who had so little maternal feeling that she abandoned him for whole days in the garden of the villa, and one evening had even forgotten he was there and left without him? Some time later, when he was dying of hunger and cold in a boarding school in the Alps, the only thing she had seen fit to send him was a silk shirt.
"Are you really Madame Paul Rigaud's son?"
The man was looking at him as if he were the Prince of Wales.
"But you ought to have told me before, Monsieur, that you were her son …"
The porter had straightened his back and seemed so moved that Rigaud felt he had pronounced a magic formula. He wondered whether he hadn't chosen Juan-les-Pins for a refuge because it was linked to his childhood. A sad, but sheltered childhood, in a world that still believed it would last for ever, or that was too frivolous to think of the future. For instance, his mother, that poor feather-brained creature … She would really not have understood the first thing about the war, or about the ghost – like Juan-les-Pins of today, where people lived from the black marker with false papers in their pockets. But here he was, using her as a last resort.
"I remember Madame Paul Rigaud so well … She used to come to meet her friends here, in Juan … And you – you're her son …"
He gave him a protective look. Rigaud felt sure that this man could help him.
"I'd like to ask your advice," he stammered. "I'm in a delicate situation …"
"We'll be able to talk better here."
He led him under the archway of a big white building whose roofs and deserted playground Rigaud could see from their balcony: L'École Saint-Philippe. They emerged on to one of the playgrounds with a covered passageway at the far end, and the porter guided him to a plane tree at the side of the ground. He pointed to a bench at the foot of the plane tree:
"Sit down."
He sat down beside Rigaud.
"I'm listening."
This man could have been his grandfather, and had white hair and long legs, which he crossed. And he looked like an Englishman or an American.
"It's like this…," Rigaud began, in a hesitant voice. ''I came here from Paris with a girl …"
"Your wife, if I'm not mistaken?"
"She isn't my wife … I got her some false papers … She had to leave Paris …
"I understand …"
And what if it was all only a bad dream? How could the war have any semblance of reality when you found yourself sitting under a plane tree in a playground, in the provincial calm of an early afternoon? At the other end, the classrooms, and beside you a man with white hair and an affectionate voice who had tender memories of your mother. And the reassuring, monotonous chirping of the crickets.
"You can't stay at the hotel any longer," said the porter. "But I'll find you another refuge …"
"Do you really think we can't stay?" Rigaud murmured. "Next week the police are going to raid all the hotels on the Côte."
A cat sidled out of the half-open door of one of the classrooms, crossed the covered passageway and went and curled up in the middle of a pool of sunlight. And they could still hear the crickets chirping.
"We've already been inspected by a man sent specially from Paris."
"I know," said Rigaud. "A man in a dark suit. Do you think he's still here?"
"Unfortunately, yes," said the porter. "He circulates between Cannes and Nice. He insists on checking all the hotel registers."
Rigaud had put Ingrid's beach hat down on the bench beside him. She would be getting worried because he hadn't come back. He would have liked her to be with them in this playground, where you felt safe. Over there, the cat was asleep in the middle of the pool of sunlight.
"Do you think we could hide here?" Rigaud asked.
And he pointed to the classrooms and to the first floor, where the dormitories must be.
"I have a better hiding place for you," said the porter. "The villa of an American lady your mother used to see a lot of in the old days."
•
On his way to the beach, Rigaud considered what
"Are you really Madame Paul Rigaud's son?"
The man was looking at him as if he were the Prince of Wales.
"But you ought to have told me before, Monsieur, that you were her son …"
The porter had straightened his back and seemed so moved that Rigaud felt he had pronounced a magic formula. He wondered whether he hadn't chosen Juan-les-Pins for a refuge because it was linked to his childhood. A sad, but sheltered childhood, in a world that still believed it would last for ever, or that was too frivolous to think of the future. For instance, his mother, that poor feather-brained creature … She would really not have understood the first thing about the war, or about the ghost – like Juan-les-Pins of today, where people lived from the black marker with false papers in their pockets. But here he was, using her as a last resort.
"I remember Madame Paul Rigaud so well … She used to come to meet her friends here, in Juan … And you – you're her son …"
He gave him a protective look. Rigaud felt sure that this man could help him.
"I'd like to ask your advice," he stammered. "I'm in a delicate situation …"
"We'll be able to talk better here."
He led him under the archway of a big white building whose roofs and deserted playground Rigaud could see from their balcony: L'École Saint-Philippe. They emerged on to one of the playgrounds with a covered passageway at the far end, and the porter guided him to a plane tree at the side of the ground. He pointed to a bench at the foot of the plane tree:
"Sit down."
He sat down beside Rigaud.
"I'm listening."
This man could have been his grandfather, and had white hair and long legs, which he crossed. And he looked like an Englishman or an American.
"It's like this…," Rigaud began, in a hesitant voice. ''I came here from Paris with a girl …"
"Your wife, if I'm not mistaken?"
"She isn't my wife … I got her some false papers … She had to leave Paris …
"I understand …"
And what if it was all only a bad dream? How could the war have any semblance of reality when you found yourself sitting under a plane tree in a playground, in the provincial calm of an early afternoon? At the other end, the classrooms, and beside you a man with white hair and an affectionate voice who had tender memories of your mother. And the reassuring, monotonous chirping of the crickets.
"You can't stay at the hotel any longer," said the porter. "But I'll find you another refuge …"
"Do you really think we can't stay?" Rigaud murmured. "Next week the police are going to raid all the hotels on the Côte."
A cat sidled out of the half-open door of one of the classrooms, crossed the covered passageway and went and curled up in the middle of a pool of sunlight. And they could still hear the crickets chirping.
"We've already been inspected by a man sent specially from Paris."
"I know," said Rigaud. "A man in a dark suit. Do you think he's still here?"
"Unfortunately, yes," said the porter. "He circulates between Cannes and Nice. He insists on checking all the hotel registers."
Rigaud had put Ingrid's beach hat down on the bench beside him. She would be getting worried because he hadn't come back. He would have liked her to be with them in this playground, where you felt safe. Over there, the cat was asleep in the middle of the pool of sunlight.
"Do you think we could hide here?" Rigaud asked.
And he pointed to the classrooms and to the first floor, where the dormitories must be.
"I have a better hiding place for you," said the porter. "The villa of an American lady your mother used to see a lot of in the old days."
•
On his way to the beach, Rigaud considered what
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