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do-it seems to me-for the payoff. The moon is so bright
that we all have the same idea of driving without lights.
Charenton-le-Pont. We've left Paris. I cry a little. I loved
that city. My native ground. My Inferno. My aging mis
tress with too much make-up. Champigny-sur-Marne.
When will they make up their minds ? I want to get it
over with. The faces of those I love appear for the last
time. Pernety : what happened to his pipe and his black
leather shoes ? Corvisart: he moved me, that blockhead.
Jasmin : one evening we were crossing the Place Adolphe
Cherioux and he pointed to a star overhead : "That's Be
telgeuse." He lent me a biography of Henri de Bour
nazel. As I turned its pages I came across an old photo
Night Rounds
of him in a sailor suit. Obligado: his mournful face. He
would often read me excerpts from his political journal.
Those pages are now rotting some drawer. Picpus : his
fiancee ? Saint-Georges, Marbeuf, and Pelleport. Their
solid handshakes and loyal eyes. The walks around V au
girard. Our first meeting in front of Joan of Arc's statue.
The Lieutenant's commanding voice. We've just passed
Villeneuve-le-Roi. Other faces loom: my father, Alex
ander Stavisky. He would be ashamed of me. He wanted
me to get into Saint-Cyr. Mama. She's in Lausanne, and
I can join her. I step on the gas. I'm shaking off my mur
derers. I've plenty of cash on me. Enough to close the
eyes of the most alert Swiss border guards. But I'm far
too worn out. I long for rest. The real kind. Lausanne
wouldn't do. Have they come to a decision ? In the mir
ror I see the Khedive's n-hp coming closer, closer. No. It
slows down abruptly. They're playing cat and mouse.
I listened to the radio to pass the time.
Je suis seul
ce sotr
avec ma petne . . .
Coco Lacour and Esmeralda did not exist. I had thrown
over Lili Marlene. Denounced the brave boys of the
R.K.S. Lots of people perish on the highways. All those
faces should be preserved, engagements kept, promises
upheld. Impossible. I walked out instantly. Fleeing the
II5
Night Rounds
scene of a crime. That kind of game can destroy you.
Anyway, I've never known who I was. I authorize my
biographer to simply call me "a man," and I wish him
luck. I've been unable to lengthen my stride, my breath,
or my sentences. He won't understand the first thing
about this story. Neither do I. We're even.
L'Hay-les-Roses. We've gone through other townships.
Now and then the Khedive's n-hp would pass me. Ex
Commandant Costantini and Philibert drove along flank
ing me for about a mile. I thought my time was up. Not
yet. They were letting me gain ground. My head bumps
against the steering wheel. There are poplars lining the
road. One slip will do it. I keep going, half asleep.
A Note About the Autho
Patrick Modiano was born in 1947 in Paris, where he still lives. He
received his secondary education at various colleges: Biarritz, Versailles,
Chamonix, and Paris. His first novel, LA PLACE DE L'ETOILE, published
in France in 196J, won the Prix Rog Nimi . This novel, his first
to be published in English, has won the Prix Felix FCneon, 1969,
and the Prix de la plume de diamant, also 1969.
A Note on the Type
This book was set on the Linotype in Granjon, a type named in
compliment to Rob t Granjon, type cutter and p nter in Antwerp,
Lyons, Rome, Paris-active from 1523 to 1590. Granjon, the boldest
and most original designer of his time, was one of the first to practice
the trade of type-founder apart from that of printer.
Linotype Granjon was designed by George W. Jones, who based
his drawings on a face used by Claude Garamond (151 1561) in
his beautiful French books. Granjon more closely resembles Garamond'
own type than do any of the variom mod n faus that bear his name.
The book was composed, printed, and bound by H. Wolff, New
York. The typography and binding design are by Betty Anderson.
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