you for two hours,’ said a plaintive voice. ‘You could at least give me fifteen minutes.’ Marie-Ange planted herself solidly in front of his desk. ‘It’s for Lendemain. A big front-page spread, with pictures.’
‘Look, I never give interviews.’
‘Exactly. That’s why mine will be worth its weight in gold.’
Henri shook his head, and Marie-Ange said indignantly, ‘You wouldn’t ruin my whole career just because of a principle?’
He smiled. Fifteen minutes meant so very much to her, and it would cost him so very little! To tell the truth, he even felt like talking about himself. Among the people who liked his book, there were certainly some who wanted to know the author better. And he felt like telling them about himself, telling them so that their approval would really be directed at him.
‘You win,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’
‘First of all, where do you come from?’
‘My father was a pharmacist in Tulle.’
‘And?’
Henri hesitated. It isn’t easy to begin talking about yourself out of a clear sky.
‘Go ahead,’ Marie-Ange prodded. ‘Tell me a few things about your childhood.’
Like everyone else, he had memories enough, only they didn’t seem very important to him. Except for that dinner, in the Henri II dining-room, when he finally delivered himself of his fear.
‘All right, here’s one for you,’ he said. ‘Actually, it’s nothing, but for me it was the beginning of a great many things.’
Her pencil poised above her note-book, Marie-Ange gave him an encouraging look.
‘The major subject of conversation between my parents,’ he began, ‘was the disasters that were menacing the world – the red peril, the yellow peril, barbarism, decadence, revolution, bolshevism. And I imagined them all as horrible monsters who were going to swallow up all humanity. Well, at dinner one evening, my father was doing his usual prophesying – the revolution was imminent, civilization was foundering. And my mother was nodding agreement, a look of terror on her face. And then suddenly I thought, “But no matter what happens, the winners will still be men.” Maybe those aren’t exactly words I used, but that’s the gist of it.’ Henri smiled. ‘The effect was miraculous. No more monsters. It was all here on earth, among human creatures, among ourselves.’
‘And then?’ Marie-Ange asked.
‘So, ever since then I’ve been hunting down monsters,’ he replied.
Marie-Ange looked perplexed. ‘But your story?’ she asked. ‘How does it end?’
‘What story?’
‘The one you just began,’ she replied impatiently.
‘It’s finished; there is no other ending,’ Henri answered.
‘Oh,’ Marie-Ange said, disappointed. ‘I was hoping for something picturesque,’ she added plaintively.
‘There was nothing picturesque about my childhood,’ Henri said. ‘The pharmacy bored me to death and living out in the country was annoying. Fortunately, I had an uncle in Paris who managed to get me a job with Vendredi.’
He hesitated. There were a great many things he could say about his first years in Paris, but he didn’t know which ones to choose.
‘Vendredi was a leftist paper?’ Marie-Ange said. ‘You had leftist ideas even then?’
‘Let’s say I loathed all rightist ideas.’
‘Why?’
Henri thought for a moment. ‘I was very ambitious when I was twenty, and that’s precisely why I was a democrat. I wanted to be the best – but the best among equals. If the race is fixed from the start, there’s no point betting.’
Marie-Ange scribbled in her note-book. She didn’t look too intelligent, and Henri tried to think of simple words with which to express himself. ‘Between a chimpanzee and the lowliest of men,’ he thought to himself, ‘there’s an enormously greater difference than between that man and an Einstein! A consciousness that gives evidence that it exists is one of the absolutes.’ He was about to open his mouth, but Marie-Ange spoke first.
‘Tell me about your start.’
‘What start?’
‘Your start in literature.’
‘I’ve always scribbled a bit.’
‘How old were you when The Accident was published?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Dubreuilh was the one who gave you your start, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he helped me a lot.’
‘How did you get to know him?’
‘They sent me over to interview him once, and he made me do the talking. He asked me to come back and see him again, and I did …’
‘Give me more details,’ Marie-Ange said plaintively. ‘You’re not very good at explaining things.’ She looked at him. ‘What do you talk about when you’re together?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everything and nothing, like everyone else.’
‘Did he encourage you to write?’
‘Yes. And when I finished The Accident, he got Mauvanes to read it, and Mauvanes accepted it at once.’
‘Was it successful?’
‘Call it a succes d’estime. You know, it’s funny …’
‘Yes, tell me something funny!’ she said eagerly.
Henri hesitated. ‘It’s funny how you begin by having big dreams of glory. And then, with the first little success, you’re completely happy.’
Marie-Ange sighed. ‘I already have the titles and dates of your other books. Were you in the service?’
‘In the infantry. Ordinary private. I never wanted to be an officer. Wounded the ninth of May at Mont Dieu near Vouziers; evacuated to Montélimar; back in Paris in September.’
‘What exactly did you do in the Resistance?’
‘Luc and I founded L’Espoir in 1941.’
‘You did other things, too, didn’t you?’
‘Nothing very interesting. Skip it.’
‘Right. Exactly when did you write your last book?’
‘Between ’41 and ’42.’
‘Have you started a new one?’
‘No, but I’m going to.’
‘What’ll it be? A novel?’
‘A novel. But it’s still very vague.’
‘I’ve heard some talk about a magazine.’
‘That’s right. Dubreuilh and I are going to put out a monthly called Vigilance. It’ll be published by Mauvanes.’
‘What’s this political party Dubreuilh’s founding?’
‘It’d take much too long to explain.’
‘In a few words, then.’
‘Ask him.’
‘You can’t get near him.’ Marie-Ange sighed. ‘You’re funny, you know. If I were famous, I’d be getting myself interviewed all the time.’
‘Then you’d have no time left to do anything and you’d stop being famous. Now, you’re going to be a nice little