!" . . . your stamp! . . . quick! don't look! . . . sign! . . . so long!"

I shouldn't mention it, but it's just too funny . . . most of the patients I see spend more on tobacco than we do on everything included . . . I mean Lili, myself, the dogs, and the cats . . .

One of my meanest drunks brandishes her bottle over my head . . . and under my nose . . . the red stuff . . . she defies me . . . I told her to stop drinking . . . "She might kill her little girl . . ." I ought to have her locked up . . . "You know, Doctor, she's dangerous, can't you do something? . . ." If I had her interned, she'd escape, she'd come back and do mein . . . that's how it is with drunks. I was drunk. I didn't like him." And that's that . . . What Tartre and G.o.d knows how many others have been trying to do for years, knocking themselves out, jerking off, sweating blood and poison, turning heaven and earth and h.e.l.l! But my drunken floozy was right there, all ready . . . my dogs were ready, too . . . especially the b.i.t.c.hes . . . I only had to say the word . . .

Good Lord . . . leave her to the bottle? lock her up? I just didn't want to see her any more . . . I advised her to take another doctor . . . she was the only one who refused . . . she didn't want another doctor . . . only me . . . she didn't insult me, she only wanted to kill me . . . and for me to take care of her warts . . . burn them . . . every second time I refused . . . she always came back . . .

You've got to think of everything . . . what about my dogs? . . . it's a miracle if they haven't eaten a patient . . . two patients . . . knock on wood . . . The garden is enormous and on a slope . . . when the pack goes rushing down . . . howling . . . it's enough to chase away all the patients in the world . . . not to mention the squawk from the neighbors . . . because when they start barking it's something . . . and the harder I yell at them the louder they roar . . . they answer back . . . when I'm expecting patients, you can imagine . . . between two and four I take the whole pack up to the attic . . . they bark from up there . . . louder!

Thinking it over, all in all, my pack doesn't help me in the neighborhood . . . but they protect me against no-goods . . . I'm suspicious of the people who pa.s.s . . . the ones I don't know . . . and the ones I know . . . they hear the dogs barking . . . they were casing the joint . . . they turn tail . . . murderers don't care for risks . . . they're more patient about killing you than a bourgeois about buying Suez stock . . . I know a thing or two about murderers . . . I've known them here and there, all over, not just in prison . . . in life . . . five . . . six . . . arrgh! arrgh! arrgh! arrgh! . . . they're gone! . . . I'm not very long on confidence, I haven't any confidence in anything. When I was in Pavilion K in the Vesterfangsel, the barking . . . this is nothing by comparison . . . not just the prisoners in the . . . they're gone! . . . I'm not very long on confidence, I haven't any confidence in anything. When I was in Pavilion K in the Vesterfangsel, the barking . . . this is nothing by comparison . . . not just the prisoners in the pip-cell pip-cell . . . all the dogs in h.e.l.l let loose until morning . . . mastiffs . . . how many? . . . a hundred . . . two hundred . . . that prison was guarded all right . . . . . . all the dogs in h.e.l.l let loose until morning . . . mastiffs . . . how many? . . . a hundred . . . two hundred . . . that prison was guarded all right . . . intra muros intra muros . . . . . . extra muros! extra muros! two years . . . for two years . . . I didn't sleep, I could hear them . . .The warden had no confidence . . . Why should I? Prison is a school . . . you'vebeen? you haven't? . . . that's where you learn something . . . People who haven't been in stir are a lot of drooling, virgin ham actors . . . even if they're ninety and then some . . . they don't know what they're talking about . . . you hear them sounding off . . . what do they actually think? . . . "h.e.l.l, if only my luck holds out to the end! if only I can steer clear of it! . . ." s.h.i.tless . . . the big house . . . their obsession . . . Mauriac, Achille, Goebbels, Tartre! . . . that's why you see them so nervous, so alcoholic, from one c.o.c.ktail party to the next, from one confession, one train, one lie to the next! from one cell . . . one asininity to the next . . . will that warrant, those handcuffs, La Sante, catch up with them . . . trembling . . . the one serious minute in their lives . . . the only one . . . two years . . . for two years . . . I didn't sleep, I could hear them . . .The warden had no confidence . . . Why should I? Prison is a school . . . you'vebeen? you haven't? . . . that's where you learn something . . . People who haven't been in stir are a lot of drooling, virgin ham actors . . . even if they're ninety and then some . . . they don't know what they're talking about . . . you hear them sounding off . . . what do they actually think? . . . "h.e.l.l, if only my luck holds out to the end! if only I can steer clear of it! . . ." s.h.i.tless . . . the big house . . . their obsession . . . Mauriac, Achille, Goebbels, Tartre! . . . that's why you see them so nervous, so alcoholic, from one c.o.c.ktail party to the next, from one confession, one train, one lie to the next! from one cell . . . one asininity to the next . . . will that warrant, those handcuffs, La Sante, catch up with them . . . trembling . . . the one serious minute in their lives . . . the only one . . . finish finish blah-blah-blah! blah-blah-blah!

