The Seventh Function of Language

Jacques Bayard and Simon Herzog enter a brightly lit corner office with walls covered in green silk. Simon looks like he’s in shock, but he instinctively notes the two chairs facing the desk behind which Giscard stands and, at the other end of the room, more chairs with a sofa beside a coffee table. The student immediately grasps the possibilities: depending on whether the president wishes to maintain some distance between himself and his visitors or, alternatively, give the meeting a more convivial feel, he can welcome them from behind his desk, which acts as a sort of shield, or sit around the coffee table and eat cakes and biscuits with them. Simon Herzog also spots a book on Kennedy, placed ostentatiously on an escritoire to suggest the young, modern head of state that Giscard also aspires to embody; two boxes, one red and one blue, set on a roll-top desk; bronze statues here and there; stacks of files at a carefully calculated height: too low, they would give the impression that the president was lazy, too high, that he couldn’t cope with his workload. Several old master paintings hang on the walls. Standing behind his massive desk, Giscard points to one representing a beautiful, severe-looking woman, arms outspread, dressed in a fine white dress open to the waist that barely covers her heavy, milk-white breasts: “I was lucky enough to obtain one of the most beautiful works in the history of French painting from the Museum of Bordeaux: Greece on the Ruins of Missolonghi, by Eugène Delacroix. Magnificent, isn’t it? I’m sure you know Missolonghi: it’s the city where Lord Byron died, during the war of independence against the Turks. In 1824, I believe.” (Simon notes the false modesty of that “I believe.”) “A terrible war. The Ottomans were so ferocious.”

Without leaving his desk, without any attempt to shake their hands, he invites them to sit. No sofa or cakes for them. Still standing, the president goes on: “Did you know what Malraux said about me? That I had no sense of the tragic in history.” From the corner of his eye, Simon observes Bayard in his raincoat, waiting silently.

Giscard goes back over to the painting, so the two visitors feel obliged to turn around to show they are following what he says: “Perhaps I don’t have any sense of the tragic in history, but at least I feel the emotion of tragic beauty when I see that young woman, wounded in the side, bringing the hope of liberation to her people!” Unsure how to punctuate this presidential speech, the two men say nothing, which does not seem to perturb Giscard, used as he is to silent gestures of polite assent. When the man with the whistling voice turns on his heel to look out the window, Simon realizes that this pause is a form of transition, and that they are about to get to the point.

Offering his visitors only a view of the back of his bald head, the president continues: “I met Roland Barthes once. I had invited him to the Élysée. Such a charming man. He spent a quarter of an hour analyzing the menu and brilliantly deconstructed the symbolic value of each dish. It was absolutely fascinating. Poor man … I heard he found it hard to get over the death of his mother, isn’t that right?”

Finally sitting down, Giscard speaks to Bayard: “Superintendent, on the day of his accident, Monsieur Barthes was in possession of a document that was stolen from him. I wish you to recover this document. It concerns a matter of national security.”

Bayard asks: “What is the exact nature of this document, Monsieur President?”

Giscard leans forward and, with both fists resting on his desk, announces gravely: “It is a vital document that may pose a threat to national security. Used unwisely, it could cause incalculable damage and endanger the very foundations of our democracy. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to tell you more than that. You must act in complete secrecy. But you will have carte blanche.”

He looks at Simon at last: “Young man, I’ve heard that you are acting as a … guide to the superintendent? So you are well acquainted with the linguistic milieu in which Monsieur Barthes worked?”

Simon does not need to be asked twice: “No, not really.”

Giscard shoots a quizzical look at Bayard, who explains: “Monsieur Herzog has knowledge that could be useful to the inquiry. He understands how these people think and, well, what it’s all about. And he can see things that the police wouldn’t see.”

Giscard smiles: “So you’re a visionary, like Arthur Rimbaud, young man?”

Simon mutters shyly: “No. Not at all.”

Giscard points at the red and blue boxes on the roll-top desk behind them, under the Delacroix. “What do you think is inside them?”

Simon does not realize he is being tested and, before considering whether it is in his interests to pass the test, answers instinctively: “Your Legion of Honor medals, I assume?”

Giscard’s smile widens. He stands up and walks over to the boxes, opens one, and takes out a medal: “May I ask how you guessed?”