Night Rounds by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online Page B

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