So why should I trust anybody? One patient I'm not suspicious of is Madame Nicois . . . maybe I'm making a mistake? . . . no, with MadameNicois. . . nothing to be afraid of . . . really harmless . . . but her gestures! . . . those gestures! . . . worse than my boozie-floozie . . . she doesn't threaten me, no . . . She doesn't brandish a bottle under my nose . . . but she thrashes around for something to get hold of . . . the gate . . . a bush . . . anything . . . she totters . . . she doesn't remember . . . she's absent, so to speak . . . weaker and weaker . . . she doesn't remember my path . . . she gets lost . . . oh, my dogs don't bother her . . . she doesn't hear them . . . she can't see much either . . . give you an idea of the condition she's in . . . well, believe it or not, what bothers her is that I don't make her pay . . .

As we were saying MadameNicoisgets lost on the paths . . . from Lower Meudon to my place . . . she's on her way to Saint-Cloud, the neighbors catch her . . . she'd almost reached the Bridge . . . looked funny to them . . . where could she be going? . . . she lives on the former Place Faidherbe, parallel to the lower road, the extension of the rue de Vaugirard . . . from her house you can see the water without any trouble, the Seine . . . the sh.o.r.e road . . . which reminds me . . . about a hundred yards away, after the Virofles highway, you'll see the famous old Restaurant, the MiraculousCatch . . . it's in a sad state . . . not much more than a memory . . . but the balconies are still there, where the cream of the cream used to banquet in the cool river breeze . . . no more trees on the island out front . . . turned into a factory . . . but in the distance you can see Sacre-Coeur, the Arch of Triumph, the Eiffel Tower, and Mont Valerien . . . but the diners are gone . . . blotted out . . .

Oh, the river traffic is still there . . . all the movement . . . the tugs, and the strings of barges, high-riding, low-riding, coal, sand, junk . . . one after another . . . downstream, upstream . . . from MadameNicois' place you can see it all . . . she's not interested . . . question of sensibility . . . the movement of rivers touches you or it doesn't . . . the barges pa.s.sing through the arches . . . hide-and-seek . . . from MadameNicois' window up there you can see them coming . . . almost to the Ile des Cygnes . . . and on the other side . . .past Saint-Cloud . . . what a stretch of river! from the Pont Mirabeau to Suresnes . . . the diners' view! . . .

They were more sensitive than we are, hadn't turned into hysterical n.i.g.g.e.rs yet . . . I only have to look at Achille and Gertrut . . . oh, they turn my stomach . . . but all the same, under their folds and wrinkles and watties, at the base, in the fiber, you can't help seeing a certain refinement . . .

The Miraculous Catch . . . those were the days when skiffs were in style and long striped jerseys, oarsmen with spike moustaches . . . I can see my father with spike moustaches . . . I can see Achille in a skiff . . . skull cap, jersey, and biceps . . . I see all the old-timers . . . ladies clucking as they rush for the boat . . . the circuit of "pigeon island" . . . rat-a-tat-tat! they're shooting . . . a rustling of silk, screams of joy and fright . . . silk stockings, flowers, fried fish, monocles, duels! . . . at the Catch, on those balconies over there, now fit to be chucked in the Seine! . . . a ruin . . .

I remember the pigeon-shooting as if I had taken part . . . the poplars in the wind! When I think of all the smacks I caught for misbehaving on the bateau-mouche bateau-mouche . . . from Pont-Royal-Suresnes . . . that was a real . . . from Pont-Royal-Suresnes . . . that was a real bateau-mouche! bateau-mouche! none of your newfangled imitations . . . that whole boat was full ofsmacks and wallops . . . the education of the day . . . clouts, kicks in the a.s.s . . . nowadays it's all so progressive . . . modern children are "complex and cute" . . . none of your newfangled imitations . . . that whole boat was full ofsmacks and wallops . . . the education of the day . . . clouts, kicks in the a.s.s . . . nowadays it's all so progressive . . . modern children are "complex and cute" . . .

Yes, the fancy diners of the day had quite a view . . . not only Mont Valerien and Sacre-Coeur on the other side, but the whole valley of the Seine, the loops . . . I've got the same from my window where I'm writing you, I can't complain . . . and Longchamp too, the grandstands . . . directly opposite . . .

Ah, I can hear the old men talking . . . they talk as if they'd been there . . . the liars! they weren't there at all . . . me? . . . with drawn saber . . . the last July fourteenth review . . . the whole garrison . . . plus the eleventh and twelfth cuira.s.siers . . . charging . . . the last charge, you could say . . . since then there hasn't been anything but parades, promenades, rehearsals for Sacha . . . no mo