"You both were a part of it, you've told me that, although you've never expounded on your contributions."
"They're best forgotten," said the mother.
"It was a horrible time-so many who were stigmatized and beaten as collaborators were only protecting loved ones, including their children."
I
"But this man tonight, this crazy tramp! He so identified with me that he called me his son! .. . I accept a degree of excessive devotion-it goes with the profession, however foolish that may be but to the point of killing himself in front of my eyes? Madness!"
"He was mad, driven insane by what he had endured," said Catherine.
"You knew him?"
"Very well," replied the old actor, Julian Villier.
"His name was Jean-Pierre Jodelle, once a promising young baritone at the opera, and we, your mother and I, tried desperately to find him after the war. There was no trace, and since we knew he had been found out by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp, we assumed he was dead, a non-entry, like thousands of others."
"Why did you try to find him? Who was he to you?"
The only mother Jean-Pierre had ever known knelt beside his dressing-room chair, her exquisite features bespeaking the great star she had been; her blue-green eyes below her full, soft white hair were locked with his. She spoke softly.
"Not only to us, my son, but to you. He was your natural father."
"Oh, my God! .. . Then you, both of you-"
"Your natural mother," added Vilher pre, quietly interrupting, "was a member of the [email protected]"
"A splendid talent," broke in Catherine, "caught in those trying years between being an ingenue and being a woman, all of it made horrid by the occupation. She was'a dear girl, like a younger sister to me."
"Please!" cried Jean-Pierre, leaping to his feet as the mother he knew rose and stood by her husband.
"This is all coming so quickly, it is so astonishing, I .. . I can't think!"
"So et' es it's best not to think for a while, my son," in 'in said the elder Villier.
"Stay numb until the mind tells you it is ready to accept."
"You used to tell me that years ago," said the actor, smiling sadly, warmly, at Julian, "when I had trouble with a scene or a monologue, and the meaning was escaping me. You'd say, "Just keep reading and rereading the words without trying so hard.
Something will happen."
"It was good advice, my husband."
"I was always a better teacher than I ever was a performer."
"Agreed," said Jean-Pierre softly.
"I beg. your pardon? You agree?"
"I meant only, my father, that when you were onstage, you .. . you-"
"A part of you was always concentrating-on the others," jumped in Catherine Villier, exchanging a knowing glance with her son-and not her son.
"Ah, you both conspire again, has it not been so for years? The two great stars being gentle with the lesser player.. .. Good! That's over with.. .. For a few moments we all stopped thinking about tonight. Now, perhaps, we can talk."
Silence.
"For God's sake, tell me what happened!" exclaimed Jean-Pierre finally.
As he asked the question, there was a rapid knocking at the dressing-room door; it was opened by the theater's old night watchman.
"Sorry to intrude, but I thought you ought to know.
There are still reporters at the stage door.
They won't believe the police or me. We said you left earlier by the front entrance, but they're nor convinced. However, they cannot get inside."
"Then we'll stay here for a while, if need be all night at least I will.
There's a couch in the other room, and I've already called my wife.
She heard everything on the news."
"Very well, sir.. .. Madame Villier, and you also, monsieur, despite the terrible circumstances it is glorious to see you both again. You are always remembered with great affection."
"Thank you, Charles," said Catherine.
"You look well, my friend."
"I'd look better still if you were back onstage, madame." The watchman nodded and closed the door.
"Go on, Father, what did happen?"
"We were all part of the Resistance," began Julian Villier, sitting down on a small love seat across the room, t4artists drawn together against an enemy that would destroy all art. And we had certain capabilities that served our cause. Musicians passed codes by inserting melodic phrases not in an original score; illustrators produced the daily and weekly posters demanded by the Germans, subtly employing colors and images that sent other messages. And we in the theater continuously corrupted texts, especially those